‘Cliff, my man, I’ve got something you’ll be interested in.’
At that moment I was mainly interested in my pint of James Squires-first drink of the day and it was well after six. I was feeling proud of myself for my restraint. Something to boast about to Lily when I got home while we had a few more. Quite a few.
‘What would that be, Jerry?’
‘Money, of course. What else is there to be interested in when you come right down to it?’
That was Jerry’s philosophy all right, plain and simple. He’d been in and out of gaol for most of his life-worked up from car theft to B amp; E to small-time holdups. No violence, no drugs as far as I knew. He was a Glebe character who always returned to the suburb when he was released. He’d picked up a lot of history from his father and grandfather, who went way back, never living more than a stone’s throw from Glebe Point Road. I enjoyed Jerry’s stories and I liked him. I switched off when he got onto cricket, a passion I do not share. There was no harm in him. He was about seventy, on the pension, doing other bits and pieces, and just getting by.
‘Money’s good,’ I said, ‘but what about family, friends, health, sex?’
‘Money’ll buy you most of them. Seriously, I’ve got something to talk over with you and I can’t do it here. Where’s your office these days?’
That was a surprise. I hadn’t figured Jerry as the appointment-making type, but his whole attitude seemed to have undergone a subtle change in a more serious direction.
‘Newtown,’ I said.
‘What’s the address?’
I reached for my wallet. ‘I can give you a card.’
His voice was a hiss as his eyes darted around the bar. ‘Don’t give me a fucking card. We’re just a couple of old mates talking.’
I drank, he drank. I told him the address.
‘Nine o’clock tomorrow,’ he said. He finished his drink, slapped my arm and walked out. I turned away and looked across at the pool players. You don’t watch an old mate leave a pub after a casual conversation, even if you can scarcely contain your curiosity.
Gentrification is spreading along King Street in Newtown like a grassfire. An African restaurant recently opened next door to the boarded-up shop my office sits above. Renovation and rent rise are inevitable and not welcome, because my business is shrinking as the private enquiry corporations with HQs in LA and NYC take over. For as long as it lasts, the office has the right feel for me-plain, reasonably clean, functional and cheap.
Jerry was precisely on time, meaning that he was waiting outside the door when I arrived a couple of minutes late.
‘Time is money, Cliff,’ he said. ‘I oughta know, I did the time for the money I stole.’
I’d heard it before but it was still worth a laugh. I opened the door and ushered him in.
‘I can make coffee, Jerry. No milk though.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t want coffee, mate, I want your ear and your help.’
I sat behind the desk and he took the client’s chair. ‘Okay, you’ve got the first, the other depends.’
Jerry cleared his throat to make his pitch. ‘Charley Sanderson had a… home invasion. Three guys broke in and tied up Charley and his wife and got Charley to give them the safe combination. They took a little over half a million in readies.’
Jerry still uses old BBC cop show slang, which is one of the things I like about him. He paused to pull out a pipe and stuff it. I’ve never minded the smell of pipe tobacco and I pushed an almost clean ashtray towards him for the several matches I knew it would take him to light it.
Sanderson was a bookie, a big one. His reputation was better than some, not as good as others. I hadn’t picked up anything about the robbery in the media and I told Jerry so as he struck matches and puffed.
‘You wouldn’t,’ he said when he had the pipe drawing. ‘Reason’s obvious.’
‘Sanderson’s readies aren’t something he’s ready to declare.’
‘This is serious stuff, mate-half a million.’
That was one too many ‘mates’ for comfort. Jerry and I weren’t that close-a few drinks, a few pool games, chats about the boxing, such as it was, and the history of Glebe.
‘Get to the point, Jerry.’
‘Sanderson’s offering a reward for anyone who can… help. Fifty grand.’
Jerry is nothing if not an actor, probably from watching all that TV in gaol. He let the figure hang in the air like a balloon while he cast a look around my basic fittings. ‘How does that sound, Cliff? Twenty-five thou.’
‘You know who did it, do you?’
‘Not exactly. But, you know I do a bit of consultancy for this security firm. Me having certain experience.’
‘So you told me. So what?’
‘It’s not much, peanuts really. But I heard a whisper and I think I know how to go about finding out who did the business.’
It was starting to sound thin. ‘To answer your question, Jerry, it looks bloody dangerous. If Sanderson wants to keep everything quiet, what plans does he have for the ones who did the job? They’d know how much money was involved and they could sing an interesting song to the tax people and the bookie licensing board. Sounds as if they’d be expendable from Sanderson’s point of view.’
Jerry’s pipe had gone out. He shook his head as he fiddled with it. ‘Charley’s not that sort of a bloke.
‘Think about it. And think how he’d feel about anyone who fingered them. His whole future’s on the line. From what I know of him he could probably gee himself up to take drastic measures. You’re in danger just knowing about it. How come you do?’
‘Can’t tell you while you’re taking this attitude. Look, Cliff, this is my last chance for a big score and I need it bad. All I’ve got’s the fucking pension and you must know what a room costs to rent in this fucking city. I’ve gotta eat, have a drink, and I’ve got health problems.’
‘You’re healthier now than if you were dead.’
‘Ah, that’s you all over. Always fucking joking. Look, I’ve got a brother who’s getting a good deal on a decent- sized caravan in a park up on the Hawkesbury. Twenty-five thousand’d get me a half-share. I could live up there rent-free on the pension. Fish, breathe clean air. Give me another ten years.’
‘You’d miss Glebe.’
‘Fuck Glebe. What’s Glebe ever done for me?’
I had to laugh at that. Jerry laughed too and got his pipe going. The mood changed.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘I don’t much like the idea of playing according to Charley Sanderson’s rules, but if you want to let me in on how you know about this and the way you’re thinking, I could perhaps give you some advice. Help to keep your nuts out of the blender.’
‘Don’t talk like that.’
Jerry puffed his pipe and thought about it. Hard to tell what he was thinking. As an experienced but not very successful card player, he could keep a blank face. Maybe he was thinking of a way to lock on to the whole fifty thousand. He got up from the chair, old joints creaking.
‘You could give me one of them cards now, mate. I’ll be in touch when I’ve had a bit more of a think.’
I gave him a card and he left.
The call from the police came two days later. I was told to drop in at the Glebe station and ask for Detective Sergeant Johnson. Johnson came down from upstairs, suggesting that he wasn’t going to take me up to the interview room for the third degree. We’d met before and treated each other with a certain amount of respect. We talked in the space between the door and the reception desk.
‘Just a word, Mr Hardy,’ Johnson said. ‘You know a man named Jerry Fowler?’
‘Yes.’
‘What would you say was the nature of your relationship?’
‘We have the odd drink together, have a yarn. He’s a Glebe identity, knows a lot about the place. Why?’
‘He was shot and killed last night.’
‘Jesus! Who by?’
‘I thought you might have some ideas. We found your card in his wallet. Was he your client?’
