'You've got a Beemer at home. Did she ask you to act for her?'
'An old one. Yes, she did, but I declined. I'm not taking on new clients, Cliff. My wife won't let me, and I've got all the hassles I need with the few I've got. I'll send you an invoice.'
I got off in Glebe Point Road. The pub beckoned but a shower and a change of clothes beckoned more. There's something about Corrective Services sleeping quarters, and I've been in a few, that seems to taint your clothes, your hair, your skin. I went home, stripped off, showered and shaved and dressed in clothes that were moderately fresh. I've always liked Nick Nolte's line in Forty-Eight Hours, when his girlfriend hands him his shirt after she's been wearing it and he puts it on to go to work. She says, 'If you'd let me sleep over at your place you could at least go to work in a clean shirt.' Nolte says, 'What makes you think there's any clean shirts at my place?'
I had clean shirts but what was making me think of movies, actors? Sheila.
13
With his apparent involvement in steroid smuggling and my uncertainty about Sheila's game-she wouldn't be the first to arrange the convenient death of a spouse with money as the motive-it looked increasingly as though Patrick was the true target for the man with the shotgun. But the threat from Frank Szabo couldn't be ignored.
The possession of an unlicensed handgun is a serious offence and with my record almost certainly meant jail time. And for someone on bail with heavy charges pending, it would compound the trouble. I had no choice, but I took Viv's warning about possible police surveillance on board and arranged for Hank to check my landline for bugs. I bought a new mobile phone in a Telstra shop-new SIM card, new account, new number. If the powers that be could monitor mobiles as they can in the movies, they'd get only innocuous stuff from my old mobile. Anything important or potentially incriminating I'd reserve for my new phone.
The first call I made was to Sheila. I left a message that she should only call me on the new number. It felt like paranoia, but paranoia can be protective. Ever since the initial suspension of my licence, the subsequent cancellation, denial of my appeal and lifelong ban, I'd felt threatened. I'd played fast and loose with the authorities for many years and there were some policemen and bureaucrats who would have loved to even the score. I booked the Falcon into a garage for an unnecessary service and hired an anonymous Toyota Camry. I drove to Erskineville to visit Ben Corbett.
'Ex-police,' Corbett said, handing me the pistol. 'Must've got lost somehow. Mint condition. Only ever fired on the fuckin' range and not much then. All identification removed. Barrel retooled. Fully loaded with first class ammo. Yours for twelve hundred.'
I put the weapon down and gave him the extra money. 'You're a crook.'
'That's right, and now so are you.'
I examined the. 38; broke it open, removed the cartridges, spun the cylinder and sighted down the barrel. What Corbett said was true. The pistol hadn't seen any serious action and I hoped it would stay that way. The twelve hundred dollars implied an unspoken contract-Corbett would never tell anyone that he'd supplied me with the gun and, if I got caught with it, I'd never reveal the source. Doing deals with criminals isn't comfortable, but sometimes there's no other way. Nobody knows that better than the cops and the lawyers.
I still had the chamois leather shoulder holster I'd used when I was licensed to carry a firearm and I'd worn it to the meeting. I slipped the pistol into it and adjusted the holster with a shoulder shrug I'd done a hundred times before, but not lately.
Corbett grinned as he relit one of the extinguished rollies wedged around the sides of his ashtray. 'Small of the back's better.'
'If you want to shoot yourself in the arse.'
'Goodbye, Hardy. If I never fuckin' see you again it'll be too fuckin' soon.'
'That's no way to talk. I'll be right here to sell it back to you when I finish this little bit of business.'
'It'll cost you.'
'Everything does, Ben, everything does.'
Then it was a matter of doing the rounds to get a line on Frank Szabo. It meant the outlay of a fair bit of money and the consumption of a fair amount of alcohol. The money wasn't a problem but the booze was. The last thing I needed was to be picked up for DUI with an illegal pistol under my arm. That was a sure way to go where Frank had recently been. So I had to take it in stages and spread the work out over a couple of days.
If Frank Szabo had been after me he'd know by now that he'd killed the wrong man. If he was as psychopathic as his father it wouldn't bother him too much and he'd stick around for another try. It was an uncomfortable feeling but I had one thing in my favour-to kill with a shotgun you have to get close. On the evidence of Patrick's murder, the killer wanted to be close to see the results of his work. I'd done some sniping in the army and it's basically a mathematical business: adjust the weapon for range, trajectory and terrain; allow for wind, fix the target in the crosshairs and fire. You hit or you miss and that's that. You take the emotion out of it if you can. If you can't, you're not a sniper. I was for a while; then I wasn't.
These days, you don't go looking for underworld people by asking questions in pubs, clubs, brothels or at racetracks. The old days when they accumulated at defined and known places are gone. They disappeared in Sydney some time back, lingered on in Melbourne through the gangland wars, but now respectability rules. But some things remain the same. The underworld is as riven with competition, vindictiveness and payback as politics, and there is no loyalty that money won't overcome. Fear is a factor though, and it's best to have it on your side.
I trawled through the people I knew-the ones I'd met in jail and in the course of my work; the ones who'd come to me with information in the past and the ones I'd had to handle when all they wanted was to crack my skull. Some I liked, some I almost liked, most I disliked intensely. I met them in offices, in restaurants, in pubs, in hospitals and a couple in jail visits. It was like panning for gold with nothing showing. Then there was a nugget in the form of Marvis Marshall.
Marshall, an African American, had come to Australia in the eighties to play basketball for the Sydney Kings. He'd played a season or two in the American league but hadn't made the grade and Australia offered him a chance to play successfully at a lower level. He did well for a season, injured his knee as so many do and that was the end of his career down under. During the year he'd met and married an Australian woman and had a child, so his citizenship was assured. In retirement, he operated for a while as a player agent and manager but suspicion arose about him attempting to influence players to tank games and he was warned off the basketball scene.
At 199 centimetres and a hundred kilos going up, he was scary big and he found work as a bouncer and enforcer for gamblers and a car repossesser for some of the more dubious dealers. He was charged with assault several times but evaded conviction by intimidating witnesses. His bad character was equalled only by his charm and I had got, warily, to know him, at the Redgum Gym in Leichhardt where he lifted weights with the pin in the bottom slot. After those he'd known in Chicago and Detroit, he had contempt for Sydney crims. He made fun of them and would tell tales about them if he was in the mood and the beer was flowing.
I'd been looking out for him for a few days during my own workouts and eventually he turned up. He was running to fat but still awesomely powerful. He saw me going through my middle-of-the-range workout and beckoned me over to the bench press stand.
'Hey, Cliff, my man. Spot me?'
He meant stand by and help if the weight attempted proved too much for him or if he faltered for some reason. This was a ridiculous request given the difference in our strength and he knew it.
'Don't be silly,' I said. 'If you can't handle it I couldn't and you're looking at a crushed chest.'
'Piker,' he said, as he loaded weights onto the bar.
'Tell you what I will do,' I said. 'I'll buy you a few schooners in return for a chat.'
'You're on, man. Stand aside. I got testosterone to burn.'
He went into his routine, muscles and veins in his head and torso bulging and sweat breaking out all over his big, brown body. It made me tired to watch him. I finished my stint, showered, and waited for him in the foyer. He came bounding out dressed in his usual tight T-shirt, hooded jacket, jeans and basketball boots. But the outfit was shabby and some flab was moving on his torso. Marvis's best days were behind him.
We crossed to the pub on the corner of Carlisle Street and
