‘You’ve got me.’
‘It’s an insignificant little shoestring mag, run by a couple of queers. They did an article on Sydney’s crime czars and somehow Sammy got a mention and a quote. Now he thinks he’s Mr Big.’
‘Jesus. That’s dangerous.’
Benjamin leaned forward in his chair. ‘I love Sammy, Cliff. He’s a good man basically, always been very generous with me. He’s a good husband and father. I don’t want to see him get into trouble. Could you…’
‘Hold on. We’re talking conflict of interest here.’
‘I don’t see why.’ His small hands came up and he started ticking points off on his fingers. ‘One, Ruby wants Sammy off her back; two, I want Sammy to wake up to himself; three, you’d like to get your own back on Turk.’
‘Who says so?’
Benjamin smiled. ‘I know you, Cliff.’
I thought about it, but not for long. I had to admit it was an interesting problem. Tough, but not too tough. And I had an affection for Sammy which dated back to the days of the Victoria Street green bans, when he was on the side of the angels. Good business, as it turned out: he made money on his houses in the street. Still. ‘What’re Sammy’s weaknesses?’ I asked.
Benjamin didn’t need his fingers. ‘First, he’s afraid of Karen; second, he’s a hypochondriac’
‘That’s interesting. Who’s his doctor?’
‘He never goes near them. He doses himself for his imagined illnesses. He tells me about them all the time, but I’m sure he’s as healthy as a horse. So far.’
‘Leave it with me, Benjamin, along with a couple of hundred bucks. I’ll see if I can work something out.’
Benjamin wrote me a cheque. I gave him a receipt. He put on his hat and went, leaving me to do some thinking, of which two hundred dollars buys a fair bit.
Marcia was behind the table when I dropped in at Ruby’s that afternoon. She had on another plunging blouse, and I had the feeling that the parts of her body I couldn’t see weren’t warmly clothed either.
‘Ruby?’ she said.
‘No. I’d like to talk to you, doctor.’
She smiled, and I could see humorous lines under the make-up. ‘Ruby’s been chattering. I have to say she cheered up a bit after she saw you yesterday. She’s been very down.’
‘Do you know why?’
She shook her head and the jaunty, short hair bounced. ‘No. This is an excellent establishment, and business seems to be good. You’re not a policeman, are you?’
‘Private enquiries. My name’s Cliff Hardy.’
It surprised us both that we shook hands.
‘What do you want to talk to me about?’
For the second time that day I told the story of Ruby’s troubles. This time there was a second strand-the metamorphosis of Sammy Weiss. Marcia listened intently, asking one or two questions. We had to break once while she dealt with a customer-for Henrietta and the special-but when I finished I felt as if I’d clarified a few things for myself as well as shared the problem with a good thinker.
‘I like Ruby very much,’ Marcia said. ‘And I want to help. How can I? You haven’t told me this for nothing.’
‘You practise somewhere? You’ve got a surgery?’
‘Hardly that. The front room of a terrace in Stanley Street.’
‘That’ll do. Is there something we could slip Sammy to give him the symptoms of a venereal disease-fever, discharge and so on?’
She took a deep, very distracting breath. I tried to sneak a look at her legs under the table. Well, it was that kind of a situation. ‘Yes, there is,’ she said. ‘Cantharides’d do it.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Spanish fly. Take enough, and you feel you’re pissing razor blades.’
‘What about… discharge?’
She shook her head. ‘Harder. Massive vitamin C’d produce stains.’
‘But no serious damage.’
She shook her head. ‘Not in the short term.’
‘How does it come, this stuff?’
‘Granules. They’re rather bitter.’
‘Sammy has a couple of long blacks with his brother every morning and after work.’
‘Three days,’ Marcia said. ‘Four at the most.’
I spoke to Benjamin in his office, which was a flat in a pre-war building in Riley Street, another of Sammy’s holdings.
‘A doctor and she’s a whore? What’s the world coming to?’
‘Tell yourself it’s getting more interesting,’ I said. ‘It works for me. All you have to do is slip this stuff into Sammy’s espresso. Couple of days later you tell him he’s looking terrible and offer to help. Make sure he takes a lot of vitamin C. Be subtle. If that doesn’t work, be direct.’
Benjamin agreed to do it. Three days later he was on the phone to me. ‘Sammy’s desperate,’ he said. ‘I can’t bear to see it. What’s next?’
I gave him the telephone number and the address in Stanley Street.
‘How am I supposed to know these symptoms?’
I’d done some checking on Benjamin in the quiet hours. It’s always wise to check on a coconspirator. There was more to him than met the eye. He had a personal interest in some of Sammy’s assets, and he was not unknown at The House of Ruby. ‘Benjamin,’ I said, ‘if your wife is the only woman you’ve ever shtupped, I’m a Dutchman.’
He disposed of that with a quiet cough. I repeated the address and told him not to worry. He called me at home that night.
‘Tomorrow at 2.00 p.m., as planned,’ he said.
‘Good. Will he be alone?’
‘Of course. You think he wants anyone to know about this? What’s the matter, Cliff? Are you afraid of Turk?’ It was the first time I’d heard an edge on Benjamin’s voice since this business began. I was glad of it; it meant that he wanted Sammy straightened out as much as my other client did.
‘Turk’ll come later,’ I said. ‘Let’s get this done first.’
Sammy turned up in a taxi at Marcia’s terrace five minutes early. He was as nervous as a schoolboy buying condoms; he glanced up and down the street and then stared at the house. That must have been a comfort: Marcia’s place had a neat, tiled frontage, just the right amount of greenery and a confidence-inspiring brass knocker. I was watching from the balcony. Sammy knocked. I scurried down the stairs and took up my position with the camera behind the screen in the front room. Marcia, wearing a short skirt, very high heels and a starched white lab coat, jotted down Sammy’s details on a card. She arched a plucked eyebrow once, presumably at some blatant lie of Sammy’s. I was alarmed; although her make-up was much toned down for the event, I was afraid she might overdo things. She didn’t. Her instruction to Sammy to take off his pants was clinical. Sammy was so embarrassed he shut his eyes when she examined him. This allowed Marcia to open the lab coat. I had the silent camera whirring the whole time: Sammy’s flaccid dick in Marcia’s hands, the lacquered nails showing clearly; Marcia, her breasts dropping forward out of a lacy black bra under the starched white fabric and her hand clasped around Sammy’s balls; Sammy, bent over, his underpants around his ankles, and Marcia behind him with the coat shrugged back on her shoulders, muscular thighs showing under the mini-skirt and her rubber-gloved finger probing Sammy’s arsehole.
‘Get dressed, Mr Jones,’ Marcia said.
Sammy did, with relief. Marcia stripped off the gloves, washed her hands in a bowl and dried them on a white towel. Sammy sat on a plastic chair. I could see the sweat standing out around his receding hairline. Marcia picked
