they're making any progress. I need to know how hard they're trying. They've got Patrick pegged as a steroids importer. That lowers their interest. Serves him right.'
'It's you facing that charge.'
'That's bullshit. You know it and they must know it.'
'I dunno. You liked this bloke. You might have done him a favour.'
'I didn't like him that much. Just tell me this, is that the line they're working on-the steroids?'
He shrugged. As far as I know. If you've got another line, Cliff, you should talk to them. You've got no standing, no protection.'
'When did I ever have?'
'You had more than you knew. One tip. I know how you work; you're not a complete cowboy. Ian Welsh's a good man. If you get in too deep contact him.'
'Will you be talking to him?'
'All depends. It's a strange world we live in.'
'You're right,' I said. 'Three hundred thousand people at Randwick racecourse, and not a horse in sight.'
19
They've cracked down on steroids in sport. About bodybuilding, I wasn't sure, but my feeling was there was less interest generally in that these days than in the past. Maybe because Arnie had gone political and Sly and Rocky and Rambo were winding down. But I knew of one area of activity where they were still used and where I had contacts.
I'd worked a few times as a bodyguard for film and television actors and in that role I'd naturally fallen into conversation with stuntmen like Ben Corbett. Corbett was what was known in the film and television world as a 'wheelie', specialising in motorised stunts, but there were others, particularly 'swingers', who performed athletic jumping, falling, hanging-essentially gymnastic-illusions. They had to be strong and quick and they regularly injured themselves but needed to keep working because they weren't well paid.
They used steroids to build strength but, more importantly, to recover from strains, pulls, dislocations. These people, mostly men but including a few women, paid very high insurance premiums and the movie production companies did the same to safeguard themselves against lawsuits in the event of accidents. The stunters had to pass frequent medical tests and it was a fair bet that they'd try to mask their use of steroids. Patrick's pills could look attractive in that context.
Toby Fairweather had done some of the stunts for one of the actors I'd bodyguarded in a film that involved a lot of climbing, swinging, jumping and diving. I'd been impressed by the careful way he'd gone about setting everything up to minimise the risks. He was a disciplined guy, didn't drink when working, and was a fitness fanatic. But he admitted that his body had taken a battering over the years and that he used steroids to keep going. I thought he'd know how the market stood, how high the stakes were.
When Toby's not stunting or working out in the gym, he conducts early morning and late afternoon classes in Chinese fighting sticks, conducted in Camperdown Park. Good little earner, low overhead. I threaded through the traffic and the singing, dancing pilgrims and got there when a class was in full swing. There were four pupils, two men and two women, and Toby was putting them through their paces, switching them from one-on-one combat to a sort of all-in melee and then cutting one out and taking that one on himself. The pupils were young, in their late teens and early twenties; two Asian, two not. Toby is forty plus but was clearly faster and more deft than any of them, although they all showed promise.
I sat on a seat and watched as the light faded. The clatter of the sticks and the grunts and occasional screeches attracted a few bystanders. When the session finished, some of the watchers clapped before drifting away. Toby bowed, all style. He collected the sticks, spoke briefly to the youngsters, picked up his bag and sauntered over to where I was sitting.
'Hi, Cliff. Great exercise and very calming. You should try it.'
'Gidday, Toby. I've been hit on the head too many times already, thanks, and I'm calm enough.'
He sat and tied the sticks into a bundle with a length of cord and put them into his long bag-the kind cricketers use. 'You're never calm,' he said. 'You don't have a calm aura.'
'I do my best. I need some information, Toby. Do you want to go somewhere up King Street for herbal tea?'
He laughed. 'Love to take the piss, don't you? No, I'm happy here. I've got a stunt rehearsal to go to soon. What's up?'
I told Toby as much as he needed to know about Patrick's steroids. He listened intently while squeezing a rubber ball in each of his hands as a wrist strengthening exercise. I suppose you need strong wrists when hanging from bridges and swinging on ropes across rivers.
'Built-in masking agent, you reckon,' he said. 'Those things would be worth a lot of money. Didn't happen to hang on to a handful, did you?'
'Who'd want them, apart from would-be suicides like you? Athletes? Footballers?'
He shook his head. 'Not worth it, but lots of people- truckies with injuries and getting too old for the game; tuna fishermen, same thing; police rescue boys and girls; mountaineers, rock climbers, cavers-you name it.'
I thought about Patrick's remark: I have a thought or two. 'Is there enough money in it for someone to get killed for doing the wrong thing?'
'You mean ripping off a consignment?'
'Something like that, or horning in on an established market.'
'I don't think it's organised enough for that. More a matter of people seeing an opportunity and grabbing it, but I could ask around. Who's got the stuff we're talking about now?'
'Dunno. Police or Customs.'
'It'll filter through, then, at least some of it. I'll keep an eye out.'
I thanked him and had got up to leave when he pushed me down and pointed to the suture scar just showing above the top button of my shirt.
'That what I think it is?'
I nodded. 'Bypass.'
'What did I tell you when I saw you tucking into steak and chips on that movie set?'
'The catering was too flash to resist.'
'Things've changed. It's pies and sausage rolls now, if you're lucky. Doesn't bother me of course. Well, see you, Cliff. Glad you're still in the land of the living, even though you don't deserve to be.'
Toby is a vegetarian. He loped away and I watched him disappear into the gathering gloom. I was hearing that sort of news too much lately from people in various professions- restricted services, belt tightening.
As I got up and stretched, joints cracking, two men came slouching towards me. One was about my height and build, the other shorter and wider. They were both young and carrying stubbies.
'Hey, mate, got a spare smoke?' the taller one said.
'No, sorry.'
Shorty said, 'Got a light?'
'Why would I have a light if I haven't got a cigarette?'
'You're a smartarse,' Shorty said.
'And you're a nuisance. Go away.'
The taller one said, 'I bet he's got a wallet.'
'Go away before you get hurt.'
He reached out and grabbed the lapel of my jacket. Bad move. Two free hands will usually beat none. I hit him hard over the heart. He dropped to his knees and vomited. The other man swung at my head with his bottle. Another mistake-too small a target and a head can duck. Go for the body first. I gave him a right rip to the ribs and when he sagged I lifted my knee and caught him under the chin. He collapsed and his bottle hit the graffiti-covered brick wall and smashed.
I bent down, lifted him, and propped him against the wall under a peace sign. 'Look after your mate. He's not
