See You at the Toxteth

by Peter Corris

  ‘Brett? I haven’t told him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Ah, I don’t want to worry him. He’s got enough on his plate.’

  I got the names of his contact at Lynx Sports and at the two other management companies who were bidding for him—Golf Management Services and Sports Management International.

  ‘Which one do you favour?’

  He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Depends whether I go to Europe or America, or play the Australasian and Asian tours for a season. SMI’s the shot if I go overseas. Brett reckons I should. I’m still thinking about it.’

  ‘What does your family think?’

  ‘Mum and Dad are dead. Died real young. No brothers or sisters. There’s people close to me, like Billy and them, but they don’t know anything about the business.’

  ‘Where’re you going now?’

  ‘The gym for an hour or so and then back to Brett’s. Early tea and early to bed. I’ve got a six-thirty tee-off tomorrow.’

  That wasn’t welcome news because I thought I’d better stick with him over the course of the tournament to see if I could spot anyone taking an undue interest or displaying signs of hostility. I knew a little about the geography of Concord and had the impression that some houses had backyards that bordered the golf course. Not ideal. He said he’d arrange for me to get a pass that’d let me in for free and give me access to certain places that were off-limits to the public.

  I pointed to the cutting. ‘Can I keep this?’

  ‘Sure. Happy to see the last of it.’

  I said I’d be there in the morning but that he shouldn’t notice me. We shook hands and he left.

  This time I read the cutting carefully. Both of Joel’s parents had been stolen children. Light-skinned. His father’s work in an asbestos mine had killed him in his late thirties; his mother died soon after with belatedly diagnosed diabetes a contributing factor. Joel spelled all this out in an interview he gave after his win and he also made the point that all four major golf championships that year had been won by black men. Up-front stuff.

  I hauled out the phone book, located the numbers for GMS and SMI and spoke to their media liaison officers, posing as a journalist for Harry Tickener’s paper. Harry would always cover for me. I put the hypothetical to them that a sportsman or sportswoman they were thinking of taking on was getting death threats. What would their reaction be?

  ‘We’d snap him or her up,’ the SMI man said. ‘Great publicity, plus we’ve got guys to cope with that sort of thing.’

  ‘What effect could it have on a career?’

  ‘On sales of products, zero. On appearance fees a plus, a big plus. People like danger.’

  ‘If it’s not directed at them.’

  ‘Hey, you don’t get it. How many people d’you think tried to get close to Salman Rushdie to feel the vibe?’

  The GMS man was more circumspect. ‘Handled right it could play. As long as it didn’t go on too long and the man or the woman didn’t make inflammatory statements.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t shy away?’

  A pause. ‘No, but we’d surveille it to see if it was bona fide. People have been known to devise such things to lift the interest quotient.’

  I thanked him and rang off, thinking that if I heard any more language like that I’d have to have my ears syringed. But it gave me things to think about. I had a feeling that Joel hadn’t been completely frank with me but I couldn’t put my finger on where the feeling sprang from. Fake the death threat to up the price? I didn’t think so. I rang Lynx and laid it on a bit thicker. I got a similar reaction to the publicity possibilities as long as the threat didn’t actually eventuate. That made a difference.

  ‘Dead sports stars are forgotten as soon as the funeral’s over. And death threats give sports a bad name—puts the parents off. On balance I’d say a definite no-no.’

  I trailed around after Joel on the first day of the tournament and I found it a bloody long walk in the sun. At least I could get under shade for some of the time and have a few beers. Also I wasn’t swinging a club and bending down to place and pick up a ball. Golfers might not always look fit but they must be. I heard nothing in the crowd to suggest that there was anything but goodwill towards Joel. I’d advised him to try to keep trees and other people between him and the spots where back fences bordered the course and, as far as I could tell, he did it and I saw nothing suspicious. Knowing stuff-all about the game, it seemed to me that he played well, but he wasn’t happy.

  ‘Three over,’ he said.

  ‘Better than the blokes you were playing with.’

  ‘But maybe not good enough. The cut’s likely to be two over or even one. Means I have to be one or two under tomorrow.’

  ‘Can you do it?’

  ‘Sure I can do it. I’ve shot a sixty-five around here. I can do it if I can just clear my bloody head.’

  ‘Look, I’ve seen and heard nothing alarming. It could all be just bullshit.’

  He didn’t seem interested and went off to practise his putting. I hung around, kept an eye out, followed the Commodore back to the address he’d given me, Brett Walker’s house in Lane Cove, and called it a day.

  The next day I found out what a tough game professional golf is. The cut mark was set by the general standard of play in the field and on the second day it was better than the first. Because of the calmer conditions, the pundits said. While other players, including two of the three Joel was playing with, were starting to hit the ball longer and straighter, Joel struggled.

  ‘He’d be stuffed if it wasn’t for his short game,’ a man in the gallery said. ‘Christ, can he get it up and down.’

  ‘Abo eyesight,’ another bloke said, and his tone was admiring.

  Towards the end of the round Joel started to pull himself together. He pounded the ball down the middle and got it on the green close to the cup on three holes in a row. Shouts went up as his putts dropped and I gathered he was in with a chance. The crowd following him built suddenly.

  ‘I’m new at this, mate,’ I said to the bloke who’d commented on Joel’s eyesight. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘He needs to birdie the last to make the cut.’

  ‘Which means?’

  He looked at me as if I shouldn’t be allowed out alone. ‘It’s a par five, means he has to get a four or better.’

  ‘I get it. What if he doesn’t make it?’

  ‘Then he’s out his travel and accommodation, and his entry fee and his caddie’s fee. He goes home with bugger-all.’

  Joel hit his drive into the trees on the left and the gallery groaned.

  ‘Great out,’ my informant said as Joel’s ball came sailing out of the trees onto the fairway. ‘He can do it.’

  ‘Too far,’ another spectator said. ‘He can’t get on from there. Christ, he’s taking the driver.’

  My informant told me what I needed to know without me having to ask. ‘He’s using his driver off the deck. It’s really designed for hitting off a tee. Incredibly hard shot.’

  Joel took a deep breath, set himself and swung. I feared for his spine from the way he wound himself up and let go, but he made contact and the ball took off low and climbed like a fighter jet until it was sailing high towards the green. A roar went up from the crowd gathered there and I felt a thump on my back.

  ‘He made it,’ my new friend said. ‘He bloody made it.’

  We moved as quickly as we could to the green. I was caught up in it now and shouldered my way forward to get a good look. There were two balls on the green, one a little short of it and another in the sand bunker on the right.

  The man in the bunker took two shots to get out and the crowd groaned. The guy who was short of the green rolled his ball up close to the cup and the crowd clapped. Then it was Joel’s turn because he was furthest away. The distance wasn’t quite as long as a cricket pitch but near enough. There seemed to be several rises and falls in the surface between him and the hole. He walked around, surveying the putt from ev
ery angle, consulted with his caddie, then walked quickly up, took one look along the line and struck.

  ‘Baddeley-style,’ someone said.

  The ball took the slopes, rolling first away from the hole and then towards it. It gathered speed, then lost it as it got nearer. If the birds were singing and the cicadas scraping I didn’t hear them. The ball seemed to be drawn towards the hole. Then it stopped, half a roll short. A sigh went up from the crowd and Joel dropped his putter and buried his face in his hands in anguish.

  I spoke to Joel briefly after the game but he seemed to have lost interest in everything. His coach, Brett Walker, a big, red-faced, freckled character, had a few words with him and then turned away to talk to a journalist.

  ‘I’m a broken-down ex-Queensland copper,’ I heard him say. ‘But I can hit a six-iron two hundred yards.’

  Joel drank a couple of quick cans and then headed for the car park. I followed him at a discreet distance. Disappointed and with drink inside him, he’d be vulnerable if his enemy was about, but nothing happened. He drove steadily enough and turned off into the park a couple of hundred metres from the Walker house. I kept him in view, staying out of sight. He left the car and joined a girl who was sitting on a bench under a tree. They went into a clinch that seemed to last for ten minutes, and when they broke it they stayed as close together as they could.

  They talked intently and interspersed the talk with kissing and hugging. There was some headshaking and nodding and more kissing and then the girl turned away and headed back towards the road on foot, leaving Joel sitting on the bench. I followed her, feeling slightly ridiculous ducking behind trees. She turned and looked back and for a second I thought she’d spotted me, but she was waving to Joel. I was closer now and saw that she had tears on her face and was young, very young.

  She walked up the road and turned into the driveway of the Walker house. A woman came down to meet her: same slim build, blonde hair and body language—clearly her mother. They argued heatedly.

  I drove back to the course, where players were still finishing their rounds. My pass got me back in and I found Brett Walker sitting on his own at a table near the beer tent. There were four empty cans in front of him and he had another in his fist. Fourex. I sat down opposite him and he stared at me blearily.

  ‘You did it, didn’t you?’

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘Sent the threatening messages to Joel.’

  He swigged from the can. ‘Bugger off, whoever you are.’

  ‘I’m the private detective Joel hired to find out who’s been threatening him. And I have. You don’t like his relationship with your daughter because he’s Aboriginal.’

  For a minute I thought he was going to throw the can at me and I almost hoped he would. It would have given me an excuse to hit him. But he drained it and crushed it in his big, freckled fist. ‘I can’t help it,’ he muttered. ‘It’s the way I was brought up. I can’t bloody stand the thought of it.’

  ‘What did you hope to achieve?’

  ‘Get him to sign with SMI and piss off to America.’

  ‘Brilliant. He’d probably take her with him.’

  ‘She’s seventeen, just.’

  ‘I’ve seen them together, mate. You’ve got Buckley’s.’

  ‘Jesus. I need another beer.’

  He staggered off and I almost felt sorry for him. He returned with two cans and thrust one at me. I cracked it and took a swig. ‘Thanks. I hope you’re not planning to drive home.’

  ‘Wife’s coming to get me.’

  ‘Is she with you on this?’

  ‘Christ, she doesn’t know.’

  ‘She does. I’ve seen her and your daughter going at it hammer and tongs. Couldn’t have been about anything else.’

  ‘Bloody snooper.’

  ‘That’s right, and I’ve snooped on things like this for twenty years and learned a few things. You’re out of your depth. The surest way to pair them up is for you to stick your nose in.’

  ‘I didn’t think he was smart enough to do something like hire a detective.’

  ‘I’d say he’s very smart. Smarter than you. You need to come down out of your tree into the twenty-first century.’

  Maybe I was still hoping he’d cut up rough, but it didn’t take him that way. He sighed and shook his head and seemed to lose interest in his beer. He lifted his head and glanced across to where players were hitting on the practice fairway. I followed his glance and saw Joel Grinter spill balls onto the ground and start hitting.

  Walker watched Grinter’s long fluid stroke. ‘Missed the bloody cut, knows I’m pissed off with him about something. And he’s out there practising. He’s got a beautiful swing, hasn’t he?’

  ‘He has.’

  ‘Shit, I think you might be right. I’ve been a mug. Well, that’s the end of us.’

  ‘Why?’

  He looked at me. ‘Well, you’re going to tell him, aren’t you?’

  I drank some more beer. ‘It’s a good drop, Fourex. I don’t have to tell him, not if you’re fair dinkum and leave it alone. What’s the expression? Play it as it lies?’

  ‘What’ll you tell him?’

  ‘I’ll think of something. Deal?’

  It took a while for him to answer and that was encouraging. You don’t change the habit of a lifetime in an instant if you’re serious. Eventually he thumped himself on the side of the head as if to drive the idea home and nodded. ‘You’re not a bad bloke for someone who knows bugger-all about golf. Deal, and thanks.’

  I phoned Joel a week later at Walker’s and got him after Mrs Walker answered.

  ‘Hardy here, Joel. How’s things?’

  ‘Okay. Brett was shitty with me about something, but everything’s much better now. Real good in fact.’

  ‘Fine. I see you’re playing in Canberra next week.’

  ‘I’ll kill ’em. How’d you get on? I haven’t had any more trouble.’

  I told him I’d found out that a retired footballer with mental problems had been responsible for the spraying and the clipping. I said he’d gone off his medication and had harassed some other Aboriginal sports stars, but he was back under treatment.

  ‘How’d you find all that out?’

  ‘Professional secret.’

  ‘Jeez, that’s another load off my mind. Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll send you a bill. Keep swinging.’

  LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT

  From The Big Score (2007)

  ‘I’m dying, Cliff,’ Kevin Roseberry said.

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘The doctors and me.’ He tapped his pyjama-clad chest. ‘I can tell.’

  ‘Doctors have been known to be wrong,’ I said. ‘Even you’ve been wrong once or twice, Kev.’

  Kevin Roseberry was seventy-five but looked older. He’d been a lot of things in his time—wharfie, boxer, rodeo rider, boxing manager. When he won two million dollars in a lottery he hired me, who’d known him just as someone to drink with in Glebe, to get a blackmailer off his back. It wasn’t hard, the guy was an amateur, easily persuaded of the error of his ways. Kevin and I became friendly after that. He bought a big terrace at the end of my street, held some great parties. Now he was in a private room in a private hospital and I was visiting.

  ‘I’ve been wrong heaps of times, but not now. The big C’s got me and they reckon I’ve got a month at the most. No kicks coming. After the life I’ve led I was thankful to make it to the new century, let alone two years in. I’ve got that doctor you recommended onside.’

  ‘Ian Sangster?’

  ‘He’s a good bloke. He’s put me onto another quack who knows the score. I’m going home next week and he’s arranged for a nurse who’ll know what to do.’

  I nodded. That’s exactly what I’d want for myself—not that it’ll ever happen.

  Kevin used to be big but he’d wasted badly. Even his craggy bald head looked smaller. His voice was still the hoarse bark it had always been and his eyes were bright under the boxe
r’s scar tissue. He pointed to his bedside cabinet. ‘Let’s have a drink.’

  I opened the cabinet, took out a bottle of Teachers and two glasses. I poured two generous measures and handed him his. We raised the glasses in a silent toast to nothing in particular.

  ‘I’ve got a problem,’ he said. ‘Who to leave my bloody money to.’

  ‘I could take some of it off your hands. Just say the word.’

  ‘Funny. You can tell jokes at the wake. No, this is serious. You didn’t know I had a kid, a daughter, did you?’

  ‘Never saw you with a pram.’

  ‘Yeah, well it was all a fair while ago. I didn’t treat the woman well and I never had much to do with the kid, nothing in fact. Back then, it was work, fights, the rodeo circuit, grog and more grog. You know.’

  ‘You’ve got the scars to prove it.’

  ‘You bet I have. The thing is, I’d like to help the kid and her mother. It bloody worries me, Cliff. I’m on the way out and I’ve been a selfish bastard all my life. I don’t believe in any of that religious crap, but I’d like to go with a sort of clean slate if I can. Does that sound nutty?’

  ‘No, Kev. It sounds like a decent man trying to do a decent thing. Nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘Good. Thanks. You helped me once and I want your help again. I want you to contact the girl and her mother and tell me how things stand with them.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Well, last I was in touch with Marie, and this is nearly ten years back, she wanted nothing to do with me. Warned me not to try to get in touch with the girl. This was just before I came into the money, but I had a bit and I wanted to know if Marie and Siobhan needed anything. Marie said she was doing fine, so I backed off and I thought, fuck her. But now things are different. The house is worth the best part of a million. I blew a fair bit on horses and having fun, but there’s still a couple of hundred grand left. It’s invested and brings in a decent amount. Now if Marie’s doing well that’s fine, but Siobhan’s in her twenties and I don’t see why her mother should still speak for her. Shit, she might have children, my grandchildren. The money could be useful for them if not for … you see what I’m getting at.’