at the referee from ringside. The brief account of the fight was highly critical of Quinn and mentioned that his wife, Billie, had attempted to assault the referee after the disqualification was announced. I took a copy of the microfilm frames.
It was four o’clock when I got home to Glebe. I was hungry and thirsty but optimistic. I drank two glasses of wine and ate a slice of fairly old pizza. Then I phoned my lawyer, Cy Sackville.
‘You’re lucky to catch me,’ Cy said. ‘I’m going to Byron Bay for Christmas.’
‘Good on you. Would you have a contact in New York who’d be able to look up marriage records in New Jersey and locate a certain party?’
‘Of course.’
‘And you’d have a fax machine there in the office, wouldn’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘What about US Treasury records, tax assessments and so on?’
‘Harder but possible. You thinking of moving offshore, Cliff? Thought you were more patriotic than that.’
I laughed dutifully and told him what I wanted. He said ‘Urn’ and ‘Yes’ and told me there’d be someone in his office to handle whatever came in.
‘What’ll it cost?’ I asked.
‘It’s Christmas.’
After that it was a matter of waiting. I went out to Manly the next couple of days and we had some fun on the beach-Shelley, Peter Buck, Tommy, Eddie Tongarira and a Manly reserve grade front rower named Steve. The men up under the pines who watched us looked hot and bothered.
The information from the States came through on Christmas Eve; first I phoned Shelley, then Quinn.
‘Quinn? This is Hardy. We’d like to come to the party tomorrow. Is it still on?’
‘Who’s we?’ Quinn sounded suspicious and a bit drunk.
‘Shelley, Peter Buck, me and Tommy. You should have the thousand you owe me ready.’
His laugh was a raucous, tipsy bellow. ‘That right? You seein’ sense? You’re not such a… what is it? Not such a mug as I took you for. Make it early. Ten o’clock. You say the kid’ll be along? I’ll get a tree.’
I got to the Manly flat a bit before eight. The green car was outside. Everybody had been awake for three hours and the place was a sea of wrapping paper and cardboard boxes. I had a can with Peter and Shelley and the minders and then we set off for Cronulla with the green car following. One of the watchers joined us in the lift and he and Peter Buck eyed each other off as we rode up to Quinn’s penthouse.
Quinn was wearing a pink shirt and white trousers. He’d shaved extra close and done something to his hair. He looked even more like the photograph of Mailer than before.
‘Shelley,’ he boomed. ‘So good to see ya, honey. An’ this must be the boy. How ya doin’, sonny?’ He attempted to kiss Tommy’s cheek but Tommy belched.
‘Cute,’ Quinn said. ‘C’mon in. You can go, Lenny.’ The watcher withdrew and we went into the room that seemed to be half-filled with sun and sea and sky. Pine needles from a huge Christmas tree by the window lay all over the carpet. At least ten wrapped presents were piled up under the tree. Shelley, Peter Buck and Tommy sat on the leather couch. Quinn pulled a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket and clawed off the foil wrapping. His hands were shaking.
‘Let’s have a drink.’
‘Let’s see the money,’ I said.
‘Oh, sure, sure. He reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a wad of notes. ‘Two grand. Bonus. You can’t say Henry Quinn’s cheap.’
I took the money and handed it to Shelley. Neither she nor Buck had said a word. Tommy was sleeping in Peter’s arms.
‘What is this?’ Quinn said.
I took the bottle from him, popped the cork and poured the champagne into four long glasses. I pushed Quinn down into a chair, gave him a glass and carried two to the couch. I took a sip of mine and reached into my pocket. Quinn clutched his glass and stared at me. I spread out the documents on the arm of his chair.
‘This is a photograph of you losing in Melbourne in ‘56. Your wife Billie isn’t happy but you lost just the same. This is a photostat of your marriage certificate. Henry Quinn bachelor, blah, blah, Billie Teresa D’Angelo, spinster, blah, blah, Atlantic
City, New Jersey, May 8, 1955. No divorce ever registered. Billie Quinn, welfare recipient, Century Hotel, Atlantic City, deposes December 23, 1986, that no divorce ever took place on account of both parties were of the Catholic faith. Here is a US Treasury memo to the effect that Henry Xavier Quinn is liable for US taxes of more than one million dollars but, ah, I’m quoting, “action is forestalled due to Quinn’s status as an Australian resident alien”.’ I looked across at the couch. Shelley and Peter Buck touched glasses and drank.
‘Shit,’ Quinn said.
I sipped some of the champagne. ‘Your status here depends on your marriage to Dawn Leonie Simkin in 1958, but that marriage was bigamous which means that you ain’t got no status at all.’
Quinn twitched and spilled champagne; a dark stain appeared on his pink shirt. ‘You bastard,’ he said.
‘How’d you like to be deported, Henry? How’d you like to get into a plea bargaining situation with the US Treasury? I think you’d rather stay here, wouldn’t you? I think you’d rather stay childless but well-heeled and very, very quiet, eh?’
‘Yes,’ Quinn said.
‘Okay. You’ve got a deal.’
Shelley and Peter finished their champagne and stood up. Buck hoisted Tommy on to his shoulder and put his glass down carefully on a polished table, ‘Thanks, Hardy. Come on, Shell.’
‘Call the next one Cliff,’ I said. ‘Hang on, I’m coming with you’. I tapped the documents together and put them in Quinn’s lap. The wetness had spread down over his paunch. ‘These are copies.’ I reached out and patted his smooth-shaved cheek. ‘Merry Christmas, Norman,’ I said.
