case I’d be doing some more travelling. I could see the rear end of a Volvo sticking out of the garage and nothing else. There were plenty of horses around. No light aircraft or helicopters.
We went up some steps to a door at the side of the house. Rex yelled, ‘Tal!’ twice and the driver opened the door. He was still wearing overalls, still looking useful.
‘Billiard room,’ Tal said.
We marched through several connecting rooms which seemed to have no function except as places to arrange furniture in. We went down a passage to where a leather-padded, studded door stood open. Tal went on ahead and said, ‘He’s here.’
The room was big and filled with light from a row of high-set windows; it was wood-panelled with two billiard tables, a dart board, some sporting prints on the walls and a bar. It had a sheep-roasting fireplace at one end. A man was bending over one of the tables, lining up a shot with the rapt concentration of an addict. He shot smoothly but missed. Then he straightened up and looked at me. I looked back. He was tall and thin with grey hair brushed severely back. He had the sort of grooved face that comes from dieting and his clothes-blue shirt, grey trousers and the vest of a three-piece suit-hung loosely on him as if he’d lost weight since they were bought or made. His small moustache didn’t suit his rugged face. He chalked his cue with hands that looked well cared for but that hadn’t always been so.
‘Hardy,’ he said.
‘Right. Who’re you?’
‘You don’t need to know.’ He waved the cue expressively as if that dismissed the question and bent over the table again.
‘I’m impressed,’ I said. ‘I’m impressed by your big house and your helpers and your billiard room. Squash court, too. Great setup. What’s your interest in me?’
He shot again and missed again.
‘You’re not lined up right,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Your arse is off line. Swivel your hips a bit and get in line with the ball.’
He swung the cue and smashed its light end down on my shoulder. The wood splintered and I got a sharp pain to add to my dull, throbbing ones.
‘Don’t play the smartarse with me. I’ve seen better men than you off, right off. Understand?’
I rubbed the shoulder and nodded. His face was flushed and his thin body seemed stretched tight with the anger-short fuse, poor control, high blood pressure. Bad health risk, a ‘D’ life, as I’d have said in my insurance days. They had been boring, dispiriting days but right then they had a kind of attraction.
‘What’re you doing poking your nose around in Bondi?’ he said.
‘Working,’ I said. ‘I’m…’
‘I know what you are, a small-time, shit-eating private investigator.’ He made it sound bad, worse than it is. ‘Who are you working for?’
I shook my head. ‘Can’t tell you that. Ethics of the profession.’
‘Ethics,’ he sneered. He was a good sneerer and the moustache looked better when he sneered. ‘Look at you, you’re a mess. How can it be worth it?’ He sat down in a leather armchair and crossed his legs. His socks and shoes were black. Silk and leather, very pricey.
‘Make me a drink, Rex.’
Rex moved over to the bar and got busy with the bottles. I turned a little and saw that Tal had a small gun out. I had two guns, one in Glebe and one in Bronte. Rex brought a nice tall scotch and soda across and handed it to his boss, who didn’t thank him. He sipped the drink with a bit more than appreciation. At first glance he looked pretty good for an oldster, but on closer inspection there were signs of decay. He wasn’t really that old, not more than sixty, but the grey hair was thin in spots and his colour wasn’t good. The blue shirt lent it some life but there was something strange about his skin, as if it was trying to turn grey.
‘Tell you what I’ll do,’ he said. ‘I’ll guess and you can nod, you don’t have to say a word. No-one can say that you said anything, perfectly true.’ He was trying for a pally tone but I didn’t respond. ‘It’s got to be that Singer bitch, or Mac. Which one? Just give me a nod and I’ll do the rest. You don’t even have to tell us what you’re doing.’
I watched him drink some more scotch and didn’t say a thing.
‘I’ll pay you for your time. What d’you say?’
I didn’t believe a word of it. It was as weak as a vicar’s shandy. I believed him more when he was boasting and threatening.
‘Sorry,’ I said.
‘You think you’re tough?’ He took a big drink and spilled a few drops on his vest. ‘I could let Rex have you to himself in that squash room for a while.’
‘I wouldn’t mind,’ I said.
‘Rex and Tal together. How’d you like that?’
‘Not as much.’
‘You’ve been worked over once-what do you want, for Christ’s sake?’
I didn’t answer him. It seemed that my only chance lay in his uncertainty as to who I was working for. It was abduction already, guns were in view and he boasted of having killed men before. I believed him. But apparently he wouldn’t kill me until he had sorted out who he was hitting at if he hit me. Maybe I was finished anyway, but they wouldn’t kill me here, and I might get a chance on the way to wherever they would do it.
‘You’re fuckin’ stupid!’ The old rough side of him was showing now, the street side, maybe the gaol side. He finished the drink and for a minute I thought he was going to ask for another. That would have been hard on me, because I was feeling bad about the drink. I wanted one very badly, more for the wetness than the alcohol. I’d have settled for water. But I had a half-formed plan on that and I just clamped my jaw shut and tried to look resolute. He didn’t ask for another scotch but I could tell he wanted it.
He got up. ‘All right, Rex, sling him back in the box and let him think about it. Don’t break his neck. Tal, I’ve got to go to town.’
Rex turned me around with a prod of the gun. I gave the broken end of the billiard cue a quick kick and it skittered across the planks. Rex jumped and prodded me again, Tal swore and the lord of the manor spun around as if he’d heard a shot. They were a very nervy bunch.
‘Tonight, Hardy,’ the boss man said. ‘Or we’ll put you in a hole.’
13
Back in the box, I reflected on the little I’d learned from the encounter with the bad billiard player. Garth Green had mentioned someone else, apart from Singer and McLeary, who had a piece of the action on the beaches, and this looked like him. Those eastern suburbs enterprises must have been coining money, because this was a million-dollar setup. Apparently, though, all was not tranquil in that little world.
I worried about Ann Winter and about the fact that I couldn’t see how all this action that had broken loose around me connected with John Singer, presumed dead. Rex didn’t look like the Bronte ripper, either, but you never can tell. I wondered where I was, then I wondered if I’d ever know.
I heard a car start up and drive off-the Volvo. That took Tal and Mr Big away, and left Rex and who knew how many more. I started kicking the door. There was a bit of give in it and kicking made a satisfactory noise, although there was no hope at all of breaking it down. After five minutes’ kicking, Rex’s voice broke through the racket.
‘Stop that fuckin’ noise. What’re you playing at?’
‘Tongue swollen,’ I croaked. ‘Going to choke. Water.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Something wrong.’ I strangled and mangled my voice. ‘Choking on it. Water, please.’
I heard his footsteps go back towards the house and I unwound the cord. I tied knots in one end, doubling them, until I had about five feet to swing and two feet in a hard, knobbly ball. I swung and cracked it a few times
