the help won’t be free. Fair enough?’
He was away up the steps, not waiting for a response. A neat operator. Maybe Ernie Glass would have approved, but I think the idea was to manipulate the cops, not the other way around. Still, Gallagher had confirmed part of Virginia Shaw’s story. I walked to Riley Street where I’d parked. The hangover was a distant painful memory and I resolved not to do any daytime drinking. In my experience, hangovers are like old boxers, always ready to make a come-back. It was a warm morning, good for walking in the country or a park. Darlinghurst was something different. The money that had come into Paddington and Balmain to tidy up the houses and gardens, pave the footpaths and install speed humps hadn’t arrived here. The rows of terraces were faded and forbidding, patched with sheets of iron and three-ply and the plants that grew in the backyards looked as if they’d rather be somewhere else.
Still, I walked a few blocks for the exercise, passing the houses that wouldn’t open until the late afternoon when a woman would sit in the hallway with a magazine and a cigarette, showing her legs and tits, and the ones where pensioners anxiously parted the curtains watching for their cheques to arrive. There were shops that sold pies and Cokes to factory workers during the day and marijuana at night, and newsagents where the real selling items were kept under the counter. I felt almost respectable, with an office, a mortgage and a nearly paid-off car, but there were plenty of men around here lowering the level in their sherry bottles who had once been much more respectable than me.
I unparked the Falcon that was nearly mine and drove the short distance to St Peters Lane. Parking was a problem around here and I was in negotiation with a tattooist named Primo Tomasetti to rent a cement slab at the back of his parlour for a modest fee. Modesty was the main subject of the negotiation. I got lucky in Upper Forbes Street and found a decent-sized space-probably an ABC worker going to lunch. The thought sent me into a milk bar for a sandwich and a totally virtuous can of soft drink.
I climbed the steps from William Street and turned into St Peters Lane from Upper Forbes.
None of that trendy money had reached here either. The back walls of the buildings that front onto William Street were grey and bare apart from the graffiti and the stuff the bill posters put up- advertisements for rock concerts, boxing and wrestling matches, speedway events, martial arts- all the diversions of the 70s. The posters got ripped and flapped in the breeze like sails. A few days earlier I’d noticed a Van Morrison poster, stuck over a dozen others, that had come adrift and opened out into the lane like a door. I liked Van Morrison and was sorry I’d missed the concert. As I walked up the lane, something felt strange. I tried to register it: no cars where they shouldn’t be, no-one hanging about pretending to be what they weren’t…
I stopped twenty yards away from the door to my building. The lane was usually quiet. A church at the top end on the right, then the ABC premises. Nothing much on the other side. An auto-electrician’s workshop that had made the place busy in the past had closed down a couple of days before I signed my lease. In my building were an iridologist, an astronomical-chart drawer, a dental technician and me. Most of the offices were unlet and it was the same in the other buildings. The area had to be scheduled for renovation or demolition and redevelopment. So, not a lot of traffic, but there was something unnatural about this stillness.
It came to me in a flash and I reacted instinctively by flattening myself against the wall, pressing back into a long boarded-up doorway. All the flapping posters had been taken down and nothing bad been put up in their place. The posters would have posed a problem for anyone trying to shoot from further up the lane. I trusted the feeling of danger; I’d had it too many times before in quiet kampongs and apparently empty paddy fields, but I felt ridiculous-this wasn’t Malaya, or Vietnam, or New York City. I sucked in a breath and realised that I’d been holding myself in a sort of suspended animation. Survival stuff. Why not? I moved my head out of its rigid, locked position and forced myself to look with one eye down the lane. I desperately wished for a weapon, but my Smith amp; Wesson. 38 was locked away in the office filing cabinet.
To use even one eye you have to expose some forehead. I squinted up the lane, prepared to run forward to my doorway. What the hell if I looked ridiculous? I was imagining things. No-one was watching. The bullet tore a furrow through the bricks a metre or so in front of me and whined off to hit the wall opposite. I was blinded by the brick dust but still registering impressions. The shot was muted. A silencer fitted. Bad for accuracy, but what use was that to me now?
I heard a sound behind me and used my undamaged eye to look. A car had turned into the lane and was coming slowly towards me. Jesus, I thought, a crossfire. Good planning men. This is it.
The car continued slowly up the lane. It was a sleek green Rover, a respectable person’s car. The driver was a fat man, pale-faced, apprehensive.
‘Hardy!’ The harsh voice came from up near the church. ‘Leave it alone!’
The Rover stopped. I could feel my fingers crushing the salad sandwich into a soggy mess. The driver wound down his window.
‘I’m looking for an auto-electrician,’ he said.
7
It wasn’t the first time I’d been shot at and it didn’t leave me weak and shaking, although it was a while before I could peel myself from the wall and go into my building. When I got to my door and fished for my key I realised I was still holding the food and drink. I put them on the desk and opened the drawer where I’d installed a cask of red wine. It was a good fit. I filled a coffee mug and rolled a cigarette. A bullet within a metre of the skull cancels out some good resolutions. Bitter lemon just wasn’t going to cut it. I smoked the cigarette, ate the squashed sandwich and drank the wine. All very natural functions and reassuring to be able to perform them. I wanted it to stay that way.
Given that, I had the option of doing what I was told-dropping it. I could return Virginia Shaw’s money, tear up her Melbourne number and get on with summons serving and doing character checks for employers and looking for a little light car-repossession work. I could even spend some money-fly up to Cairns and see if Cyn was cheating on me with someone in a safari suit. A great start to my new, independent life as a small businessman that would be. Two jobs, two messes and a quick run for cover.
Not on. My phone call to Andrew Perkins had produced immediate results. I’d rubbed a few people the wrong way as an insurance investigator and there were those around who didn’t like me for one reason or another, but not enough to send a shooter. It had to be Perkins. The intention may not have been to kill me. It was hard to tell, also impossible to prove. Perkins didn’t have to go into hiding on my account, but he’d be on the defensive. What was clear was that Detective Ian Gallagher had been right-there was something behind the Meadowbank shooting, perhaps something big. I could go to Gallagher and show him… what? The chunk out of the wall? The brick dust in my hair?
After another cigarette and half a mug of wine I’d convinced myself that the personal had merged with the professional and that I should have a meeting with Andrew Perkins. I dug out my slightly out-of-date copy of Hammersmith’s Australian Law List, one of the tools of the trade, and looked up Perkins. No chance of a private address, but some of the more status-conscious types liked to list their clubs. Perkins’ entry named the GPS Club-meaning he’d attended one of the major private schools-the Naval amp; Military and the White City Lawn Tennis Club. No affiliations with my only club-the Balmain-Rozelle RSL. I couldn’t see myself strolling into the GPS Club wearing my Maroubra High School tie and a brief second lieutenancy, gained in the field, wouldn’t cut much ice at the Naval amp; Military. But White City was a different matter. Tennis shirts and shorts tend to cancel out class differences and my father-in-law, Dr George Lee, was a member.
I phoned White City and was told that the members engaged in social tennis on Saturday afternoons and club competitions on Sunday, weather permitting. It was Friday and the forecast for Saturday was fine and warm. I phoned Cyn’s father at his practice in St Leonards.
‘Doc? Cliff. Lost many lately?’
‘No more than usual. Had an extraordinary haemorrhoid just now-big as a cricket ball.’
‘Wish I’d been there. How’s Inge?’
Inge is Cyn’s mother-a Danish-born snow queen whose genes dominated Doc’s to produce my blonde wife. Doc is squat and dark-a case of opposites attracting. Lee is a gipsy name, in some cases, and Doc and I had formed a good bantering friendship over the years based on our common supposed gipsy heritage, sporting
