“Bad luck,” said the croupier, a small, sleek-haired character starting to look old before he was thirty.
“Have you seen Rhino Jackson lately?”
He inspected the end of his spatula and picked off a piece of fluff. “I didn’t think you were a serious player. Cop?”
“No. Who would I talk to about who comes in here and who doesn’t?”
The croupier grinned. “Not me, that’s for sure. Why don’t you try him?” He jerked his head at Primo.
I wandered away from the table with my drink and thought about that. I had the distinct feeling that talking wasn’t Primo’s long suit and that, if I insisted, he’d roll me down the stairs just to keep his wrist in practice. I was on the point of buying more chips when a party of a dozen or so, including four or five women, came in.
Immediately the place seemed to pick up a glow. The noise level went up, people starting buying drinks and jostling good-naturedly for position at the tables.
I had to queue for my chips. The door opened and Lou Campisi walked in. Lou had been a jockey until he grew too big, then he played League for a while but he proved to be too small: his middle-sized physique had done the dirty on him twice. It might have embittered some men but Lou took it in his stride. He went energetically into SP bookmaking, race-fixing, supplying illegal drugs to football players and scalping finals tickets. Anywhere there was a quick soiled dollar to be made out of racing and football, Lou was on the spot. He was also an associate of Jackson’s. They probably discussed electric saddles and quick counts, ring-ins and tank jobs together. I bought my chips, fifty dollars’ worth this time instead of the previous ten, and moved away quickly so that Campisi wouldn’t see me.
Watching an addicted gambler play is a bit like watching an alcoholic drink. You know they enjoy it up to a point, but that point quickly passes and simple need takes over. Campisi was drinking steadily and losing. He made several trips to the chip desk and his original plunging style gave way to a more cautious approach. All this meant was that he lost more slowly. Towards the end he started to get a bit desperate; he had a winning run at baccarat, but it soon petered out, and I moved in on him when I calculated that the two chips in his hand were his last.
“Hello, Lou,” I said. “How’s tricks?”
He turned his bleary, loser’s eyes on me. “Lousy. Who’re you?”
“You remember me, Lou. Cliff Hardy. I helped to unfix one of your fixes a few years ago.” Three years before, to be precise, when I’d been employed by a horse trainer to find out who was bribing his riders.
“Push off, prick,” Campisi said.
I showed him my stack of chips. “Lose the ones you’ve got there and then come over and see me. These could be yours.”
“I’m winning, cunt.”
“You’ll never win, Lou. You just play. Go ahead, play.”
He placed the chips on the red and lost. I’d moved back to watch him. He went through his pockets, first for chips, then for money. He came up empty. A woman at the roulette wheel gave a shriek as her ball dropped in. Campisi wet his lips and looked around for me. He saw me, hesitated, lit a cigarette and came across.
“You got some kind of a proposition, Hardy?”
I moved across to the wall furthest from Primo, and Campisi followed me. “Yes, there’s something you could help me with, if you’ve a mind to.”
Another squeal from the roulette table where a lot of people had gathered. Campisi glanced across. “Wheel’s running hot.”
“You could get in on it.” I clinked the chips together.
“What do you want?”
“Information. Solid, factual information. The kind that checks out or I come back and point out to you that you made a big mistake.”
“Sure. Sure. You’re tough. What d’you want to know?”
“Where to find Rhino Jackson. Tonight.”
Campisi wet his lips. “I don’t know. I…”
Clink. Clink. “Yes, you do.”
He was tempted but very afraid. The noise in the room had mounted, along with the level of smoke and the fumes of whisky; the women’s perfume was giving the air an extra tang. To addicts such as Lou Campisi it was like the kiss of life. He wanted to go on breathing it, suck it in deeper, but…
He shook his head. “I don’t know where he is.”
The reluctance in his voice told me that he did know and something else-he almost wanted me to force him to tell. I gripped the. 38 in my pocket and lifted it up a few inches so that Campisi could see it. “Feel like knocking this place over with me, Lou? We could do it.”
He turned pale and the hand holding the cigarette for nonchalance shook violently. “Are you crazy? Get away from me!”
I held his arm and kept him from backing off. “Listen, Rhino’s trying to put me out of business. I go up in front of a court next week and I’m history. But it’s just a misunderstanding. We can sort it out.”
He wavered. “I dunno…”
“If this thing goes through and they lift my licence I’m done for. I can’t make a living. I’d just as soon take what they’ve got in here and blow. Leave Sydney. Go north with a big piece of cash.”
“You’re crazy. This place is protected. Look at that big cunt over there. One man couldn’t handle him.”
“Two,” I said.
“No.”
I sniffed and let a wild look come into my eyes. “I’m going to do it and you’re in.”
“No, no! Shit, Hardy. Take your hand outa your pocket. All right, all right. I’ll tell you where Jackson is. Just back down, will you?”
I let him see both hands and began tossing the chips from one to the other. “Yes, Lou?”
“You won’t let on it was me told you?”
“Lou, would I?”
“An’ you’ll give me the chips?”
“You’re doing an awful lot of asking, Lou, and not giving anything.”
“He’s on a houseboat.”
“That’s nice. Where?”
“I don’t know. It moves around.”
“Come on, Lou. You’re playing games. The wheel’s going to go cold on you.”
“Look, all I know is, he’s in partnership with Reg Bailey, who’s an ex-cop, like him. They’ve got this houseboat with all the gambling gear on it-high-class stuff. It moves around. Goes from one, what d’you call it?”
“Mooring?”
“Right. From one mooring to another. What the fuck do I know? From Palm Beach to… anywhere on the fuckin’ harbour. I’ve never been on it. It’s a top-class thing-trainers, owners, politicians, doctors-big money.”
Lou’s association of certain professions with big money would have been of interest to sociologists; for me it gave his statement the ring of truth. But not the ring of helpfulness. I let the chips stay in one hand and closed my fist over them.
“Hardy,” Lou begged, “that’s all I know.”
“Boats have names, Lou. Even houseboats. Give me the name and we’re in business.”
“Fuck you.”
“They wouldn’t register that.”
“The Pavarotti.”
“What?”
“ Pavarotti, Pavarotti, like that. Bailey’s some kind of music nut, I heard. The boat’s named after an opera or somethin’. Hardy…”
I poured the chips into Campisi’s sweaty palm. “Thanks, Lou,” I said. “Big help.”
“Fuck you.”
