‘Don’t be so hasty, Ian. Chalky’d like to know, wouldn’t you?’
‘That’s right,’ Teacher growled. ‘But there’s no need to ask him nicely.’
‘There’ll be none of that here,’ Wilton snapped. ‘How about it, Hardy? Want to chat?’
‘I might,’ I said. ‘But I’d need to get something in return. I’m having trouble believing this is about divorces and knighthoods.’
‘I feel like a drink,’ Wilton said, ‘especially if we’re going to be talking.’ He nudged the man who’d put his elbow into my face. ‘Slip inside, Mario, and get out a few bottles and glasses.’
Mario moved to obey.
‘Henry,’ Gallagher said. ‘Stop pissing around.’
Wilton said, ‘Contained, wasn’t that your word? No-one’s expecting him or you, are they?’
‘No.’
‘Relax, then. Have a drink. You’ve done a good job. You deserve it.’
Like a lot of people, so I understand, I’ve dreamed that I was about to be executed. This was something like those dreams-slow moving, terrifying, but with a kind of civilised veneer and with a feeling that the moment would be long delayed and maybe never reached- Teacher kept a very close eye on me and my. 38 rested very comfortably in his capable right hand. His boxing career didn’t seem to have done him any harm. He might have moved up a weight division, but he still looked very fit. His eyes were steady like the rest of him-neat, economical movements, no tics. No bravado either. Wilton was clearly the boss, but I had a sense that Teacher would go freelance if it suited him.
Mario arrived with several chilled bottles of Reschs Pilsener, a collection of frosted glasses and one paper cup on a tray which he put down on the table. A tall tree growing near the patio was casting some welcome shade by this time, I was sweating. I didn’t sweat in my execution dream as far as I could remember. This was fear. Gallagher looked anxious. Wilton was relaxed until he took stock of the drinks. ‘What’re you doing, Mario?’ he said. ‘Go and get a bitter lemon for Chalky. Right, Chalky?’
Teacher nodded. A man of action, Chalky, like Mario. Neither of them entirely happy with things, like Gallagher, but I couldn’t see myself recruiting them as allies. The only happy member of the party, now that he was about to get a drink in his hand and everyone was doing his bidding, was Henry Wilton. Mario poured the drinks. I accepted my paper cup and sipped cautiously. It would have been easy for Mario to have slipped something into the cup and icy cold beer will conceal most tastes. But why should they bother? I never heard of truth serum in tablet form and if they wanted to subdue me they had Chalky, willing and able.
Wilton drained his glass and signalled for Mario to refill it. Gallagher smoked moodily and drank slowly. Teacher took his soft drink straight from the bottle. A tough guy’s tough guy. Mario poured half a glass for himself, took a sip and lost interest. It was hard to guess what Mario would really be interested in-maybe a Gucci shotgun.
‘Well, now,’ Wilton said. ‘Ian here says he thinks you’re pretty smart, Hardy. Are you smart enough to talk yourself out of trouble?’
‘I don’t feel very smart just now,’ I said. ‘But you’re a good talker and I’m a good listener.’
Wilton worked on his second beer for a while. He traced patterns on the table top with the moisture from his glass and appeared to be trying to make a decision. Eventually he erased the doodling. ‘OK. You might even be useful. The gongs are important. These silvertails want them more than they want to fuck and if the state and federal governments change, that’ll be the end of the game around here. The price has never been higher and there’s a lot of characters getting in for their chop. Redding’s not the only politician and there’s a judge who’d eat his wig to be a sir.’
‘I can’t see that a few divorces would matter much,’ I said. I shot a look at Gallagher, who was half turned away, staring towards the visible sliver of ocean. ‘But I suppose there’s time and money involved, and when someone pulls out, like Meadowbank did…’
‘That’s right. And the blokes panting for the nod get impatient. And Bob Askin and his mates can up the ante. Sorry, didn’t mean to mention any names.’
‘Shit, Henry,’ Gallagher said.
Wilton wiped foam from his mouth. ‘Shut your face. We want something from this man.’
‘You won’t get it,’ Gallagher said.
‘We’ll see.’
Mario yawned and Wilton gave him a dirty look. ‘You know what discretion statements are, don’t you, Hardy?’
I did, courtesy of my one, less than wholly successful, year of law studies-statements lodged with the court by divorce petitioners, suing on the grounds of their partners’ transgressions, giving details of their own misdoings. It was a requirement of the crazy, out-dated divorce law, particularly if the ‘innocent’ party was seeking custody of children. Mostly, these statements went unread by anyone, but sometimes a judge who smelled a rat or disliked one of the parties would take a discretion statement into consideration. ‘I know about them,’ I said.
Wilton lifted his glass in a sort of toast. ‘How many women have you fucked since you were married?’
I didn’t answer.
‘Be quite a few in my case and some names I wouldn’t want known. Do you get my drift?’
‘Blackmail. You’ve got hold of some discretion statements…’
‘A stack of ‘em.’
‘That sounds like real money.’
‘Believe me, it is.’
‘And some people got greedy, like Juliet Farquhar?’
Wilton shook his head. ‘Silly girl. She was very cooperative and very useful for a time, working from Andrew Perkins’ office. She helped with the documentation, you might say.’
‘She sicked Chalky onto me, too.’
‘She didn’t know what she was doing,’ Wilton said. ‘When she put a few things together she wasn’t so cooperative and…’ He spread his hands. He wore a broad gold wedding ring. His hands were well cared-for and very clean.
I held out my paper cup in Mario’s direction but he ignored me. ‘Who performed that little service?’
I caught a twitch from Mario.
‘Which brings us to Virginia Shaw,’ I said.
‘That bitch! She just threw you in it, mate. She knew the score. Whose name’s in half those discretion statements, d’you reckon?’
‘What was the problem?’
‘Gave her a grip, didn’t it? Now you’re really talking greedy. We’d like you to help us with her whereabouts.’
I shook my head.
Gallagher slammed his empty glass down on the table. ‘That’s enough, Henry! I helped you set up this fucking thing, steered you through it. Now I’m saying that’s enough running off at the mouth to this joker. Ask him the question.’
Henry Wilton wasn’t a stupid man. He knew when he’d had his own way long enough and how to give ground graciously. ‘I think you’re right, Ian. Our cards are on the table, Hardy. Who gave you Chalky’s name?’
No-one was pretending to be polite any more and negotiation wasn’t in the air. Wilton had enjoyed telling his story but it hadn’t given me any room to manoeuvre. Perhaps more had come out than he’d intended. The upshot was that I was transformed from a captive audience into something disposable and we both knew it.
I took out the makings and rolled a cigarette. ‘I think it was Bob Askin,’ I said, ‘but it might have been Tiny Tim.’
Chalky Teacher hit me high and low, very hard. I didn’t see either of the punches coming and after they landed I didn’t see or hear anything at all.
20
