the country. Did you know that?’
‘Doesn’t surprise me. How does it look for Riley?’
We were in a pub in William Street, surrounded by New Zealanders who were having a celebration-half of them were dark-skinned with crinkly hair and broad noses, so it couldn’t have been for winning the Maori land wars. They whooped and hollered and I had to lean close to hear what Parker said.
‘Prosecutor’s having trouble finding the right charge. They might get him on tax.’
‘Tax? Shit! The bastard masterminded armed hold-ups. A man was killed.’
Parker shrugged. ‘He’s got lawyers with more letters after their names than it takes to spell yours.’
‘They’ll find a scapegoat.’
Parker sighed. ‘Maybe.’
‘He’s got cops in his pocket, Frank.’
‘Probably. All that’s changing, Cliff. But it takes time.’
I drank some beer and didn’t say any of the things that were on my mind. It wasn’t Parker’s fault that the police force was corrupt. He had run up against it himself a few years back and had nearly been steamrolled. And he was right; it was changing slowly, very slowly, imperceptibly even. It wasn’t my fault that Barnes Todd had deceived everybody, and who was I to go around shattering illusions? I thought about Bob Mulholland and Felicia and the way we construct things to suit us.
Parker and I drank and chatted about this and that-Hilde and his son, his prospects for promotion, my move to Bondi.
‘You’ll never do it,’ Parker said. ‘No, you might. If there’s a woman in the picture. Is there?’
I said I didn’t know, which was the truth. I hadn’t seen Felicia since I’d followed her to Redfern. Since then, all communication had been through Michael Hickie. Frank and I finished our drinks and left the pub as the Enzedders were going into a haka. We agreed to play tennis sometime soon. I walked up William Street towards the Cross. The days were starting out bright, warming up briefly and then getting cool, the way it happens in March. A bus belched diesel fumes over me and I coughed and spluttered all the rest of the way to Darlinghurst.
Riley had been right about the election result- it had been out with the old and in with the new, with a vengeance. Maybe it was time to join the politicians, who would be selling houses in electorates they no longer represented and moving out of offices they no longer needed. When I had left an hour or so earlier, I was seriously contemplating the move to Bondi. My office was a wreck and I had moved into an empty one down the hall without asking anyone’s permission. I quite liked it; it had a better view. But it felt very temporary. Turning into St Peter’s Lane, I was surprised to see scaffolding being erected around the building and extension ladders in place. A gang of men in painter’s overalls were unloading their gear from a van.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked one of them.
‘Bit of a paint job, mate.’
‘I heard they were going to tear the place down.’
He scratched his head and squinted up at the building. It was solid but undistinguished, no candidate for a National Trust order. ‘It’s happening all over the place,’ he said. ‘They’ve done their dough on the stock market and have to hang on to what they’ve got. It’s work for us, we’re not complaining.’
‘What colour’s it going to be?’
‘Cream with brown trim.’
‘Very nice.’
Inside the building were men working on the stairs and wiring. They told me the same story- repairs, not refitting. It was all very comforting. I went up to my new office, shifted the furniture around and stuck a clean card onto the door with a new drawing pin.
Two nights later I met Felicia Todd and Michael Hickie, by appointment, in a Glebe restaurant called the Melting Pot. It’s the sort of place where you have to beat a path through thick fernery and politeness, but the food’s good. I arrived first and was halfway through a light beer when they joined me. Felicia had done something different with her hair and was wearing very high heels and an elegant blouse and skirt. Hickie’s suit was new- looking and his shirt was very white. I felt down-at-heel in my cord jacket and faded denim shirt. I had trimmed my beard, though, and I thought it gave me an international look.
‘Hello, hello,’ I said. ‘Push a few fronds off and sit down.’
They sat, and the drink waiter rushed up to take Felicia’s order for dry sherry and Hickie’s for a martini. I drained my beer and asked for another. The waiter reached for my glass but I held onto it. ‘Bring the can,’ I said. ‘I like this glass.’
We looked at the menu while we waited for the drinks. When they came my beer was in a fresh glass, and the waiter deftly removed the old one.
‘Waiter-one, customer-nil,’ I said.
Hickie took an envelope from his breast pocket and passed it across. ‘Ten thousand dollars,’ he said. The envelope looked small in his big hand; the smart tailoring didn’t conceal the strength in his shoulders, and there was a new confidence in his voice.
‘Thanks,’ I said. Now that O’Fear was dead it was all mine. I could buy some tax-protected bonds, or go to Europe for a month, or get my bathroom fixed.
‘You don’t look too happy,’ Hickie said.
I drank some beer. ‘Did you do what I asked you?’
I had given Hickie a list of the dates of some of the biggest armed hold-ups over the past two years and asked him to try to relate these to developments within the Athena organisation- hiring, equipment buying, expansions. He sipped his martini and looked around. His expression was relaxed. When his eye fell on Felicia’s firm neck and square shoulders, flattered by her silk blouse, he smiled appreciatively. ‘I had a shot at it. It was a pretty tall order, but I made some calls and did the best I could.’
‘And?’ I said.
‘You could be right. They seem to have had surges of cash flow. Riley owns forty-nine per cent, by the way.’
‘Does Eleni Marinos own the rest?’
Hickie shot an uneasy glance at Felicia, who still hadn’t said a word other than to order her drink. ‘Maybe. It’s hard to say. She’s a mystery woman.’
Felicia closed her menu with a snap. ‘Who cares? Everybody involved in security’s a crook, it’s well known. Michael’s going to run Barnes Enterprises, but there’s not going to be a security division, is there, Michael? Marinos and Riley can steal as much as they like. Who cares?’
‘What are you going to do, Fel?’ I said.
She stared at me, defying me to offer a syllable or gesture of contradiction. ‘I’m going to organise Barnes’ exhibition. I’m going to write the catalogue. I’m going to set up and administer an artist’s scholarship with some of the money.’
Hickie nodded and finished his drink.
‘Then what?’ I said.
She picked up her sherry and took a sip. She was carefully made up and was very close to being beautiful. But there was something wrong with her, some deeper level of disturbance I couldn’t fathom. ‘The police came to my house and got those horrible things you left there.’ she said slowly.
‘I would’ve warned you, but I thought you were in Redfern.’
‘Doesn’t matter. They must’ve thought I had something to do with it, because one of them said he’d keep me out of trouble if I’d fuck him.’
Hickie put his hand over hers.
‘I mentioned your name and he laughed. He left me alone, but he said he hoped I was fucking you good because you were on borrowed time.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I really am. That must’ve been terrible for you, but it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just dumb, macho cop talk.’
Hickie put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Felicia and I are getting married,’ he said.
