‘You’ve terrified my kids,’ Fran hissed.
‘They’re my kids, too. I’ve got a right to see them.’
‘They’re not your kids.’
‘What?’
‘I said they’re not yours. Thank Christ.’
The sound of a slap, then a choked cry ending in a kind of laugh. Ronnie was standing over Fran, who was slumped onto the couch.
‘You’ve screwed up again, Ronnie. You’d better run. If they catch you they’ll put you away for good.’
‘I’ll kill youse all.’
I heard the booze in the voice; I saw the carving knife. I moved up, gripped the pistol by the barrel and hit him as hard as I could behind the ear with the butt. He jerked half-around; I hit him again and felt his skull crack. He dropped the knife and fell awkwardly with his weight coming down hard on a buckled knee. The ligaments tore like ripped silk.
‘Oh, god,’ Fran said. ‘I thought you’d gone.’
‘Good. That’s what I wanted you to think.’
Then it was cops, cops and more cops, along with an ambulance for Ronnie and paramedics to treat Fran’s bruises and the twisted arm Harriet had suffered when Ronnie had grabbed her. Eventually they all went away and Fran got the kids calmed and into bed. I phoned Frank and put things right there. Fran found a half-full bottle of Johnny Walker red and poured two stiff ones.
‘I owe you an explanation,’ she said.
One of my knuckles was swollen where it had made contact with Ronnie’s head and my arm was slightly jarred. I flexed both and drank some Scotch. ‘I think you do.’
‘I didn’t know whether I wanted him back or not. I hadn’t seen him for a year. Then he started writing these letters… I just wasn’t sure.
‘I thought Paul needed a father. He was showing some signs. Shit, I just wanted to see him again and try to work out if I could take him back.’
‘I was insurance. Just in case he got rough.’
‘Sort of. He used to be crazy jealous. It was one of the worst things. He swore he’d got over it. That he wasn’t like that any more. Well, he was just the same and worse. I loathed him on sight, all that pumped up macho look. But I never dreamed he’d go after the kids. I’m sorry, Cliff.’
I believed her about the kids; about the rest of it I didn’t know. Were they Ronnie’s children? I finished the drink and stood up. ‘Bad Christmas for the kids.’
‘I’ll make it up to them next year.’
Can you? I thought. Maybe.
Meeting at Mascot
I got drunk at Glen Withers’ wedding and I got drunk pretty often after that without needing any excuse. I was late coming into the office more days than not, couldn’t quite manage to return calls and cope with a hangover at the same time, and business began to suffer. I botched a summons-serving or two and that avenue of funds started to dry up. I was irritable, couldn’t be bothered eating properly and lost weight. The cat left and didn’t come back. There were days when I neglected to shower and shave, neglected to eat and the only thing I didn’t neglect to do was find something to drink by mid-morning.
It was getting towards 11 o’clock and I was congratulating myself on not yet having had a drink, wondering if I could last until noon and doubting it, when a man walked into my office. I disliked him on sight which is a sign of the way I was feeling. He was middle-height with a bulging beer gut, a high colour and not much sandy hair brushed across a pink scalp. His flabby face was scraped clean and he’d put on an after-shave that smelled like over-ripe pineapples. He wore a light blue summer suit with a white shirt, no tie, and he’d let the lapels of his shirt creep out a bit as if he really wished he was back in the Seventies when shirts were opened wide over jacket lapels. He had the gold necklace to fit that style.
He took off his sunglasses and stared at me with pale, piggy eyes. ‘Hardy,’ he said. ‘The private detective?’
I remembered that the filing card I use for a nameplate on the door had fallen off and I hadn’t done anything about it. I thought about denying it, saying that Hardy had moved out and that I was the new tenant, but I couldn’t summon the energy. ‘Right,’ I said and left it at that.
His eyes darted around the room. It was Tuesday and I hadn’t been in since Thursday. A layer of dust covered the filing cabinets, battered desk and client’s chair. When spruced up the decor can have a kind of rough charm; today it looked like stuff left over from a garage sale. He slapped the chair with a newspaper he was carrying and sat down. ‘I’m Rex Hindle. I’ve got a job for you.’
Emotions warred in me. As I say, I disliked the look of him. I also disliked the look of myself. I had two days’ growth sprouting, not a pretty sight with all the grey among the black, and I hadn’t been near soap or a comb in a while. Anyone who’d want to hire me in that condition wasn’t likely to be anyone I’d want to work for. On the other hand, among the junk on my desk were several pressing bills and an over-the-limit credit card statement. I couldn’t afford to be choosy, not right off the bat, anyway. Suddenly I wanted the drink badly and I briefly considered telling him to piss off and tapping the cask. Practicality, tinged with caution, won.
‘There are certain kinds of things I don’t do, Mr Hindle. Despite appearances.’
‘Have to admit I’m fuckin’ surprised. I was told you were pretty sharp.’
Now pride took over. I sat up straighter and gave him a keen-eyed look. ‘I’ve been undercover for a while.’ I scratched my chin. ‘This is all a front.’
He nodded. ‘So, you’re busy?’
I shook my head and wished I hadn’t. I needed the drink and three or four Panadols. ‘It’s finished. I’ll be cleaning myself up later. This place too. How can I help you?’
‘You do bodyguarding?’
‘Sometimes. It depends.’
‘I have to go to the airport and meet a couple of guys coming over from the fuckin’ Philippines. They don’t like me and I don’t like them, but we have to talk. I’ve got some businesses there and things need sorting out. We’ll go to the bar, talk and that’s it. But I need to show them I’m not some sucker they can push around.’
It sounded manageable but I wasn’t some sucker either. ‘What sort of businesses?’
‘What?’
‘What sort of business are you in, in the Philippines?’
‘Ferries. I own a couple of ferries. Real fuckin’ money-spinners when everything’s right.’
‘What’s wrong?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m looking to hire you for a couple of hours, Hardy, not tell you the story of my life. Yes or no?’
‘When is this?’
‘Tomorrow morning. Plane gets in at ten.’
‘What sort of business are you in here?’
‘Jesus. I think I’ve come to the wrong place.’
I shrugged, almost happy to be out of it. ‘Suit yourself.’
He half-rose from the chair, then settled back. ‘Fuck it, they tell me you’re good. Taxis. I own a couple of taxis. I even drive myself if one of the lazy bastards doesn’t show up.’
By now my dislike of Mr Hindle was screwed up about as high as dislike could go. I had only one more card to play. ‘Let’s say three hours,’ I said. ‘Four hundred dollars an hour. Half up front, half when we say goodbye.’
He put his sunglasses back on and patted his thin, slicked-over hair. ‘Deal,’ he said.
