shorter than me. Forehead or temple, depending. Fatal either way.
Oldcastle stepped back inside, turned on the light and went across to a drinks tray that he kept near the fridge. Old-fashioned set-up but nothing wrong with it. He lifted a bottle of Cutty Sark and looked at me enquiringly. I nodded and he poured two solid ones over ice. We sat down well away from the still-open door.
‘Cheers,’ Oldcastle lifted his glass, drank and pointed at the balcony. ‘Trouble is, I couldn’t tell if they were meant to miss and just scare me, or if the shooter wasn’t quite up to it. The light would’ve been tricky at the time.’
I drank. I hadn’t had any Cutty Sark for a long time and it tasted good. The way we were going we’d be Cliff and Marty in no time. ‘Did you report the shooting?’
He shook his head. ‘Didn’t even tell Mick.’
‘Why not?’
He shrugged and knocked back some more whisky. ‘No bloody point. He’d only worry all the more. I was still in my anonymous phase then, anyway, and couldn’t tip my hand.’
‘Any guesses as to who it was?’
I regretted the question as soon as I’d asked it. I didn’t want to know who Oldcastle was naming or anything about them. Not my problem. I wanted to walk right away from this when he’d sung his song and let everything go through official channels after that. If his evidence was as good as he made out, there’d be warrants sworn against his enemies as soon as he stopped talking. So far, Oldcastle had recognised that as my unspoken position, but the memory of the bullets fired at him and the loosening effect of the good Scotch caused him to drop his guard.
‘I bloody know who it was. Lance Christenson. He put four bullets into Murphy and his was the first name Murphy said to me. He was a champion rifle and pistol shot but I’ve heard his eyesight’s not what it was. Had to be him. Another drink?’
He’d loosened his tie, tossed his Scotch off and was clearly inclined towards another. Why not? I thought. Later, I wished I’d gone for a long walk instead. Oldcastle had told the truth when he’d said he didn’t drink much. Two more Cutty Sarks and he was well away. I got names and dates and places and amounts. Trouble was, I was complicit. I suppose I could have stopped the flow, but I was interested-professionally, and like any tabloid paper reader. I knew some of the cops, some of the lawyers and some of the crims and a couple of the women. One of them, Lettie Morrow, I’d known very well indeed, and that presented a serious problem.
Lettie was a beautiful woman with a light brown skin, black hair and slanted eyes. Her ancestry could have been Aboriginal, Polynesian, African or Asian or a mixture of any or all. Lettie didn’t know or care. She’d been abandoned in a taxi hours after being born and had been raised in institutions and foster homes. She was intelligent and athletic, did well at school and stayed out of trouble until she was twenty and had almost finished her nursing course. She met Royce Brown and that was the end of the straight life for Lettie. Brown had been dead for five years when I met Lettie but she had photographs of him and you could see what he had on offer- incredible goods looks, a fine physique and a smile to make their knees knock. He was also a heroin addict and a sociopath.
Lettie stuck with Brown for ten years-most of which he spent in gaol-had a child by him, used smack with him, turned tricks for him, did anything. She was arrested for this and that, served some time. When Brown OD’d she fell apart for a while, then got herself back together, got her nursing qualification and worked as a drug counsellor. We had a brief, intense affair and although I hadn’t treated her well we stayed friends afterwards. We’d lost touch though and Oldcastle said she’d taken up with Lance Christenson and was deeply involved in his operations-providing girls, entertaining contacts, laundering money.
‘What’s he look like, this Christenson?’ I asked.
‘He looks like Errol Flynn, and acts like him.’ That made sense. Lettie had made fun of my battered face, claimed to appreciate ‘pretty’ men and lamented that they were in short supply- at least the kind that liked women. I still had a load of guilt about Lettie. I didn’t exactly blame myself if she’d drifted back under the influence of a handsome bad man, but I felt I owed it to her to find out how deeply she was implicated in Christenson’s activities. The way Oldcastle told it, she’d take a long fall with him when he told all he knew. There was too much that was good and strong in Lettie for me to allow that to happen without at least giving her a warning. Big problem of the semi-professional-conflict of interest.
Doctors and lawyers, clergyman and accountants have pretty clear guidelines for their conduct. Playing on both sides in a conflict is out-the patient, the client, the parishioner gets the full commitment. In this game, it’s rather different. We operate in the gaps between the systems-the media, the law, police, prisons- and we see up close how the systems work in their own interests first and foremost. I’ve always felt that people should come first, especially people I like. I thought about it after Oldcastle had staggered off to bed. If Christenson already knew that Oldcastle was going to bucket him, there couldn’t be any harm in tipping Lettie, who might not know, the wink.
I continued to think about it through the next day which was only three days before Oldcastle was due to give his evidence. That night I turned the body over to two of Pete Marinos’ men to guard. Pete runs a medium- sized agency on professional lines. I’d been using his services when required on the Oldcastle case and this was just an extension of the same. I felt nervous about it though and told the two guys what to do more times than I should have. Oldcastle had been hungover and tetchy in the morning, but by evening he seemed calm and unconcerned about my taking leave of absence.
‘I expect you’ve got a woman to see,’ he said.
‘That’s right, as it happens.’
‘I could never get along with women. I liked them all right but I couldn’t ever tell if they were fair dinkum. Never found one I could trust.’
I couldn’t think of anything to say to that. I left the flat, resisting the temptation to give just another tip or two to Pete’s men, and called the last number I had for Lettie on the car phone.
‘Lettie Morrow.’
‘Lettie, this is Cliff Hardy.’
‘Hello, Cliff. Hell, it’s been a while since I heard from you.’
‘Yeah. I wonder if we could get together for a drink tonight? I’ve got a couple of things to talk over with you.’
‘Sure. I’m not doing anything tonight. Bit knackered to tell the truth. Why don’t you get a bottle of that white wine you like, what is it again? Some bloody bird?’
‘Cockatoo Ridge.’
‘That’s it. Get a bottle and come over. You remember where I am.’
I did, a small semi in Elizabeth Bay or Woolloomooloo, depending on how you thought of it. For Lettie it was the Loo, always. I don’t know what made me resist the invitation: the sexual connection between us had been very strong but I didn’t need that complication just now. In public was safer.
‘No fear. My earning curve is up just now.’
She laughed. She had a great laugh and I almost reneged. ‘You can say the words, Cliff, but that don’t make it true.’
‘C’mon, Lettie. This isn’t on the cheap. Why don’t you throw on something flash and meet me at the Berlin Bar in an hour.’
‘Now that is a serious offer. Why not? Sure, see you there, Cliff.’
The Berlin Bar was in Elizabeth Bay. Lettie could walk there in her five-inch heels. I knew she loved the place because it catered to her sense of the dramatic. She might arrive in a dinner suit and top hat, a la Dietrich, or in almost nothing, a la Madonna. No way to tell. What I did know was that her favourite drink-champagne with a shot of cognac-would cost a bomb. I was wearing a suit-as I’d taken to doing because it saves thinking about what to wear-so I was dressed okay for the Berlin. What I didn’t have was nearly enough money in my wallet. My first port of call was an autobank.
The Berlin Bar was at street level and brightly lit for the first third of its depth so people could be seen and admired from the street. I parked as close as I could get and under a light. It was still fairly early; the place wasn’t crowded and I got a table near the front with a good view of the street, the door, the bar and anything else you
