‘She’s got a Polaroid of the cop. Not good, but good enough.’
I sat quietly and thought it over. Montefiore went out of the room and he seemed to be moving more easily all of a sudden. Hope’ll do that to you, I guess. But it could’ve been something else. He came back with two mugs.
‘Instant coffee. No milk. Best I can do. What’re you thinking about, Hardy?’
‘One of the things I’m thinking is about how everyone I meet in this bloody thing seems to be lying to me. My client told me none of Master’s associates spoke French. You do. Rosito told me Rivages didn’t speak English; he does. He also told me Penny was trying to sell his boat. He says he won’t. See what I mean?’
‘About the languages, everyone does that here-pretends not to speak or understand. It can give you an edge. Hey, there’s a guy on the local TV, speaks good English. He asked the station to pay for some language training. They wouldn’t. So now he won’t talk a word of English. Uses an interpreter on the program, costs the station dough, and everyone knows he understands just about every word that’s said to him in English. See?’
I sipped some of the coffee. For black instant it wasn’t bad. French Nescafe? ‘What about you, Montefiore? You’re lying about something. I know you are but I just can’t put my finger on it.’
It was his turn to drink coffee and ponder. He shook the hair out of his eyes, put the mug down on the floor and let his arm slip out of the sling. He extended the arm and flexed his fingers. He thumped the heel of his cast on the floor a few times while keeping his eyes locked on mine.
‘I’m coming good, Hardy. I was the light-heavy kick-boxing champion of Queensland. Two men held me while Sione went to work. I’m hoping to get a shot at him, man to man.’
11
I wasn’t interested in tackling Sione myself, but that was Montefiore’s problem. I agreed to pay him fifteen thousand for his information as well as the photograph. If for some reason we couldn’t get the photo, I’d scale it down to an unspecified level. Had to keep him on his toes because, although I now had a story to tell Lorraine Master, some physical evidence would make it a lot more convincing. I gave some thought to the possibility that this could be a set-up. The Kiwi woman could be holding a photograph of no one in particular who matched the description Montefiore had given me. Easy money. But it seemed unlikely that anyone could’ve anticipated me and my offer.
I went to the bank to draw more money and bought a few things for Montefiore on the way back-a shirt, shampoo, deodorant, shaving tackle and such; a six pack of the local beer, milk, fruit, bread and cheese. When I returned he’d made an effort to clean up the flat. The rubbish was in plastic bags stacked outside and the floor had been swept. If I’d bought fly spray the place would’ve been almost habitable.
The big surprise was that Montefiore had taken the cast off and was massaging his leg, flexing his toes and going through a gentle rehab procedure. He seemed to know what he was doing and I was inclined to believe him about his martial arts prowess. He showered, washed his hair, shaved, put on his clean shirt, white jeans and sneakers and looked pale but capable of fending for himself.
I showed him the money and he nodded. ‘You’re a fucking life-saver.’
‘I was, once.’
We had a beer and ate some of the food and tried to get on level terms. Not easy. We were wary of each other and both suspicious by nature.
‘You didn’t ask for cigarettes,’ I said.
‘I don’t smoke, except the odd joint.’
I sniffed the air.
‘Fay smokes. I can’t stand the bloody things, but what can you do?’
He went out of the room again and I heard a few drawers open and close. When he came back he had a light blue linen jacket over his arm and was carrying a fair-sized overnight bag. ‘Might have to move quick,’ he said.
‘What about the rent?’
‘Fuck it.’
Just to make conversation, I said, ‘You mentioned the plan to drop a small amount of heroin on Master. Turned out to be a couple of kilos and he went for ten minimum.’
Montefiore drained his can. ‘No fridge,’ he said. ‘We either drink ‘em or I put ‘em in cold water in the sink.’
‘I could go another one. It’s pretty light. Keep two in hand. What d’you reckon about the drugs?’
We took cans from the pack and he went out to the kitchen and ran water. ‘How could you trust those bastards?’ he said when he came back. ‘They double-cross everyone on principle.’
I cracked the second can and thought about it. ‘How well did you know Master?’
He opened the can and put it aside. ‘One’s enough for now. I’m still thinking about getting a few head shots on Sione. Stewie? I’d never met him before. Gabe introduced him. I dunno. He’d clearly been around a bit. Couple of tatts that looked like gaol jobs, I noticed. Pretty quiet. Young looking, but I wouldn’t have liked to mess with him. Seemed like he had something on his mind. Why?’
‘Just something you said. I wonder if he was letting himself be set up for the drug bust. Say a minor one, for some reason, and they double-crossed him like you say.’
‘You’ve lost me. Look, I’m going to take a nap. About four we can go to the place where Fay’s working. They’ll be rehearsing and we can talk to her about all this. You’ve got a car?’
‘Yeah. Okay. Suppose this all goes well and I get the photo and you and Fay get the money, how would you get out? I’ve got the feeling Rivages could… intercept you.’
Montefiore stretched and yawned, obviously enjoying being free of the sling and cast. ‘I’ve been thinking about that. Maybe on Reg’s yacht.’
‘All the way to Australia?’
‘Nah. Vanuatu maybe. Money talks there, they tell me.’
Jarrod Montefiore was bouncing back, I judged-a player again.
We drove to the Salon de Fun. It was on the ground floor of a building that housed a restaurant on the first level and apartments above that. It wasn’t far from the fie de France and the racetrack. Late afternoon shadows and overgrown bushes all but concealed the pathway to the joint, which looked as if it had once seen better days. The large windows were stained and mottled and a poor attempt had been made to blot out an old insignia and replace it with the new name. The old one still showed through and the replacement was amateurishly done. We stopped before reaching the doorway.
‘Give me some money,’ Montefiore said.
‘How much?’
‘As many ones as you can dig up.’
I fumbled among the cash in my pockets and couldn’t help patting the money belt around my middle where I kept the serious stuff. I located seven or eight one thousand franc notes and handed them over. ‘Comes off the top,’ I said.
He grinned. ‘Cheap bastard.’ He was enjoying himself more by the minute.
The man standing by the door had a boxer’s nose and a boozer’s build. Montefiore spoke to him in rapid French, handed over a few notes and we were waved in. Inside, the place wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. The floor was clean and the tables and chairs looked as if they got a regular wipe. The lighting wasn’t bad and the stage wasn’t the beer and sweat stained mess I’d seen in other strip joints. There were some of the standard props-the crotch pole, the tigerskin rug, the swing, the backboard with the manacles-all in reasonable condition. But no girls.
Montefiore walked across to the bar where a woman in a see-through blouse was wiping glasses. More fast French. She looked at her watch. ‘Un moment,’ she said and I understood that. Montefiore bought two beers and gave her a tip, something that wasn’t usual in Noumea. She said something I couldn’t catch but the name Fay was
