worked this out we were in the car park with no-one paying us any attention. Child’s play for this guy to cut me down and roll me under a car. I kept walking, following Hindle and the others towards his BMW.
I was thinking fast but not coming up with anything useful. The two men with Hindle were small, compact types, neatly dressed in suits and wearing dark glasses. Hindle handed over his keys and was bundled into the back of the BMW, one of the men sliding in beside him. The other beckoned me forward. I moved towards the car. The beckoning became an impatient wave and I stooped more than was needed to get into the car. I knew I’d put some distance between myself and the man with the blade and I had room to manoeuvre with the other guy. I was set to spin and start hitting when the car park roof fell in on me.
Things were very blurry after that. I was aware of movement and voices but of only one visual image-a shot of Hindle’s terrified face, drained of colour, running with sweat and with the jowls flapping as he shook his head.
The next thing I knew I was stationary and stretched out on my back behind a bush. I felt a leaf fall on my face and I twitched away from it. My ears were ringing and when I opened my eyes the light made me shut them straight off. It felt as if I’d run into a wall.
After a while I pulled myself together and managed to sit up. The motivation was water- my throat was lined with bark and coughing detached bits of it and sent them scraping down my gullet. I stared, blinked and stared again. I was under a tree that grew beside a hole filled with sand. Beyond the hole I could see something smooth and green with a stick in the middle of it. I’ve woken up in some strange places, but behind bushes at the fifteenth green at Kogarah Golf Course has to be one of the strangest.
There were no players in sight. I got to my feet and steadied myself against the tree. A water bubbler was only a few metres away but it took time to get the confidence to make a try for it. I got there, rubbery-legged and sweating. The water was good for every part of me. I gulped it down, swilled it and spat, splashed it on my face, rubbed it into my hair and washed my hands. When I felt mostly human I checked myself over. It was 3 o’clock-I’d lost almost five hours. Everything else was there-home and office keys, driver’s licence, NRMA, Medicare and credit cards, PEA licence. My. 38 Smith amp; Wesson was still in its holster under my arm. I took off my jacket and unstrapped the holster which was uncomfortable over my sweat-soaked shirt. The movement made me aware of a stiffness and soreness in my left arm. I pushed up my sleeve and saw the puncture mark inside my elbow.
I gave up carrying a wallet years ago, too easy to lose or have lifted. I distribute what money I have around various pockets and I touched them now automatically, not expecting to have been robbed. The right trouser pocket felt fuller than it should have been. I emptied the pocket; in addition to the couple of tens and a five I’d had left after paying for the drinks in the airport bar, I had twelve crisp, new hundred-dollar notes. That’s when I knew for certain that Rex Hindle was dead.
I flagged a cab and went to the office where I cleaned myself up and had a couple of medicinal Scotches. Probably not a good idea on top of whatever dope they’d shot into me, but I was in no mood to care. I sat behind my desk for a minute or two to see if there were any ill effects. All I could feel was the whisky doing me good. I ran through my story in my head and couldn’t see any reason not to tell the truth.
The cops at the Kings Cross station don’t like me particularly but they tolerate me. I put my story on tape over lousy coffee with Detective Senior Sergeant Kev Ingham who heard me out, disapproval written all over his craggy face. I even mentioned the twelve hundred dollars.
‘Shit, Hardy,’ he said as he pressed the OFF button. ‘That’s one of the vaguest fuckin’ statements I’ve ever heard. The only person you’ve been able to describe is the woman.’
‘They doped me. Want to see the needle mark?’
‘No, thanks. But it’s a point. You’d better get down to St Vinnie’s and get a blood test. I’ll give you a chit. That might protect your arse a bit.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘You’re supposed to make a contract with your clients, right? Remember the fucking law? I didn’t hear you mention a contract.’
I downed the dregs of the coffee and wished I hadn’t. ‘I haven’t been at my best.’
‘So we’ve seen, and heard. Your licence is shaky, mate. Get to the hospital and go home. You’ll be hearing from us, or someone.’
I got up, feeling capable of making it to the door, just. ‘Meaning?’
‘I ran your Mr Hindle through the computer before you started burbling. He’s known to the authorities, as they say.’
No trace was ever found of Rex Hindle or his BMW, or of the men and the woman who’d dealt with us at the airport. I was found to have a high level of some barbiturate in my blood and to have suffered a minor concussion. A committee that sat periodically to review complaints against PEAs censured me for failing to observe contractual procedures but, in view of my relatively clean record, my licence wasn’t withdrawn. I cleaned up my act, knuckled down to some routine jobs and saw them through. I cut down on the grog and got back into playing tennis at the courts in John Street where Lew Hoad had blossomed.
A month later I got a visit from a Commonwealth policeman named Wilensky. I told him everything all over again and he did a lot of nodding and a little tapping on a notebook computer. He seemed quietly pleased and I asked him why.
‘Rex Hindle was the ugly Australian personified,’ he said. ‘His ferries were floating brothels. He trafficked in young women, young men and drugs. He was slime, Mr Hardy. Your failure to protect him has left the world a better place.’
Which didn’t make me feel better about myself. I also felt bad about losing Glen Withers and the cat, but I felt okay about the twelve hundred dollars.
TV
‘I’ve come to you, Mr Hardy, because I believe you are the only private enquiry agent who lives in Glebe.’
Not the most ringing endorsement, but at least a change from the dreary summons-serving and money- minding I’d been doing recently. The characters who hire you for those jobs are only concerned about your rates and availability, they don’t care if you live in a bus shelter. The person sitting across the desk from me in my office in Darlinghurst was a bit of a change too. She was tall and wide-shouldered but thin. Her face was long, heavily but expertly made up and her hands were large. Her voice was pleasant, a bit over-precise and deep. I had my suspicions.
‘I do live in Glebe, Ms Cato,’ I said. ‘But I don’t advertise the fact.’
‘Oh, word gets around.’ She shifted in the uncomfortable chair. She wore a high-necked white silk blouse with a ruffle down the front, long sleeves. Her black skirt was tight and above the knee. ‘This job requires local knowledge and an… affection for the area. Would you say you qualify?’
‘I would. Do you live in Glebe yourself?’
‘Yes.’ She named the street, not far from mine. Naming streets doesn’t tell you a lot about a Glebe resident. Ms Cato could live in triple-storey sandstone mansion or a weatherboard cottage not much bigger than the room we were sitting in. Until she fished her chequebook out of her shoulder bag and started writing, there was no way to tell her economic status. She crossed her legs. Good legs. Dark-tinted stockings. Medium heels.
‘Perhaps you could tell me about this job for a local boy?’
She smiled. ‘Isn’t it odd how we throw these words around-boy, girl, lady, gentleman. You’re many, many years past being a boy and, as I suspect you’re beginning to realise, I’m not a woman. Would it trouble you, working for a transvestite?’
The smile helped the effect. Great teeth. Working in the Cross I’d known a number of transvestites in my time, also transsexuals at reputedly different stages of transformation above and below. Some were stupid and
