by Gary Gregor
Sam studied the taller one of the two, a skinny, gaunt-looking lad of indeterminate age. He had orange hair. Not red, or ginger, as one might expect as a legacy of genes inherited at birth, but orange, as if it had been sprayed from an aerosol can. Sam struggled to understand the logic behind what might motivate anyone to want to look like that. Surely he didn’t believe it made him more attractive to the opposite sex? Perhaps, as a peacock would display its plumage to a nearby hen as part of a strange mating ritual, this societal reject believed his orange locks made him somehow more appealing to the female gender.
Sam found himself thinking of the lad’s parents, and feeling a modicum of sympathy for them. Did they even know where their moronic child was; let alone how he looked? Then, he wondered what kind of girls might find themselves attracted to two of life’s blowflies such as these two characters. The skinny lad’s mate, a pot-bellied rocket scientist obviously on loan from NASA, tugged at a ring he wore pierced through one nostril. Between tugs, he spat a glob of mucus onto the footpath.
Sam shook his head. “Jesus, the things you see when you haven’t got a gun.”
Major Chris Thomas need not wear the uniform of a senior officer of the Salvation Army to demonstrate he was a man of considerable compassion. As soon as Sam saw him approach, he knew his benevolence would be apparent even if he chose to wear a swimming costume as a uniform.
He was a jolly looking man, with a build that made Sam think immediately of Santa Claus. Although Thomas did not sport the thick white beard or the luxuriant white mane of hair one associates with Santa, he did have Santa’s rosy cheeks.
He offered Sam a smile that seemed as natural and genuine as though it had been placed there at birth and remained with him ever since. Sam liked the man from the moment he shook his hand and felt the firm, welcoming grip.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mister Rose,” the Major said with undisguised sincerity. “Can I get you something to drink, tea or coffee? I’m afraid we have nothing stronger here, many of our guests are dealing with problems in that area.”
“Coffee will be fine, thank you,” Sam smiled. “And please, call me Sam.”
“Of course,” Thomas said. “Let’s sit over here.” He ushered Sam across a cracked and faded linoleum covered foyer to a large area that obviously served as a day room. Here, the hostel residents could play pool on an ageing table, watch television, play darts, or just sit about listlessly on the well-worn chairs dotted around the room, and stare into oblivion, pondering life’s cruelty while they waited for the next meal. There were half a dozen men in the room, and as Sam cast his eyes over each of them, he saw pain and emptiness, conveying resigned hopelessness.
Against one wall, a scratched and stained table carried a large urn of boiling water, and the makings for tea and coffee. Thomas busied himself preparing coffee for himself and Sam. “How do you have it?” he asked.
“Standard, please,” Sam answered, “white, two sugars.”
Thomas handed the drink to Sam. “Sorry about the plastic cups,” he smiled, “I’m afraid our budget won't stretch to fine china.”
“This is fine,” Sam said, sipping the hot drink.
The Major indicated two vinyl chairs, and they settled themselves.
“Now, Sam, how can I help you?” he asked. “I must admit I was intrigued when you telephoned.”
“To be honest,” Sam shrugged, “I’m not sure you can help me. I’m curious about a former resident of yours.”
“I’ll help if I can, of course. What is his name?”
“Stringer,” Sam said.
“John Stringer?” Thomas asked.
“Yes,” Sam confirmed. “I was hoping you could tell me something about him.”
“John Stringer,” Thomas mused. “Yes, I remember John. I understand he died a while ago.” It was an observation rather than a question.
“Yes he did,” Sam said.
“John’s was a sad story. What would you like to know?”
“How long was he here?”
“Just a few months, as I recall. I would have to check our records to tell you exactly how long. He came here directly from prison. He lost his family home, of course, and it was a condition of his parole that he reside here on his release. Are you familiar with his background?”
“Yes,” Sam nodded. “I was with the police when he was arrested for killing his family.”
“What a terrible thing that was,” Thomas said. “I suppose, in the end, it all got too much for him. A young fellow from the Coroner’s office came here after they found his body, and asked a few routine questions. May I ask what your interest is? I understand you are no longer with the police?”
“No, I left the force about a year ago. I’m a private investigator these days. I’m following an inquiry from an insurance company in regards to a life insurance policy he apparently purchased years ago,” Sam lied. “Did he, in the time he was here, give you any indication that he might be suicidal?”
“No more so than any of our people here. The gentlemen who come to us are at the bottom of the heap, so to speak. Most of them feel life has dealt them a bad hand, and the future offers only more of the same. I don’t recall John Stringer being any more depressed than anyone else here. He kept pretty much to himself most of the time. He did make one friend though, who he seemed to spend a bit of time with.”
“Really?” Sam said; his interested rising.
“Yes,” Thomas said. “Bert Ulstrom.”
“Did they meet here?” Sam probed.
“Oh, yes. Bert was a long-time resident. I took over here four years ago, and he was here when I arrived. His was another sad case. Bert had a lifelong battle with the bottle. He was never able to stay off the booze for more than a few days at a time. His alcoholism cost him everything, including his family.”
“Do you think Stringer might have taken Ulstrom into his confidence?”
“It’s possible I suppose. Bert did seem to attach himself to John. They were almost always together.”
“Is Mister Ulstrom here now? I would like to talk to him.”
“The Coroner’s Constable asked the same thing following Stringer’s death. Unfortunately, Bert hasn’t been seen since he left here with John two days before they found John’s body.”
“They left together?”
“Yes, they often went out of the hostel together, usually just for a few hours, and then they always came back together. John was required to be in the hostel every night by six p.m. as a condition of his parole.”
“And you haven’t seen Bert since?”
“That’s right. Bert was under no such curfew obligations. He could come and go as he pleased. This is a charitable institution, and while everyone in need is welcome, no one is compelled to remain; with the exception of John Stringer, who had to live here as a condition of his parole. We made all the standard inquiries with other like institutions around town to no avail, I’m afraid. We were never able to locate any family, and we have no idea what might have become of him. Like John, Bert was a loner, and had no real friends other than the people who came and went through the hostel, and he was distant from most of them.”
“Except for John Stringer,” Sam interrupted.
“Yes, except for John.”
“Is there anyone here now who might have any idea where he might be?”
“I very much doubt it,” Thomas shrugged. “We asked around at the time. When these people are not here, they tend to gravitate to the same places. You will be familiar with them from your days with the police force. You know, the fringe camps and the hovels that have almost become a part of the landscape in Darwin, more’s the pity. Most of the fellows here have frequented them at one time or another. We did the rounds of them at the time, as did the police. Everyone knows Bert, of course, he’s been around the place for more years than most of us can remember, but no one’s seen him since the day he left here with John.”
“Did either of them take any belongin
gs with them?”
“Not Bert. He didn’t have anything of value. Everything he needed we provided, you know, bedding, toiletries, that sort of thing.”
“What about Stringer?”
“Much the same. He had a couple of insignificant possessions, nothing special. What he did have he took away with him.”
“He took his belongings?”
“Yes, such as they were. It seems he had no intention of coming back.”
“Why would he do that?” Sam asked.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Thomas said.
“Well,” Sam began, “if he planned on killing himself, why bother to take a few worthless possessions with him?”
“I don’t know,” Thomas shrugged. “I never really thought about it. Perhaps when he left, he wasn’t planning on killing himself. Maybe he came to that decision later.”
“Did he have a car?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact he did. I understand he bought it on his release from prison. It wasn’t much of a thing, a smoke-belching rust-bucket, I considered. Most of the time he couldn’t afford to run it, but when he did use it, Bert was usually with him.”
“Where did they go?”
“I have no idea, I never asked. As long as John was back by six, how they spent their days was their business. I did speak to John about it once because I was concerned about the condition Bert was usually in when they came back. More often than not he was so drunk he had a job to stand.”
“What did Stringer say?”
“Usually very little, the truth is, it is none of my business what our people do when they are not here. My concerns for Bert were of a health nature rather than of a disciplinary one.”
“Of course,” Sam said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound critical.”
“No offence taken, Sam, I’m only sorry I can't be of much help to you. It would appear the only person who might be able to shed any light on John’s state of mind at the time is Bert, and he’s disappeared.”
“As a matter of fact,” Sam smiled, “you’ve been a great help.” He got up to leave, dropping his empty cup into a bin between the chairs. “Thank you for the coffee.”
“My pleasure, any time,” Thomas said, sincerely. “It was nice to meet you. Good luck.”
“Thank you.”
The two men shook hands, and Sam walked from the room. As he left, he felt, despite the pleasant disposition of Major Chris Thomas, the hostel was a place that would easily, and quickly, depress him should he stay longer than was necessary.
15
With the exception of an uneducated, and usually unsuccessful flutter on the Melbourne Cup, Australia’s richest horse race, Sam Rose was not a gambler. He long ago arrived at the conclusion the horses he followed, followed other horses. In all the years a casino existed in Darwin, he had never so much as dropped more than a dollar or two in any of the numerous poker machines that occupied one end of the main gambling room.
The casino was a place, Sam believed, expressly designed to separate the tourist, and indeed the many locals, who followed each other like sheep through the doors each day, from their hard-earned cash. He could never accept that poker machines, and indeed gambling in general, could have anything other than a negative effect on those who indulged in such foolhardy pastimes. Money was too hard to come by to shove it down the throat of a mechanical creation designed with one specific purpose in mind - to relieve the vulnerable of their money.
He also didn’t understand why Darwin’s casino should be named Diamond Beach Casino, given there was no such place as Diamond Beach anywhere near Darwin. The casino was just a short distance from the city centre, at Mindil Beach. He supposed the name Diamond Beach tended to convey to the vulnerable, an image of style and sophistication perhaps not displayed by the name Mindil Beach.
On the rare occasions he went to the casino, he preferred to frequent the opposite end of the building’s ground floor, a quieter place, where the hum of murmuring, hopeful punters, and the seductive, tuneful calling of poker machines, would not infringe on his thinking time.
He sat on a high-backed stool at a large, horseshoe-shaped bar in the casino’s piano lounge. Behind him, a young man dressed in a white suit, complete with bold red tie and sunglasses, tinkled at an impressive, black, grand piano. Stools placed strategically around the piano were meant to entice romantic souls in love, or wishing they were, to sit and stare longingly into the eyes of their partner.
Perched atop the piano, and easily accessible to those seated around it, a large, oversize brandy balloon invited the deposit of tips. Later, as the ambience and the alcohol combined to intoxicate the minds of those who lingered while listening to the pianist’s musical inducements, notes of varying denominations would find their way into the glass. Accordingly, as his tips improved, so, proportionately, would his playing.
Sam glanced into the mirror behind the bar and for a few moments watched the reflection of the musician at work. It was early afternoon, and most of the stools around the piano were vacant. He tried to recognise the tune. He knew it well, but couldn’t remember the title. Eventually, deciding it was of little significance in the overall scheme of things that currently occupied his mind, he returned his attention to the people around him.
Only four other patrons, all male and obviously together, and each of them more than a little inebriated, sat at the bar. In a voice loud enough to be mildly annoying, one of the four entertained his mates with bawdy jokes, the punchlines subsequently greeted with raucous laughter from the remainder of the group. Sam figured this was more than likely the aftermath of a long, lingering business lunch. He smiled inwardly at the reception each might receive when he finally arrived home to the bosom of his loving family.
He was beginning to experience the first signs of irritation. So far, the boisterous comedian hadn’t told a joke that Sam hadn’t already heard at one time or another. He focused on the remnants of the drink in his glass, hoping the revellers would soon leave. He did not notice Paddy O’Reily approach until he sat on the stool next to him.
“And it’s a good afternoon to you, Sam lad,” Paddy greeted.
Startled, Sam looked at the Irishman. “Hi, how are you, Paddy?”
“Better than you look, I suspect,” Paddy replied. “What are you drinking?”
Sam looked at the drink in his glass. “Booze,” he answered, draining the last remains. “Want one?”
“Are the Kennedys gun shy?” Paddy joked.
“I don’t think they have Irish Heather here,” Sam said.
“Of course they do. I come here all the time. They get it in especially for me.”
“By the carton, no doubt?”
“No, by the pallet.”
“Of course, I should have known. In that case, I’ll have one with you.” Sam beckoned to the girl behind the bar. “My esteemed Irish friend here tells me you have adequate stocks of Irish Heather on hand.”
“Yes, sir, we do. Mister O’Reily is a regular customer. Can I get you a couple?”
“Please,” Sam answered. He turned to face Paddy. “So, it’s Mister O’Reily in here is it?”
“I only come here because the staff is courteous and know their manners, Sam lad. Are you sure you can afford it? This is the casino after all. There’s none of your cheap front bar booze here.”
“As a matter of fact, I can’t afford it, but you can. It's your shout. Convince me that you Irish are the generous people you claim to be.”
The girl returned with the drinks and looked at Sam. “That’s eighteen dollars, Sir.”
“Shit!” Sam exclaimed. “We only want one drink, not a tour of the distillery.” He thrust a thumb at Paddy. “He’s paying, he’s got more money than me, and most of it is mine.”
Paddy fumbled inside his jacket for his wallet, paid the girl, and lifted his glass in a toast.
“Actually, it’s Judge Hackett’s money, Sam. I do love this stuff, but I hate paying for it. Here’s mud in your
eye, Sam lad.” He picked up his change and dropped it into another pocket of his jacket. He looked up to see Sam watching him closely. “What?” he queried. “What are you looking at?”
“I’m looking at that jacket,” Sam said. “It’s the middle of November, it must be thirty-five degrees outside, and you are always wearing that bloody jacket.”
“Not always this particular jacket,” Paddy pointed out as he brushed the lapels. “I have two exactly the same. I wear one while the other is at the dry cleaner. Why, what’s the matter with it?”
“Nothing, in fact, it’s a very stylish jacket. At least it would be if this was nineteen seventy-three. I was just curious why you always wear a jacket in this climate.”
“Well, Sam lad, your concern is noted, even if it is confusing. The fact is, I need a jacket like this. I need the pockets. In my job I have to carry a lot of things around with me; tools of the trade, so to speak. Things like pens, and pencils,” he began emptying his pockets onto the bar. “Note-pads and messages. Somewhere here,” he patted at his pockets, “I even have a small camera, and one of those miniature tape recorders.” He paused, reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a folded document. “Occasionally, I even have to carry copies of autopsy reports for a smart-arse private detective friend of mine.” He dropped the document on the bar in front of Sam.
“You got it?” Sam enthused.
“Was there ever any doubt?”