Frank rubbed his chin and the hard, day-old bristles rasped like Scotchbrite. “I’m sorry. All the crap I’m processing these days leaves me wondering if there’s an honest man left in the world.”
“Apart from yourself.”
Frank took another drink and stared up over my shoulder at the TV set, which showed film of some uniformed men using batons and fire hoses on young people wearing jeans and T-shirts. The street where this was happening looked hot and dusty; it could have been any-where. “You know how they send the apprentice jockey for the left-handed whip, that sort of thing?”
I nodded.
“When I made it to plain clothes they put me in Vice. First job was go around the brothels picking up the take. Do it right and get a good mark. Don’t do it right and your papers get marked ‘not suitable for plain clothes’ and you can look forward to ten years in Woop Woop. Of course, once you’ve done it the sergeant’s got some- thing on you, just as the senior sergeant’s got something on him and so on up.”
“Nice. How did you handle that?”
“I found out what the senior had on the sergeant and used it against him to avoid the job. My papers got marked ‘not suited to this squad’ and I went over to Homicide.”
“They didn’t get you to kill anyone?”
Frank grinned. “I was lucky I wasn’t sent to armed holdup.”
“This is fun, Frank,” I said, “shooting the breeze. D’you want to talk about Hilde and my namesake next?” Hilde Stoner was a former tenant of mine who’d married Parker a few years back; they had a son named after me.
“No. Let’s get back to it. The witness hasn’t got a name. She’s in a witness protection programme.”
I looked at a clutch of men drinking at the bar-rebels who’d ignored the step back order. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“All I can tell you now is that the witness is a woman. She made a very brief appearance in court during Lenko’s first trial. I’m told she wore a wig and dark glasses-her own mother wouldn’t have known her. Since then she’s gone into witness protection, as I say.”
“Why?”
“You haven’t been keeping up, Cliff. A witness didn’t show up and couple of jurors were suborned, or attempts were made to suborn them. Threats, you know. So, mistrial, and Lenko goes up again in a couple of weeks.”
“Who didn’t show?”
“Rhino Jackson.”
“Shit. Are you telling me you can’t find out who this witness is?”
“No. I can find out, given time. But I’d be putting my job on the line if I told you. And I’m sure Sackville’d advise you not to see her. There’s probably been an injunction issued to that effect anyway.”
“Great. So I can’t even know who’s trying to put me out of business. Christ, Frank, this could lead to a conspiracy charge or something, couldn’t it?”
“I said I’d help you. I…”
I took a drink of the light beer, wishing it was whisky. “No. I’m not going to ask you to risk your job for me. You’ve got responsibilities. I haven’t. I’ll handle it somehow. You’re right, I should’ve called Sackville the minute I got the letter. He must be able to throw a few punches for me.”
“That’s right. If he runs into trouble tell him to call me. I’ll do everything I can.”
I thanked him and we drank the rest of our beer. We did get around to talking a little about Hilde and the kid. I agreed to go out to Harbord and see them, and Frank agreed to play tennis soon. We both had our fingers crossed behind our backs. Frank told a few halfway funny stories about the politicians he came into contact with in his new job, and I told him about the client who’d hired me to guard his dog. It was a valuable dog.
The noise in the bar was mounting as the booze took effect. An argument was developing along from us-the voices were getting louder and every second word was “fuck”. The cigarette fug builds up more slowly now that people have come to believe that smoking kills you, but it still builds. My eyes started to water and Frank looked at his watch. He stood, took out his paper, rolled it and tapped it against his open palm like a cop with a baton. His grin was pretty low-voltage.
“You never answered my question, Cliff.”
“What was that?”
“When did you last see Rhino Jackson?” I was carrying my big manila envelope with the police documents and pamphlets inside. I held my paper shield up against his paper weapon. “Hell, Frank,” I said. “You know I charge twenty thousand to set up a hit. And it’s not easy-who can protect that sort of money from the tax man these days?”
I didn’t want to go home. The house is empty apart from the cat, and I don’t even have Harry Soames next door to gripe about and with. I’m in number 57; Soames sold out in 59 to a developer and the owners of 61 and 63 did the same. The word in the street is that a townhouse project is on the way, but the word doesn’t explain why I haven’t even been made an offer. I’d refuse it like I’d refuse the Order of Australia-but I wouldn’t object to the offer. The cat would probably prefer to live in a townhouse.
I drove to St Peter’s Lane and parked in a place where my resident’s sticker allowed me to stay as long as I liked. It had taken several visits to the South Sydney Council office, one to the Department of Motor Transport, two statutory declarations and ten bucks to get the sticker so I made as much use of it as I could. The area is changing, gentrifying fast. Primo Tomasetti’s tattooing parlour has gone, along with the slab of concrete he used to rent me as a parking space. Blocked-off streets are making the place like a maze. I sometimes get the feeling that you can only find your way around in a BMW.
A wind had sprung up and the mild day had turned into a cold evening. The cold made me hungry. I bought a pizza in William Street and headed for my office- a smoke-free zone with weird but gentle neighbours like the painless depilator and the new iridologist-they wouldn’t budge for developers without a fight. There was also the bottle of red in the filing cabinet to add to the allure. The threatened renovation of my building never happened- saved by the stock market crash. The lane has pretty much avoided gentrification; it still features more plastic garbage bags than native plants, and the occasional paint jobs the buildings get aren’t modish. It’s the church that saves us; if the God business goes any further downhill we could be in big trouble.
One change we’ve had to endure is the installation of a lock on the street-level door. I keep my key to it wedged in a crevice of the church’s sandstone wall on the other side of the lane. I keep a spare key to the office door under the lino on the stairs-a bit like in Dial M for Murder. You won’t catch me locked out of building, office and drinks cabinet on a cold Tuesday night.
I got the key out of the wall and had to juggle the pizza and my manila envelope of volunteered information to use it. I ended by wedging the envelope between my knees, balancing the pizza box on my head and working the stiff key one-handed.
He came out of the shadows where there is a recess between my building and the next, and he was quiet and fast. I just caught a glimpse of him and swayed away a little from the thing in his hand that was swishing through the air. It struck hard but the pizza saved me; it took a lot of weight out of the blow, although I felt it down to my toes and the shutters almost came up. I yelled and sagged back against the door. I felt a hand grabbing at me as if the assault was sexual but I realised he was reaching for the envelope between my legs. I hunched over and attempted to butt him somewhere, anywhere. I connected and felt the wind rush out of him. It hurt me too, forcing me to shut my eyes and gasp. I tried to yell again, but my windpipe felt twisted and no sound came out.
I was going down, a perfect target for a boot, when a shout came from above and across the lane
“Hey! What’s going on there?” The voice was coming from the church. Could it be the Almighty? I tried another yell but managed only a choked growl. Shout and growl were enough for my attacker. He stopped groping at me and ran off down the lane, stumbling a bit but with a lot more get up and go in him than I had in me.
4
