'Good to see youse, Hardy. Come on in.'
Rudi is a first generation Australian about whom nothing verbal of the previous generations of foreigners lingers. He looks like a Serb or a Croatian or whatever his antecedents were, with the thickset physique, aggressive moustache and balding bullet head, but he speaks broad Australian.
I shook his meaty hand and took a seat while he put his big bum on his desk, closer to me and higher than he would have been on a chair behind it. I guessed that this was one of his managerial negotiating positions.
'You done me a good turn with Ricky that night. I said it, an' I meant it. So what d'you want? Tickets? No problem.'
'Information. You remember Steve Kooti, used to work for you in an
… executive capacity?'
The hooded Balkan eyes suddenly brightened as if the brain behind them had just processed a lot of information and gone on the alert.
'Stevie? Yeah, sure. What?'
'Tell me about him.'
'Why?'
'Look, Rudi, I'm not interested in past history. I don't care what he used to do for you when he was one of your frighteners. I want to know what changed him and what you make of him now.'
That relaxed him. He got off the desk and moved around to his chair. He didn't move in the loose way ex- athletes do, he moved stiffly, like a man used to carrying heavy things. Rudi had started out as a builder's labourer.
'Silly cunt got religion. He ran into some religious freaks and they grabbed him. Dunno how. I've always been a Catholic. Doesn't get in the way of nothin' if you don't let it. But this mob Stevie took up with-can't do this, can't do that. Can't take a piss without thanking God for giving you a prick. Tried preaching that crap to me and I told him where he could put it. In the old days an insult like that and he'd have left me under this desk. And I mean under. But now it's, 'Bless you, brother'. Bullshit.'
'He's tied in with some people out Campbelltown way. A community protection outfit. Know anything about them?'
'Coconuts?'
'Islanders, yeah.'
'I've heard of them. There's a few around. I'm told they've got things going.'
'Like?'
He shrugged his beefy shoulders. 'Insurance scams, immigration scams. Shit, I dunno.'
'Doesn't sit too well with praising the Lord.'
'That's fair dinkum for some, just a bloody front for others-the smart ones.'
'What category would Kooti be in?'
'Dunno. I'm fast losing interest in this, Hardy.'
'Fair enough. One last thing-d'you know how I can get in touch with him?'
He smiled, showing a couple of gold-filled teeth, opened a drawer in the desk and rummaged in it. 'Gave me his mobile number in case I wanted to discuss admitting Jesus to my life. Know what I said?'
I shook my head.
'I said, 'Sounds like a Mex Bantam. Has he got a left hook?' I thought that was funny. What d'you reckon?'
'Pretty funny.'
He pushed a drink coaster across the desk. 'Here you go. I don't need it. We was havin' a drink-I was, he wasn't.'
I took the coaster, pocketed it and stood. 'Thanks.'
'We square now, Hardy?'
'Sure. Will I say hello from you when I talk to Steve?'
'Okay. Maybe he could put in a good word for me with God.'
'Do you believe in God?'
'Sometimes-when one of my boys gets up off the floor and kayos the other guy.'
'You're all heart, Rudi.'
He waved his arms, embracing the room, the smells, everything. 'Look, I own this place. Got a block of units in Earlwood, a nice home in Strathfield with the missus and the kids, holiday place in Thirroul. Of course I believe in God.'
'How're you going to vote?'
'How do you reckon?'
12
I drove to the office and did a web search on Oceania Securities. It had a website that told me about as little as it could. Investments… consultancy… portfolio management-that kind of thing. The office was in St Leonards. There were no details given about Barclay Greaves and a web check on him turned up nothing. The Sydney Morning Herald database did better. A couple of stories on Greaves came up. He'd been a consultant in a big company merger that had threatened to go bottom up and he was credited with righting it. He was described as forty-six, married with two children, a former tax office heavyweight turned merchant banker turned big-time fixit guy. The article implied that his consultancy fee took a decent bite from both of the merging companies. Good one.
The other piece dealt with his involvement in a New Zealand land deal thrown into doubt by a couple of the parties suddenly coming under fire for tax transgressions. Oceania Securities had arranged amnesties and compromises and the deal had gone through satisfactorily. This item revealed that Greaves was a lawyer with degrees from the universities of Melbourne and Chicago. It was unclear whether he was a New Zealander or an Australian. He described himself as an Australasian to the reporter who'd managed the briefest of interviews,
That was something to chew on. Clearly he had some connection with Clement and not an altogether happy one from his behaviour on party night. Was he backing Lou Kramer's work in some way? He looked like a possible source for the extra money she might need to lure Billie, but what would his motive have been for that? True love? I doubted it.
Given the apparent scale of his operations, I was surprised Greaves hadn't attracted more press attention. But I suppose that just as those who seek it can get it, those who don't want it can avoid it. I had a contact at the Australian Financial Review, a former editor in fact, who now had gone back to investigative work as any dinkum journalist would. I rang her and put the question about Greaves.
A true reporter, her first response was, 'Why? Have you got something?'
'Hey, Lily, I'm asking you.'
'Pity. Mystery man, probably an Enzedder but I've never seen his passport. A lot of these types have a few anyway.'
'He's a type, is he?'
'Cliff, I really don't know. There're rumours about him. He's involved in this, he's involved in that, but never anything substantial and he's sort of not interesting enough for anyone to put in the time and effort on him.'
'Is that because he likes it that way?'
'You're learning.'
'What about his politics?'
'No idea. You're intriguing me.'
Lily Truscott is a woman I wouldn't mind intriguing. I'd met her at a fight night in Marrickville. Her brother was on the bill and I was sitting next to her. She was his most enthusiastic supporter, and when I made a few complimentary remarks about his work, she gave me a smile. When he won she jumped up, whooped and gave me a hug.
After that, we had a drink and, as the Stones put it, spent a few nights together. But she was career
