more and more. Analgesics and caffeine were fighting skirmishes in my system, bombing and strafing and laying waste to the territory. Roger’s men mocked me for not having a gun, but I couldn’t see that they needed any more guns. Frank Parker and I had an unspoken pact-he wouldn’t draw attention to my bleeper if I wouldn’t mention how easily the late Bob had dropped his men off in Redfern.
Frederick Allan Ward was charged with murder, which would be reduced to manslaughter because he had a good enough lawyer to see to that. A policewoman took Sharon off somewhere, I never found out where. Rex and Bob were dead, Mac was in hospital and Terry was charged with silly stuff like unlicensed firearms and attempted abduction.
Before everything wound up about three am, the news came through that Mac had died of a massive coronary. In the taxi on the way home I reflected that Freddy Ward’s chances of becoming the vice king of Macarthur Onslow land had taken a nosedive. That left Mrs Marion Singer. I thought about her just a little.
I went to sleep on the couch at four am, fell off it an hour and a half later and couldn’t get back to sleep. I made coffee as the sun came up, and my crashing about in the kitchen woke Hilde, who came down the stairs yawning and rubbing her eyes.
Her hair was all tousled and she had a warm bed smell. She pulled her dressing-gown tight. We drank the coffee sitting on the couch; my clothes were lying around on the floor and the leg brace draped across a chair looked like a cross between a jockstrap and a groin shield. I had a black, gravelly beard and sour breath. She finished her coffee first and did a quick, professional examination of my knee.
‘Sore?’
‘Bloody sore.’
‘Well, what happened to Michael Caine?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You still don’t know? But I got the impression your job was finished.’
‘I think it is. I think my client’s entirely satisfied and I’ve lost enough skin and sleep over the bloody thing, anyway.’
That day the hospital bill came and I sent it to Mrs Singer. I used the knee exerciser. I limped into town and bought a new walking stick with a rubber tip and a nice swing to it. My patience gave out that evening and I tried to phone Mrs Singer, but there was no answer. She called me the next day. I heard STD bleeps and an urgent note in her voice.
‘I want you to come up here, Mr Hardy. I’m at my place on the Hawkesbury.’
‘That’s nice, Mrs Singer. Can’t you just tell me all about it on the phone? I’ve got a few accounts to send you, of course.’
‘No, no. I have something to show you and we have a lot to talk about.’
‘I take it you’re satisfied.’
She paused. ‘All your expenses will be met in full. I really must see you. As far as I’m concerned, I’m still employing you.’
That surprised me. I didn’t exactly mind being paid for sitting around resting my leg, reading a bit and having a quiet drink or two, but it added to my confusion. I tried to draw her out on how my erratic activities had pleased her, but she wouldn’t play. She asked me to have lunch with her at the Beleura Waters restaurant on the river. When I hesitated, she suggested that the invitation was an order.
‘I can’t drive with this knee.’
‘I’ll send a car.’
What could I say? A Fairlane with a taciturn Scot at the wheel arrived at eleven am and we set off north.
He didn’t talk well, but he was a terrific driver. We moved smartly against the sluggish flow of traffic down into the narrow streets of Sydney. We got to the river about midday, parked, and I waited for the restaurant boat to pick me up.
‘What’ll you do?’ I asked the driver.
‘I’ll wait,’ he said. ‘I have a packed lunch.’
It was a bright, warm day. Spring comes to the Hawkesbury. There were patches of green and yellow on the rocky river banks where grass and wildflowers had gained a hold. The trees were aggressively native, gums that exhibited all the shades from khaki to grey. But we loved them. The other revellers numbered about half a dozen and included a state cabinet minister. Parliament was sitting that day as far as I knew, but the minister had a very pretty young Asian woman with him, so I suppose he could have been on a goodwill mission. I had on my best drill slacks and a denim shirt that I’d ironed. I also had my new walking stick and the bandage was off my ear.
The boat was a wide, flat-bottomed craft with a fringed awning over the seating section and a convincing Johnson outboard motor. A thin, elegant boatman handed us in and whipped the boat out into the current.
Half the people in the boat didn’t need lunch and the rest looked like professional dieters. The minister kept his hand on the Asian woman’s knee and looked into her almond eyes. I was glad I wasn’t driving. The restaurant had a reputation for drinkable wine.
The restaurant is a plain brick and stone affair set right on the river. It has a couple of hundred square feet of unfashionable louvre windows that should look terrible but don’t.
Mrs Singer was waiting for us at a corner table commanding the best view of the river. She was dressed to kill in a white linen suit. Her silvery hair had that expensive disarray and her makeup was somewhere between bold and restrained. Up close, there were signs of strain around her eyes and mouth, but she put together a pretty good smile.
‘Mr Hardy,’ she said. ‘That stick and limp are maddeningly attractive.’
‘They look better than they feel, Mrs Singer.’
‘Marion,’ she said. ‘What will you drink?’
‘Gin and tonic, thanks, like before.’
‘Being bashed hasn’t affected your memory. I’m sorry you had such a hard time.’
She looked concerned, but not sorry.
The drinks came. She seemed determined to stay off business for a while, and I let her. She was laying on the charm and affluence with a trowel and there had to be a reason. The menu arrived and we chatted about that. She had a medallion of venison and a lettuce leaf. I had a steak. She ordered a bottle of German wine, most of which I drank while she sipped Perrier. She pointed out a few local characters as boats puttered by on the river. I noticed that she’d upped her tar content-she was smoking Rothmans and plenty of them.
No sweets by consensus; on to coffee and down to business. Marion hauled out her cheque book and wrote out a big one for days worked, expenses incurred and some for luck. Lots for luck.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Lovely lunch, too. Now, tell me how I earned it.’
The strain was showing more clearly now; there were tiny lines running down into that superbly defined mouth and her eyes had unhappy depths. She took a couple of sheets of paper from her handbag and passed them to me. A waiter came with cigars. I thought for a second, Why not? and then I thought, Why?
The sheets were typed on and numbered. The first carried a date two years and a few weeks before.
Darling Marion,
No easy way to say it. I’ve got cancer, It’s bad and there’s no stopping it. They told me in the States that I’ve got a few months to go at the most. So I’ve made some arrangements and there are a few things you have to do if you want to hang on to everything we’ve built up. First, I’ve got some stuff to take that will finish me. I’m going to take it in the water as far out as I can get. It won’t be too bad. Lyle Robinson has the will and it’s watertight. You can trust him with the legal stuff. You can’t trust anyone else, so do as I say.
Ward and Mac will try to take over. Mac will try hardest. They’ll wait a while, maybe a year or so until the casino deal runs out but Mac will have a go. Stall him.
You’re going to need a stirrer. Rhino Jackson could do it and you know him. But he’s a drunk. Ron Clingan is tough enough and pretty smart. He’d do. The best would be this private detective named Cliff Hardy. He’s ex-army, which is a plus. He’s pretty hard and he sticks. But he’s not dumb, so you have to be careful. When Mac gets difficult you should contact this Hardy and tell him some story about me still being alive. You’ll have to put on a good act. Get him working on it. Pay him what he asks, but no more. Keep him keen. Don’t tell him about Mac and Ward, he’ll find out and make trouble for them. The word on him is that he keeps going until he gets there. He’ll
