mention of it. Which side was he playing for, apart from his own?
I stopped in Newtown at a twenty-four hour copying joint and made two copies of the manuscript. I put one copy in a hiding place in the car-a virtually undetectable slit in the upholstery that self-sealed with velcro. Although it was late I phoned Rosemary Kingston, told her I had the manuscript and wanted to bring it to her.
‘I thought you were supposed to give it to this agent?’
‘I’m not sure I trust him.’
‘In that case, come on over. I was watching a late movie anyway.’
‘Your bill’s not going to be that high,’ she said as she let me in. ‘What-petrol money, a few phone calls?’
‘I had to grease some palms, but you’re right. It wouldn’t be much if it was really all over.’
She ushered me into the flat and poured me a scotch.
‘It isn’t over? You wouldn’t be trying to inflate the account, would you? Sorry, I don’t really think that.’
‘Think what you like. I’ve barely earned the retainer as things stand, but there’s something off about it all.’
‘What do you mean, Cliff?’
‘I don’t know. It’s a kind of instinct. Anyway, thanks for the drink and here’s the book.’
She took the package and opened it. ‘Hey, it’s supposed to be written on a typewriter. This is a photocopy.’
‘I don’t trust anyone, including myself,’ I said.
I went home and although it was late I made myself something to eat, poured a drink and turned over the pages of the original manuscript. The prose was racy, the structure was artful and, superficially, the tone had a nice blend of contrition and defiance. Some of the names of officials, politicians and media types mentioned were familiar, but without doing a close reading I couldn’t see the book as a crime Krakatoa-more of a fizzing catherine-wheel with bits of mud spinning off it. There was a bit too much self-aggrandisement, a touch of religion, an obeisance to the conservative law and order agenda. I went to bed.
I slept on it but didn’t come up with anything new. I told myself I’d done my job. I took the original manuscript to Phillip Weiss, who practically slavered over it. I kept the third copy for no good reason. I submitted my invoice to Rosemary Kingston and received prompt payment. Case closed.
But of course it wasn’t. Theo got out not long after and he rang me with his thanks and the news that he’d got a high five-figure advance from a publisher.
‘Good one,’ I said. ‘You’ll be on TV soon.’
He laughed long and loud and I found out why when Rosemary Kingston stormed into my office with the sort of anger that only a deceived and jilted woman can muster.
‘I want my money back!’
‘I don’t think so. We had a contract. Why?’
‘That bastard,’ she said. ‘The book’s a fake. After they’d paid over the advance, someone more cluey took a look at it and found out that it’s a total pinch from an English true crime story, with just the names and the local details changed.’
‘Well, he’ll have to return the money.’
She laughed bitterly. ‘No chance. He flew out for God knows where the other day. Left me a note.’
Theo had struck again.
Blackmail
The note was word-processed, the ultimate in anonymity and much less messy and time-consuming than cutting out letters from a newspaper or magazine. It read: ‘We have your wife. If she’s worth half a million to you call now!’ A mobile number followed.
‘I was shocked,’ Bruce Haxton said. ‘I rang the number without hesitating. What else could I do?’
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘Nothing, or almost nothing. A voice just said to wait. Shit!’ His mobile rang and he turned away to take the call.
Haxton was an Australian film director, a successful one, with a batch of Hollywood movies to his credit, and a couple of Oscar nominations. He was back home scouting locations for a film to be shot in Sydney, although, from what I’d read of it in the papers, it was actually set a thousand years in the future on another planet. I’d met him when I was doing a bodyguarding job for an actor in one of his earlier pictures. The actor, Lance Hartley, was a paranoid, coke-addicted nightmare, more in danger from himself than anyone else, but the job paid well. Haxton and I had got along under difficult circumstances then, and we’d stayed vaguely in touch-had a few drinks, went to a Kostya Tszyu fight together on his complimentary tickets- like that. He’d called me in his hour of need.
‘No chance,’ he said to his caller and hit the end button. He let out a long sigh and it was impossible to tell whether it was for his kidnapped wife or some other matter.
Haxton was forty plus, tall and lean with a prematurely grey head of hair and beard. He wore a sloppy outfit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, and the laces on one of his Nikes was undone. Possibly an affectation, but more likely a sign of stress. Stress was his middle name, but after a few beers he relaxed and could be good company.
He popped a Nicorette and chewed without enthusiasm. ‘The thing is, she’s not worth half a million. She’s not worth a buck and a half, to quote Sinatra. God, Cliff, I’m losing my mind. I need a drink. You?’
‘Sure. Beer. Thanks.’
It was mid-afternoon. He’d told me he found the note pushed under the door of the house he was renting in Rose Bay when he’d got up in the morning after a very late night. He’d made his immediate response, stewed for a while and then called me. We were in the back, where the sitting room, kitchen, sunroom and deck flowed into each other. He built himself a solid vodka and tonic, opened a Budweiser and poured.
The house was a million dollar dream, so quiet, comfortable and well appointed it was boring. The traffic noise was a distant, soothing hum and if planes passed over they were well aloft and infrequent. We sat around a table, just above a courtyard with every brick and plant in place. Haxton worked on his drink while still chewing. He looked around and his shake of the head spoke volumes.
‘I grew up in Blacktown. How about you?’
‘Maroubra.’
‘Beachside. Brilliant, but you know what I’m talking about. Fibro, dunny out the back.’
I nodded and drank expensive, imported beer.
‘I married Cassie after my first movie won a couple of AFI awards and got me offers from LA. Guess what her job was on the picture?’
‘I’m betting she wasn’t the writer.’
He snorted and took another pull on his drink. ‘I always liked your one-liners. You know how things were back then. What was it, ten years ago?’
‘Pre-Howard, anyway.’
‘Yeah. Everyone was screwing each other. Cassie was the props girl. She was on with the DOP who said he was training her. In advanced fellatio, it seemed to me. I wasn’t complaining, mind you. We got it on and got married. I can’t remember why. It was never good enough to commit to or bad enough to quit. We sort of came and went. She didn’t really want to leave LA for this trip but she did, out of boredom probably.’
He finished his drink and got up to make another. He told me that they’d only been back for ten days and that Cassie had spent most of the time catching up with old friends and shopping. They’d spent four of the ten nights apart with no questions asked. He had no idea who she’d been with. They were together the night before last. She went out the next day and didn’t return. That didn’t worry him because he had what he called a ‘dinner meeting’. He came back to the house late and found the note in the mid-morning.
‘You’re getting around to saying that you’re not going to pay. That right, Bruce?’
