The Coast Road

But, lying half drunk on a lumpy bed in a crummy motel under a low watt light, it was thoughts of Marisha Karatsky that were bringing me down.

In the morning, just before checkout time, I phoned

De Witt at the Mercury. ‘You survived it,’ he said.

‘No worries. Any luck on Matilda?’

‘Not really, but there’s one funny thing. I ran the name past a couple of people here and the social page woman said it rang a bell. She’s checking some of her back stories and columns.’

‘That is a bit strange. My understanding was that she never came near the Wombarra place. I’m surprised to learn she was ever down here at all.’

‘Well, let’s see if there’s anything to it. How did you get on with the bikies?’

I was concerned to protect all my sources of information, and it was getting tangled. Hard to remember who I’d told what. I said I had some leads to follow but nothing solid yet. He caught the hesitation and evasion.

‘We had a deal, remember? I hope you’re not backing out.’

‘The deal stands. You know one of the differences between your game and mine?’

‘Tell me.’

‘I’ve learned to have patience, lots of patience.’

I checked out, returned the Mitsubishi and carried my bag back to the parking station. I was accumulating a decent set of receipts for Dr Farmer. The morning was bright with a mild wind promising a spell of decent weather. I decided to get a small workout by climbing the four flights of stairs to my level rather than taking the lift. I remembered Bob Hawke saying he hated jogging and got exercise by walking briskly and swinging his heavy briefcase. Seemed to work for him.

The level was for overnight and longer parking and there was a scattering of cars. My plan was to get onto the highway as quickly as possible to minimise the chance of Barton’s boys checking me for bald tyres or defective wipers, both always a possibility. I unlocked the passenger door and slung the bag inside. I reached across to lift the button on the driver’s door and felt cold metal press hard behind my ear.

‘Don’t turn around, Hardy. Just take a deep breath.’

Despite myself, I did what the voice said.

‘That’s right. Now, feel this.’

The metal moved against my skin-sharp, round, wide.

‘Shottie?’ I said.

‘Right. Double sawn-off. You’re going to drive and I’m going to sit behind you with this somewhere around the base of your neck. Maybe not quite touching. Understand?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay. Driver’s side keeping your eyes down, reach over and open the back door. Don’t look around. Get in, start the car and head for the exit-slowly.’

‘Do I put my seatbelt on?’

The shotgun dug savagely into my neck. ‘What you do is drive and keep your fuckin’ mouth shut.’

I did what the voice said. The Falcon, after sitting cold for nearly twenty-four hours, was reluctant to start.

‘Am I allowed to give it some choke?’

He was behind me now with the back door closed. I couldn’t feel the gun, but that didn’t do anything to reduce the sweat running down my face and breaking out in other places.

‘Just get it started or everything stops for you right here.’

The engine coughed, caught, and I nursed it to a healthy purr. ‘I’ll have to get out to pay.’

‘It’s been taken care of,’ he said. ‘Drive!’

I snuck a quick look in the rear vision mirror and saw nothing-taped over. He knew his stuff. I drove down the ramps and the boom gate lifted and we were out on the road.

‘Straight ahead and don’t do any smart thinking. You’re dead in a second and I’m out and off and anyone in my way is collateral damage.’

I drove, obeying his directional instructions. What he said was probably true about being able to get clear and, in any case, it wouldn’t matter to me if he did or not. We were heading for the rough land surrounding the sewerage works. From my earlier reading of the map I recalled that it ran partly alongside the golf course. Sewerage plants are pretty much automated with not many workers around, and, unless it was a competition day, not too many golfers would be out. This guy would’ve checked on that. A shotgun had seen Adam MacPherson off, and here was one just centimetres from my spinal cord. The sweat was running off me now. The seatbelt hung loose over my shoulder- I wasn’t that dumb.

Traffic thinned down to nothing. His sharply barked directions were taking us along empty roads with cyclone fences and bits of industrial plant with no one about. It was the worst of places and the best of places. I made the decision: I swung the wheel and hit the kerb. The bump pulled the shotgun barrel away from my head giving me the time I needed. I hit the brake and threw myself against my bag and the passenger door. What the guy behind didn’t know was that the passenger door catch was buggered and would open at a touch. I went through the door with the bag ahead of me, clutching it to break my fall. It partly worked, but I hit hard and felt the wind go out of me as the car careened ahead, out of control.

I rolled and sucked in air. I unzipped the bag and groped for the.38 Smith amp; Wesson I’d brought along with other accessories. I found it with sweaty fingers and struggled to get my bearings. The Falcon had stalled with its nose buried deep in a stand of lantana. It was fifty metres away. The back door opened and he stepped out, clutching his chest. No seatbelt in the back-a nasty thump. He was a blur at that distance with the sweat running into my eyes. Big. Dark. Beard? Denim? He still had the sawn-off and he pointed it in my direction. Took a few steps.

I fired a shot over his head and he stopped. I moved closer, two hands on the revolver and slightly crouched. At forty metres, a pistol is problematic unless in the hands of an expert, but a sawn-off shotgun is as useless as a toothpick. He didn’t panic. He fired both barrels in my direction and the shot threw up dirt not too far in front of me. He scrambled under some bushes bordering a creek and moved quickly away. I went after him with the gun in my hand, but I was winded and hurting and he had the greater incentive. I stopped and watched him wade across the shallow creek that ran through the golf course. He climbed out, muddy, before smoothly jogging down the ideal running surface of the closely cut fairway.

16

I limped back to the car with the adrenalin starting to recede, thinking that this had been a very close call. If I hadn’t had the gun in the bag, if I hadn’t had the bag on the front seat, if the passenger door catch hadn’t been dodgy. . The car was undamaged, maybe a few more scratches on the hood where it had run into the lantana. I started the engine, reversed and drove back to the bag. I collected the stuff that had spilled, shoved it inside and headed off. A.38 doesn’t make a very loud report but a shotgun does and I didn’t want to be hanging around if anyone came to investigate.

I made some turns and was on a street leading away from the water and the golf course before I realised that I was driving with no rear vision. I stopped and stripped the tape from the mirror. The street was quiet and I sat for a while letting its peaceful ordinariness soothe me. The brandy bottle had rolled clear of the bag. A few swigs left. I soothed myself some more. My heart rate slowed to near normal and I began to take notice of details. My flannel shirt was dirty and ripped at the shoulder where I’d hit the ground. Another item of expense for Dr Farmer. Also one.38 round…I realised that I wasn’t thinking straight and felt a sudden surge of panic. What if the guy who’d jumped me had backup? Ridiculous. I closed my eyes and counted to ten.

It’s one thing to be threatened, attacked, whatever, because you have something someone else wants or know something someone doesn’t want you to know. When you believe you don’t have or know anything dangerous it makes it harder to know what steps to take. But when you’re being paid, there’s really only one option-backing out completely (tempting after the shotgun episode), isn’t on. Only thing is to go all out to get the dangerous item of knowledge and use it any way you can. My interest in the connection, whatever it was, between Frederick