away. We could have been dis-cussing a stolen car. She forced a smile and walked away, her firm, disciplined body steady on her high heels. I didn’t think Louise Madden would like her much. I didn’t myself, but Brian Madden had and that was what mattered. My trip to the north shore hadn’t worked out so well-I’d turned over some of the physical and personal residues of Brian Madden’s life, but I didn’t feel that I knew the man at all.
I’d made some notes while I was in Madden’s flat-I had the name of a travel agency he’d used when he’d taken a trip to New Caledonia a few years back, also the name of a Queensland resort he’d stayed at for a week during his summer vacation. The registration number of the Laser was in my pocket along with the names of a solicitor, a doctor and the high roller, Henry Bush. Threads to pull, and I pulled them through the rest of the afternoon. I called at the travel agency and phoned the resort and got what I expected-nothing. Brian Madden had done just the one bit of business with them. From the secretaries to the doctor and solicitor I got appointments. In return for a modest financial consideration, I extracted a promise from a contact in the Department of Motor Transport to make available all recent information on the Laser.
When I rang Henry Bush’s number I got his answering machine: “Hi there! This is Henry Bush. Sorry I can’t talk to you right now, but I will pronto if you’ll leave your name and number after the yodel.” A high, trembling Swiss yodel tickled my eardrums. I was so surprised I hung up without leaving a message. That must happen to a lot of people, I thought, maybe that’s why he does it. Anyway, he didn’t sound like the kind of man to commit murder for ten bucks.
All this took me through to six o’clock and left me in the Crown Hotel in Norton Street, Leichhardt, where you can get a glass of red or white wine for a dollar and the use of a public phone in the bar. I bought my first drink of the day at 6.01 and moved away from the phone. I felt I’d put in a reasonable sort of a day on the Brian Madden case and could now turn my attention to Rhino Jackson. The Crown is right across the straight from one of the gambling places Jackson was reputed to protect. And if he wasn’t there, I had a good chance of finding someone who knew where he was. But I was fairly confident of finding him; Jackson was a gambler as well as a protection-provider, and gamblers are addicted to the atmosphere of gambling. No other kind of air can sustain their life.
As I drank the glass of one-dollar red I reflected that everything I knew about Jackson would be known to the police. But in looking for a missing witness you’re not necessarily in competition with the police-it depends how hard they want to find him, or her. Sometimes they want to very badly and then it’s the SWOS force and the sledgehammers on the doors at dawn; sometimes they don’t and all that happens is that a few questions get asked and a few forms get filled in. Until I learned more from Parker and Sackville, I had no way of knowing how hard the police were trying. With me it’s different — I’m always trying hard, usually for the money and in this case for my skin.
I thought about another glass of wine but settled for a light beer and then went across the street to the Bar Napoli, where I had the wine and a lasagna to blot it up. It being Wednesday night, the place was pretty quiet. I go there often enough to consider myself almost a regular and I saw a few people I’d seen there before, which tells you you’re a regular. But it’s the kind of cafe you feel comfortable in whether you’re a regular or not. The people serving the food and coffee will talk to you if you want or leave you alone-your choice. You can read or look at the nicely framed paintings, drawings and photographs on the walls. These are by people known to the management and are for sale. I once saw a customer buy a painting.
I ate my food slowly and made the wine last. The television was turned to SBS for the news and a sports roundup and then Bruno, the proprietor, turned it off and settled down with cigarettes and a short black to talk to his pals. The TV wouldn’t go on again unless Bruno said so, which meant until there was a soccer match. That was fine with me. I read some stories in the Sydney Review, a give-away tabloid that seems to be subsidised by upmarket wineries and boutiques. I got a few laughs and a few yawns for free. Two dawdled-over coffees took me past eight o’clock, which was still way too early to actually find Rhino Jackson behind a wheel or a poker hand. Before leaving I had a quick word with Bruno and we came to an understanding.
I took a walk around the back streets, making the dogs bark but drawing comradely nods from the other nocturnal strollers.
By 9.15 I’d run out of streets and was sharp and clear-headed. A plane passed over, low down and with landing lights blinking, as I reached into the car and took out the licensed and totally legal Smith amp; Wesson. 38 automatic. As I put the weapon in the pocket of my leather jacket I had the thought that ninety-nine per cent of the people I’d seen and spoken to since I’d arrived in Leichhardt would have disapproved of me carrying it in their suburb. I disapproved myself, more or less, but there was that dangerous one per cent who thought and acted differently. It was still too early to find Jackson playing games, but it wasn’t too early to ask around, politely.
Four doors down from the Bar Napoli is another coffee shop in which very little coffee seems to get drunk. It’s small, crowded with tables, has a big flashy espresso machine and they work hard at creating a busy atmosphere. The TV is always on; La Fiamma and other papers and magazines lie about, and there’s always at least one table with coffee cups and full ashtrays sitting on it. They sit there for a long time. Also sitting for a long time are a succession of men who smoke, watch the TV with one eye and the street with the other. In Australian they’re called ‘cockatoos’; I don’t know what they’re called in Italian.
I went past the Bar Napoli and gave Bruno the sign. Then I walked into the other place and nodded to the man sitting near the door. There were no other customers but there was a guy sitting on a stool behind the bar. He was dark and thin, not more than twenty years old, and he was reading an Italian soft porn magazine with deep concentration. I bought cigarettes I wouldn’t smoke and a cappuccino I wouldn’t drink from him and put two twenty-dollar notes on the counter. He made change for one of the twenties and I pushed it and the other note towards him.
“You know me, don’t you, mate?” I said.
He shook his head.
I pointed at the door. Bruno stood there, all five foot three and fifteen stone of him. He nodded and the man behind the bar scooped up my money. His accent was straight inner-west Sydney. “It’s too early,” he said.
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Who’d that be?”
“Rhino Jackson.”
“Haven’t seen him for a fuckin’ month, the bastard.”
“My sentiments exactly. I’ll go up and watch for a bit.”
He shrugged and went back to his tits and bums. I pushed past a couple of empty tables and went up a set of stairs placed so far back from the light in the room that you couldn’t see them from the street. I made out that I could hardly see to climb them; I hung on to the rail and almost stumbled on the first landing. It occurred to me that it wouldn’t hurt for the porn freak and anyone else to think I was half-drunk or half-blind. No one worries about a blind man; no one presses warning buzzers. I pushed open the door at the top of the stairs and walked into the room where they sold plastic chips and scotch rather than cigarettes and cappuccino.
I’ve been in dozens of such places in my time and, although they all smell the same and share a certain look each one has something distinctive about it. Some look fixed and established, as if they’ve been there since Federation, others look as if everything could be wheeled out the door and the place turned into a carpet display centre inside thirty seconds. This one specialised in European sporting motifs- there were photographs of boxers, cyclists, soccer players and others on the walls. Most of the sportsmen were Italian, but there were some Yugoslavs among the water polo players and some Austrians among the skiers. In a glass case was a soccer ball signed by a couple of dozen people; an unsigned pair of boots was in another case.
There were about twenty people in the room. A six-handed card game was going strong in one corner, and there were three playing and a couple watching at a baccarat table. Two roulette wheels were yet to attract players and another baccarat dealer was giving himself a hand of patience while he awaited customers.
Four men were rolling dice under the eye of a large character who slightly resembled one of the photos on the wall- the one of Primo Camera. His dark, hooded eyes followed me as I moved around the room. I stopped at the bar and bought some chips and a scotch and soda. This seemed to comfort Primo, who went back to concentrating on the rolling dice.
There was a little talk, not much, some drinking and cigar-smoking going on, not much. The place was just warming up, like a car with the motor running but no gears engaged.
I took my chips to a roulette wheel and lost them in fairly rapid order.
