checked my watch. The others would be arriving in a cluster soon. Sure enough, the green Honda came into view. The biker pulled off his helmet. He wore a black balaclava. He reached into his pocket and took out a cylindrical object I recognised as a paint spray can. Any private enquiry agent knows that there is a fine line between assault and legitimate defence. The spray can and the balaclava were triggers. I jumped out of my car as the Honda stopped and the two guests alighted. I caught a glimpse of them as I moved forward-loose sleeves, long skirts, spike heels, silk scarves.
The biker pointed the can and began to shout. I caught the shrill tones, the hysterical high pitch.
‘Fucking perverts! Fucking poofters! Dirty, bum-fucking…’
The guests stopped, bottles in hand, skirts swirling, suddenly unbalanced and vulnerable on their high heels. I jumped at him as he thrust the can forward. He saw me at the last minute but shot a spray out at the nearest target-a beige silk blouse. I chopped down on the arm and the can went flying into the road. The biker was floundering and I was set, steady. I threw a short left into his ribs that drove the breath from him and clipped him with a right as his head came up, exposing his chin. I connected, not quite solidly, but he went down in a heap as if I had a punch like Mike Tyson. The guest who’d been sprayed let go with a full-bodied masculine yell.
‘Shut up,’ I snarled. Shouldn’t have gone down like that, I was thinking. Something’s wrong here.
Ms Cato and the first arrival came running down the path, heels clattering on the cement. They and the others bent over me as I unzipped the leather jacket and removed the balaclava from the stunned biker. Long, grey-streaked hair fell free and her breasts rose under the T-shirt as she sucked in air. Flesh bulged at her waist and a trickle of blood ran down from her mouth to the soft folds of her double chin.
‘My god,’ Ms Cato said. ‘It’s Brenda. My wife!’
I’d never hit a woman before and I felt sick to my stomach. ‘You told me
‘I didn’t know! I swear I didn’t know!’
Treasure Trove
‘What you need is a lawyer, Bert,’ I said, ‘not a detective.’
Bert Russell shook his big bald head and grinned. ‘No fear, I read up on this sort of thing a bit. I need an investigation to see how the land lies. Then, and only then, I make an anonymous phone call or I hire a lawyer. Shit, if it all works out well I might need a couple of bloody lawyers.’
His enthusiasm and good humour were infectious.
‘And an accountant.’
‘Too right.’
Bert was the manager and part-owner of a liquor store in Glebe Point Road and over the years I had put a certain amount of business his way. He’d tried to get me to invest in good wine and, failing that, to drink it. No go. I was a weekly specials buyer at best, and not averse to the better brands in a cask. We’d struck up a kind of bantering friendship and when, after getting a good cheque, I occasionally did buy an expensive bottle his recommendation was always sound. Now we were in my place of business, the very pre-loved office I have in Darlinghurst, and he’d told me about what he’d found buried on his land at Dugong Beach on the Central Coast, where he had a weekender- a metal strongbox, wrapped in oilskin, containing 60 kilos of gold bars.
‘That’s well over a million bucks’ worth, Cliff,’ Bert had said. ‘Give or take.’
‘Read up on that too, did you?’
‘I didn’t need to. They give you the price of gold on the radio every day. Haven’t you ever heard it?’
I shook my head. ‘Most days I’d have to say it doesn’t concern me. Come to think of it, it’s never concerned me.’
Bert had gone on to explain how it concerned me now. Along with the gold, the strongbox contained a pistol, a Colt. 45 automatic, and a photograph of a woman. He wanted me to establish, one way or the other, whether he’d be in any trouble if he claimed the money.
‘I don’t know how old it is, or the bloody gun or the picture. If it’s some drug thing, real recent like, I don’t want to know about it. If it’s old, say twenty-five years or more, I’m going to claim it. I’ll pay you your normal rates to look into it, and if I strike it lucky you’re on a percentage.’
‘How much of a percentage?’
‘I’d lose a certain amount to the government and I’ve got Tom and my two girls to think of. How about 5 per cent of what I clear?’
I did the calculation in my head. Geometry, algebra and trigonometry were all a mystery to me at school, but I was sharp enough at arithmetic and this was dead easy. If he kept half himself and came out with 500,000 dollars, I was looking at twenty-five grand. I reached into the top drawer, took out a contract form and filled it in. It was the first contingency fee I’d negotiated and made me feel as if I was moving towards the twenty-first century. Twenty-five thousand dollars would help me nicely along the way. Bert signed and I pointed out to him that he was up for a five hundred dollar retainer fee there and then.
‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I’m in the wrong game.’ He wrote a cheque and handed it over.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a sample with you, or the gun or the snap?’
‘No chance. I put it all right back where I found it. If I go to look for it and it’s gone, stiff shit. My question’s answered.’
‘So only you and I know about it?’
‘Right. I told my boy Tom I was thinking of diving off the point, salvage and that. Do you dive, Cliff?’
‘Snorkel only. When do I come up to take a look?’
‘What about tomorrow, Saturday?’ He looked out of the window and would have seen a clear blue late- afternoon sky if the pane hadn’t been coated with grime on the outside and dusty inside. ‘Bring your togs anyway. Be right for a swim. Do you play golf?’
I was thinking about what I had on hand, nothing that couldn’t be delayed in favour of a trip to the Central Coast on a fine February day. ‘Golf? No, why?’
‘I’m just across the way from the course. Good layout. Never mind. I’ll give you the address. I’m going up later tonight. Come as early as you like. I’m always up at sparrow fart.’
‘How long have you had the place?’
He blinked. ‘It was my wife Jessie’s place. It’d been in her family for a while. Dunno how long.’
Jessie Russell, a plump warm-hearted woman, had died of cancer three years ago. Bert had never recovered from the loss and I had to go quietly at that point.
‘I see. Have you got any papers on it?’
‘Nah. Wasn’t worth anything in those days. No mortgage or that. Jessie’s old mum left it to her and her brother and he died a good while back. We just paid the bloody rates. I suppose it’s worth a bit now, but I couldn’t sell it, like. You know
I didn’t know but I made the noises that suggested I did. He left and I poked around the office cleaning things up to allow for a couple of days absence. My mind was already working on the job. Local council records to trace previous owners of the property, neighbours, real estate agents, maybe. The items in the strongbox were another matter, but it looked as if I could count on a couple of days in the sun. I left the office and drove to the central branch of the Leichhardt library to do some reading up myself-on guns and gold and women’s fashions.
After the library, I stopped by the liquor store, not because I needed grog, but to take another look at Tom, who I assumed would be minding the shop. Tom was a skinny man in his middle twenties with pale hair, eyes and eyebrow, nothing like his burly father in appearance. He was stacking bottles into a fridge when I entered and the bottles rattled loudly when he saw me, but it’s a tricky job and that can happen. Didn’t mean he was nervous, although I could tell he didn’t like me. He was smooth enough with the transaction when I bought a bottle of Houghton’s White Burgundy.
‘Bob Menzies’ favourite drop,’ I said.
‘Whose?’
Tom would’ve been four or five when Pig-iron Bob died so you can’t blame him. Still, they should teach them better at school about the heroes and villains. ‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘How’s your dad?’
