‘I serve drinks,’ he said.
‘Then I’ll take a Scotch and ice and could you tell me where to find Darcy?’
He put away the handkerchief and made the drink. His hands were fast and if they were sweaty it didn’t seem to inconvenience him. He put the drink in front of me. His red face glowed under the light coming from behind the bar where there was also a long mirror edged with silver dollars.
‘Here’s your drink.’
I gave him five dollars. ‘Darcy?’
He gave me two dollars change and served someone else.
Ricky Gay finished singing ‘Big Spender’ and started to tell jokes. Another 10 per cent of the audience transferred their interest to companions and drinks. There was no music now but a few couples were dancing anyway. If the customer was always right the music would be starting up again pretty soon. I sipped the drink and considered my options: the barman I’d spoken to hadn’t stopped working since. He hadn’t winked or nodded at anyone to let them know about the snooper. He just wasn’t interested. The other barmen and the waitresses looked the same-too busy to care one way or the other. Somehow, I didn’t think I’d get much cooperation from Ricky Gay.
A sign under a pair of buffalo horns over a doorway said ‘Toilet’. I went through into a passageway that led to a door with a top-hatted silhouette on it at one end and to well-lit, imitation marble stairway at the other. I walked to the stairs; I still had the drink in my hand and when the man sitting at the top of the first flight stood up I raised my glass.
‘Cheers,’ I said.
He was a thickset character wearing a black T-shirt, jeans with a wide belt and basketball boots. He had a big bunch of keys swinging from the belt, too big to be anyone’s actual set of keys.
‘Other way, chum.’ The voice was thick North Country British.
I leaned against the wall. ‘What? What?’
‘The pisser’s at the other end of the passage. This’s private up here.’
I swung around unsteadily, blinking. ‘Doesn’t say so.’
He came down the stairs confidently, unfastening the keys which were on a snap lock. The bunch was on several rings and looked as if it could be easily converted into a knuckle-duster or a mini-battleaxe. He was only about 30; too much fat bulged out above the belt, but he moved all right. He swung the keys lazily just below my nose. ‘Piss off, chum.’
‘Darcy here?’ I spoke sharply and soberly and he was taken by surprise. He should have loaded his fist with the metal and punched but he went for another swing, intending to cut, and was too slow. I dropped the glass, whipped out the. 38 and dug it into the midriff bulge. ‘Drop the keys!’ I dug hard as I spoke and he let the keys fall.
‘A shooter. Come on…’ He was going to get brave any minute. I brought my knee up hard and slammed it into his crotch. He groaned and sagged; I pushed with the gun and he sank down onto the stairs. He sat on broken glass and swore. He tried to move but I pinned him by putting the gun under his nose.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ I said. ‘You’ve cut yourself. You’re going to have to be more careful. Darcy- where is he?’
His pudgy face was pale and it looked as if he’d bit his lip to add to his problems. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Up there.’
I gestured with the gun. ‘Let’s go.’
He eased himself up carefully, wincing and reaching behind him to pull the glass out. ‘You’re not a cop.’
‘No. And you’re not a nightwatchman. Take me up to Darcy.’
‘He’ll sort you.’
‘We’ll see. Your jeans are in a dreadful state.’
He went gingerly up the stairs; I followed two steps below and off to one side in case he had some idea of evening the score. He didn’t. He went meek as a lamb along a carpeted corridor to the second of three doors, all of which had ‘Private’ written on them. He knocked.
‘Who the hell is it?’ The voice was rough, muffled and annoyed.
‘Connelly.’
‘Well?’
I showed Connelly my finger held to my lips. He opened his mouth and I dug him in the ribs with the gun.
‘Connelly?’ Less muffled now, closer to the door, but more annoyed. The door opened and the man in the photograph stood there; he’d put on weight and lost hair but he was unmistakably the same man. His white shirt was open to the waist showing a fleshy, hairy chest, tanned like his face and arms. I held the gun low and Darcy looked from Connelly to me, puzzled.
‘Couldn’t you handle it?’
‘He’s got a shooter,’ Connelly said.
‘And this.’ I held up my licence. ‘And this.’ I put the licence away and pulled out the photographs. ‘Tell Connelly here to go and find his keys and clean up the broken glass on the stairs. We have to talk.’
A woman appeared in the doorway behind Darcy. She was buttoning her blouse and straightening her tight skirt. Darcy saw my eyes flick to her but he could also see the gun now.
‘Go on, Kenny; I’ll deal with it.’ Connelly turned and limped away; there was blood all over the seat of his trousers. Darcy looked amused.
‘Sorry if I caught you at a bad time,’ I said.
‘Hardy, eh? I’ve heard of you.’ He ran his hand over his thinning blonde hair, did up a button on his shirt and then patted his crotch. ‘My fly’s still done up, isn’t it? Could’ve been worse. Come in, Hardy. Come in.’
9
I didn’t exactly back Darcy into his own residence at the point of a gun, but I didn’t treat him like my long lost brother either. What we were doing reminded me of an army training exercise-semi-serious. He retreated along the passage and I advanced. The woman circled around in the room we were headed for.
‘The gun’s a bit over the top,’ Darcy said. ‘You just had to ask.’
‘I asked downstairs. Your staff’s too busy serving watered drinks to be helpful.’
He smiled at that; he seemed to like smiling. ‘What’s this about?’
We were in a big living room now-white carpet, black leather armchairs and couch, glass and chrome bar and other fittings suggestive of the good, idle life. Outside the window the lights of Kings Cross became the lights of Elizabeth Bay and then became the lights of the yacht club and the marina and the boats at anchor. Darcy had done up a couple more buttons on his shirt, had pulled his stomach in and was over at the bar now making drinks. The woman stood beside him; she was tall and thin like a fashion model and with an appropriate lack of expression on her face. She’d got her blouse and skirt straight: she had short, bobbed blonde hair that hadn’t become disturbed by whatever it was I’d interrupted. So she looked fine and that seemed to give her nothing else to do.
‘Oh, Jackie,’ Darcy said, ‘this is Cliff Hardy. He’s a private eye.’
She took her drink and didn’t say anything. Darcy chuckled. ‘You won’t get much out of Jackie. I’ve never been able to decide whether it’s because she hasn’t got anything to say or because she thinks talking’ll put lines on her face. Have a drink, full measure, and put that bloody gun away.’
I put the gun in my pocket and took out the photograph. I let Darcy put the drink on a table beside one of the armchairs. I hadn’t had a full view of him while he made it and I’ve seen The Maltese Falcon three times. Ever since Gutman drugged Spade I’ve watched how the drinks are made. I put the photograph on the back of the couch beside a woman’s silk-lined trench coat that was thrown across it. Half-covered by the coat was a leather shoulder bag with a nameplate reading ‘Jackie George’ on it. ‘That’s you in this picture, isn’t it?’ I said.
He had to take a few steps to look. He bent over, didn’t touch it. ‘Looks like it. So what?’
‘Know the woman?’
