‘Yeah, I saw you head for the sauna. Heavy night?’
‘Not so bad. Can I buy you breakfast?’
‘You mean, “I need your help”, right?’
I nodded.
‘Bar Napoli. Twenty minutes.’ He sucked in air and his chest expanded like a balloon. He reached for a heavier weight. I couldn’t bear to watch and went off to shower and dress.
Meeting Peter was no coincidence. Where I make it to the gym three times in a good week, he’s there five mornings a week. They say that’s too often but it’d be a brave man who’d tell Peter Lo that. I was sitting down with a black coffee and two plain croissants when he strode in. I signalled to Luigi, who brought Peter his standard order-black coffee and raisin toast, no butter.
‘Let’s dispense with the prelims, Cliff. The thesis is going okay, the wife and kids are fine, I bench-pressed a hundred and twenty-five kays this morning. Personal best.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. How are your relations with your former colleagues?’
He took a bite of toast and appeared to chew it the prescribed number of times, whatever that is. He washed it down with some coffee. ‘No problems.’
‘Not afraid you’re stealing a march on them, you being a slope and all?’
He laughed. ‘Every one of them’s just as competitive as me.’
‘How about Karl Knopf?’
‘What about him?’
‘Your assessment.’
‘Eat your breakfast. First class.’
I ate and drank. ‘Would he talk to me if you asked him to?’
‘What about?’
With Peter I was always upfront and honest. He was too intelligent and experienced to deal with in any other way. He saw through evasions and half truths immediately and responded appropriately. I told him about the Master trial and its peculiar tidiness.
‘Karl’s straight, he wouldn’t be in anything dodgy.’
‘Good. I’d just like to get his impression of the way things went down.’
‘It is strange, the prosecutor shooting through like that. How about the customs guys?’
I shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
‘I’ll ask Karl to give you a call and I’ll see if I can find out anything about the customs men.’
‘Thanks, Peter. I’ll owe you. Again.’
He smiled. ‘Never know, you could have given me a footnote.’
Worked out, saunaed, breakfasted and feeling pretty good, I phoned Lorraine Master at her office and Fiona put me through.
‘Anything to report, Mr Hardy?’
‘Not really. Nothing solid but I’m following up on a few things. I’m booked for tomorrow.’
‘The money’s there. I’m faxing you the PIN. Present ID at the bank and you’ll be able to draw on the full amount.’
‘You’re sure I won’t take off for Tahiti?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘What gym did Stewart go to?’
‘Why?’
‘Might be useful to ask around. See if anyone else has been asking around. See if anyone’s interested that I’m asking around. It’s a technique of the profession. It’s called stirring the possum.’
‘I see. Quaint. The Atlas, in Watsons Bay. I go there myself. You could ask about me.’
I let that go by. ‘Why there?’
‘It’s a good gym. Plus it’s close to the marina and the yacht club.’
‘Stewart has a yacht?’
‘No, Mr Hardy. I do, the Merlot, and Stewart doesn’t know about it. It’s that kind of a marriage. Is that all?’
More than enough, I thought. All I could say was, ‘Thank you.’
The Atlas was located in a small street on the eastern edge of Watsons Bay. Unlike a lot of gyms-the Redgum, for instance, which has had earlier lives as a factory, a warehouse and dirty movie house-it didn’t bear the signs of having once been something else. The cement block building with the landscaping and tiling and tinted glass couldn’t have been more than a few years old and the discreet neon sign and name etched into the glass door were fresh and sparkling.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
The young woman behind the desk was wearing a top that stopped just below her breasts and well above her track pants, revealing a perfect midriff. She was fined down and buffed up and jumping out of her skin to be helpful. Even after my workout and clean-out I suppose I still wore my look of an approaching use-by date. She arranged her sharp, low-body-fat features sympathetically.
‘I’d just like to look around,’ I said. ‘Thinking of joining a gym, you know.’
‘Sure. New to Sydney?’
Felt like an insult, but I took it. ‘Up from Melbourne.’
The sympathy increased. ‘Look, by all means, Mr…?’
‘Master.’
‘Mr Master. Everything’s clearly signposted-weights room, machines, aerobics, sauna, pool.’
‘Pool,’ I said. ‘That’s nice.’
Her phone rang and she picked it up. ‘Heated,’ she said and her smile dismissed me.
It was mid-morning, and the place was busy. The free weights and machines sections were well patronised, mostly by yuppies but with a few oldies thrown in. Lines and wrinkles moving substantial weights, good to see. One sauna is much like another; the pool was a twenty-five metre job and would be very inviting at almost any time. I could see Lorraine Master here in her spandex with her personal trainer. What about Stewart?
At a gym there’s always someone as interested in talking as working out, sometimes more interested. I spotted him in the weights room. He took every opportunity to chat to the other people there, worked the weights reluctantly and put them down gladly. A class started up on the aerobics floor and that took most of his attention. Well-toned women moving rhythmically will do that. I watched the whip-thin instructor bounce and strut and most of the class stay in sync. I felt my age and caught his eye as he towelled off unnecessarily. He wandered over.
‘Gidday. Lookin’ the joint over?’
‘That’s right. Not that aerobics stuff, though it’s nice to look at.’
‘Tried it once. Fuckin’ near killed me.’
I gave him a conspiratorial nod. ‘My brother comes here and I thought I’d take a look. Stewart Master, know him?’
He was a big bloke, fiftyish, balding, overweight but not too bad. Nothing he couldn’t lose if he treadmilled, lifted more and talked less. ‘Yeah, I know him. Knew him anyway. Bad luck, that.’
‘Right, well I don’t make a song and dance about it. I’m up from Melbourne to help his wife straighten things up a bit. It rocked the family. I mean, we knew Stewie was no angel, but drugs… not like him. Did you see much of him?’
He was cooling down and had to make a decision now whether to go on talking or go back to the weights. The talking won. He swigged from his water bottle and wrapped his towel around his shoulders.
‘We chatted a bit, yeah. Not much. Nice enough bloke, Stewie. I’m Les, by the way.’
I played safe. ‘Bob.’ Forgettable.
We shook. ‘Yeah, he mentioned he was from Melbourne. Talked about the AFL. Meant bugger-all to me. I’m a League man. Broncos. Ex-Queenslander. He put in serious time here. Going for tone rather than bulk, you know? But he was bloody strong. You’d be a fair bit older than him, eh?’
