surrounded by beauty. The harbour was already lively with boating types getting ready to do whatever they do with their big, pricey toys.
The You Beaut was moored a hundred metres offshore amid a cluster of other boats. No action aboard. I supposed someone who knew boats could have told that she’d made a long voyage but I couldn’t. She looked the same to me as when she sat in Noumea marina. I moved around to get a better view and to be sure there was no reflection from the glasses and I saw some movement. Reg Penny emerged from the hatch with a bottle in his hand. He squatted near the bow, took a swig and then pulled out his tobacco and rolled a smoke. He lit it and drank again. He was bare-chested and wearing his battered shorts. He looked relaxed. A young man wearing a red kimono joined him and shared the cigarette and the bottle. They yawned and emptied the bottle. Penny tossed it into the water and they laughed and headed for the hatch. They weren’t going anywhere just yet and I was relieved. Penny would probably know Lorrie whatever disguise she adopted, and that wouldn’t help matters. I adjusted the zoom and took a photo of the two men and then one of the boat before heading back to my car.
Number 213a was a small block of flats squeezed in between a convenience store and a dry-cleaner’s. The narrow side entrance from the street was blocked by a high security gate; a set of iron steps ran up the side of the building to a minuscule walkway with four doors opening out to it. From the shape of the building, the flats couldn’t have been much bigger than motel rooms. Jay and Fay weren’t splashing out on what they’d got so far.
I drove back up the street and parked near the Gladstone Hotel where I could keep the flats in sight and any comings and goings. At first I didn’t recognise her. She looked taller and more heavily built; she wore sunglasses and her hair was blonde-streaked. It was something about her walk that identified her, a purposeful stride. She appeared from around the corner on the other side of the street and hesitated for just a fraction when she spotted my car. Then she kept on going and went into the convenience store. I left the glasses in the car, checked that the tape recorder was working and followed her.
She’d bought a packet of cigarettes and was removing the wrapper.
‘Didn’t know you smoked, Lorrie.’
‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘So I am.’
‘No need to overdo it. The look’s fine. Took me a bit to pick you.’
‘Right.’ She dropped the smokes and lighter into the pocket of the jacket she was wearing. It had padded shoulders and a solid lining, giving her the bulkier look. She wore slightly flared trousers and high, blocky heels. Her shoulder bag was roomy and vinyl, not the stylish leather number she usually carried.
I touched her on the shoulder. “Where’d you get the jacket… and the bag?’
‘From Britt. She’s very puzzled, poor girl.’
‘Got the money?’
‘Four thousand, one hundred and fifty.’
‘Nice. Okay, let’s do it. What we’re after is the name of the man in question, who he works for and anything else distinctive about him. We get that on tape, give them the cash and leave after we agree to meet again. We should have time to run a rough check on the name. Won’t turn up anything if he’s undercover or it’s a false name, but it still could be useful.’
‘How?’
‘For one thing, it could help to put some pressure on Stewart.’
‘I’m all for that, but I’m a bit scared. Here’s the money.’
It was packed into a manilla envelope and not that bulky. I put it in the side pocket of my windbreaker. ‘They’re not exactly desperadoes, Lorrie. Montefiore’s potentially violent, but Fay’s got both eyes on the money. She’ll keep him in check. She’s the player. Don’t be worried if you see a revolver on display. I told them to leave it out where I could see it. It’ll be unloaded.’
Her composure wavered a little. ‘A gun? Have you got one too?’
‘No. This is about money and information. All sorts of threats about them maybe, but no one gets hurt.’
We were standing outside the shop and it was still ten minutes to meeting time. Lorrie gave a startled jump as metal grated on cement and the security gate to the flats opened.
‘You’re early, Hardy,’ Jarrod Montefiore said. ‘Who’s your good-looking friend?’
Dumb of me, we hadn’t agreed on a name. Lorrie was up to it. She swung around and took off her shades. ‘That makes us equal. Mr Hardy hasn’t told me your name either. Better that way, don’t you think?’
We went up the steps and then in single file along to the door of flat three. Fay opened the door and stepped back. With four of us inside there wasn’t a lot of space left over. The place was what’s called a studio, meaning that cooking, eating, living and sleeping all went on in the same room. The bathroom and toilet were just about big enough to sit down and turn around in. The furniture was old and battered. The Smith amp; Wesson sat on top of the TV set with the cylinder closed. They were game-playing. Fair enough. So were we.
‘Fay,’ I said. ‘Good to see you.’
Fay was looking at Lorrie and ignored me. The jacket she wore and the bag she carried were cheap; I couldn’t tell about the shoes, pants and blouse. I wondered if Fay could. Lorrie returned the look. Fay’s dark roots were showing and she’d put on some weight, presumably from inactivity. There was a suggestion of a double chin and her jeans looked tighter than would be comfortable. She swung away, picked up a packet of cigarettes from the stained Formica table and lit one.
‘Let’s get down to it.’
‘Meaning let’s see the money,’ Montefiore said. Unlike Fay, he was looking good-tanned and fit and moving loosely. Maybe he’d had to work hard on the boat; maybe he was back in the gym kicking canvas. He looked now as if he could give Sione a good run for his money.
I tossed the envelope on the table and turned the tape recorder on inside my blazer pocket. I hooked a chair out for Lorrie, who took off her jacket and sat down. Fay looked nervous. She smoked and flicked ash into a saucer crowded with butts. She watched Montefiore as he counted the money.
‘Four thousand,’ he said.
I said, ‘Four thousand one hundred and fifty.’
Montefiore bunched a fist. ‘I said five.’
I shrugged. ‘All she could muster.’
Fay butted her cigarette and dropped heavily into a chair. ‘Sit down, Jay. What the fuck’s the difference?’
Montefiore glanced at the. 38.
‘Don’t even think it,’ I said. ‘You’ve got twenty thousand eight hundred and fifty dollars to come.’
He sat down next to Fay. ‘It’d be almost worth it, you tricky cunt.’
Lorrie glanced at me. ‘Can we start, Mr Hardy? I’ve got a busy day.’
Fay lit another cigarette. The air in the room, already stale and smelly, was thickening. ‘I thought you were going to record this,’ she said.
I nodded. ‘We’re recording. Let’s start with the bloke’s name. Make it loud and clear.’
‘She’s not even listening,’ Fay said.
Annoyed, I glanced at Lorrie, who was looking distracted. ‘She’ll listen to the tape.’
‘I can hear something outside,’ Lorrie said. ‘I-’
The flimsy door crashed inwards and a man wearing a stocking mask burst through the gap. He had a pistol with a long barrel in his hand and he fired twice quickly, the shots no louder than heavy coughing. I pulled Lorrie to the floor between the first and second reports and Montefiore, who’d been hit somewhere low, reeled towards the gunman, who shot him again, point-blank. I scrabbled across the carpet to the television set, bumped it away stand and all with my shoulder and scooped up the. 38, praying that it was loaded. Montefiore had collapsed towards the gunman but was still clutching at him. The gunman squeezed off more wild shots before I had the. 38 roughly aligned. I fired twice in his direction but he was already moving, heaving against Montefiore’s bulk, heading for the door. I fired again, but he was gone.
The air in the room was thick with the smell of cordite and dust from where the bullets had impacted on the walls and ceiling. I coughed and spluttered as I got to my feet, fighting for physical and mental balance. Through the haze I could see that Fay was lying back in her chair, a dark hole in the middle of her forehead. Montefiore lay face down with his hands stretched out like claws, pointing in the direction his killer had taken. Blood from his wounds had surged forward and was trickling towards the shattered door.
‘Lorrie?’
