Peter Corris
White Meat
1
I’d seen him a couple of times on the flat at Randwick racecourse – six foot four and eighteen stone of expensive suiting and barbering with jewellery and shoe leather to match. I’d given him some of my money and he’d put it in a bag. I hadn’t liked him much but it’s hard to like people you lose money to. I suppose we’d exchanged twenty words, not more, on the course, so I was surprised when he rang me at the office.
He was lucky to catch me. I had an appointment that afternoon and had called in to check the mail on a whim – private detecting is slow in the winter and I wasn’t expecting any notes in invisible ink or bundles of currency. Turned out it wasn’t just luck. I thought briefly about ignoring the phone but couldn’t do it.
“Hardy?” The voice was rich, pickled in Courvoisier. “Ted Tarelton, I’ve got a little job for you.”
“Good, I’m free. Tomorrow do you?”
“Today’ll do me. Now!”
He could take my money but not my pride.
“Sorry Mr Tarelton, I can’t make it, I’ve got an appointment.”
“I know, with Tickener in Newtown. I heard. That’s why I called you, you can kill two birds with one stone. Get over here first, you’ve got time.”
I hung onto the receiver and thought. Tickener had called an hour ago asking me to meet him. He didn’t say why and he’d been secretive about the whole thing. But Big Ted knew. Interesting.
“All right. Where’s ‘here’?”
“Paddington. Armstrong Street. Number ten. Make it quick.” He hung up. We hadn’t discussed fees or anything like that but then that wouldn’t be Ted’s style. Eighty dollars a day would be a flea bite to him and my expenses wouldn’t come up to his cigar bill. We also hadn’t discussed the job but I’d never heard that Ted was a villain so he probably didn’t want me to kill anyone. Maybe he’d lost a horse.
I could have walked to Paddo at a pinch and it would have been good for me. Also the car wasn’t going too well and it would have been good for it. To hell with doing good. I drove. Armstrong Street was long and curvy and you could see Rushcutters Bay along most of its length if you stood on tiptoe – that meant the view would be fine from the balconies. And balconies there were plenty of. Almost every house in the street had been restored to its former glory with glistening black iron lace standing out against the virgin white paint jobs. The gardens in front were deep for terraces and there was enough bamboo in them to build a kampong. Number ten was really numbers ten to twelve; Ted had belted down a three storey palace like his own to give himself some garage space. Two great roller doors faced the street beside his garden like giant sightless eyes. Say two hundred thousand all up.
I parked the Falcon between an Alfa with some dust on it and a spotless Volvo and went up to wipe my feet on the mat of number ten. The gate swung open in a way you could never get them to in Glebe where I live, but I thought I could see a small chip out of one of the ornamental tiles on the steps. The bell was a black button set inside several concentric rings of highly polished brass. I pushed it and something deep and tuneful sounded inside. While I waited I picked lint off my corduroy coat and brushed down the pants that almost matched. A quick rub of the desert boots against the back of the pants legs and I was ready.
The heavy panelled door was opened by one of those women who give me short breath and sweaty palms. She was thirtyish, about five feet ten inches tall and she wore a denim slacks suit over a white polo neck skivvy. Her hair was black and it hung over her shoulders, framing a long olive face with a proper arrangement of dark eyes, strong nose and wide mouth. Her lip gloss was plum-coloured like her eye shadow. If she was carrying an extra pound or two it didn’t look as if it’d get in the way.
“I’m Madeline Tarelton,” she said. “You must be Mr Hardy.”
“That’s right, Madeline Tarelton. I don’t suppose you’re his niece, going spare?”
She smiled understanding. “Wife. Come in.”
I followed her down a hundred yards of polished cedar planking in which the nail marks were black the way they always are – something to do with chemical reaction between the metal and the wood I suppose. I’m sure it’s no problem. A cedar staircase ascended to the stars on the left before we reached a living room with an acre of Persian carpet on the floor and several tons of brass weapons and shields on the walls. Ted Tarelton was sitting on a silk upholstered chair reading a form guide and making sure that his cigar ash hit the enamelled dish at his side. He raised an arm in greeting, which I could understand, given the effort it would have taken to lift the whole carcase. He pointed to another chair done out in flowered silk and I sat down. Madeline murmured something about drinks and moved off with a rustling of denim and a light tapping of high cork heels.
“You met Madeline,” Tarelton asserted. “Married her two years ago. She fixed up the house.”
I nodded and rolled a cigarette and waited.
Tarelton folded the form guide this way and that and put it down on the chair beside him. He picked up his cigar from the tray and took a long pull on it. I lit my smoke and breathed some of it in and out and waited. After some tapping of cigar on dish and fiddling with the form guide Tarelton looked directly at me.
“I want you to find my daughter.”
“OK,” I said. “Is she in Newtown?”
Tarelton gave me a sideways look to see if I was kidding him. He decided I wasn’t and displayed some of his intelligence.
“Oh that. No mystery. I rang one of my mates on The News to get a line on a good private man. He heard Tickener talking to you and told me about it. I remembered you from the track.”
I nodded. “Newtown?”
He put three big fingers into a pocket of his tweed waistcoat and pulled out a card. He flicked it across to me with the practised gesture of a card player. It had been white but was white no longer, closer to grey. It hadn’t been folded but it hadn’t been pressed inside the family Bible either. The words “Sammy Trueman’s Gymnasium” were printed across the card and an address and a phone number were in the opposite lower corners.
“I found this in with some of Noni’s stuff,” Tarelton said. “It seemed out of…”
“Character?”
“Yeah. Out of character. That’s after this James bloke tells me she’s missing.”
“Hold on.” I drew on the cigarette and wondered if I’d heard right when I thought drinks had been mentioned. “Let’s get it clear. You’ve got a daughter named Noni and she’s missing. How old is she? How long’s she been gone?”
“Twenty-five. Been gone a week, I think.”
“Who’s James?”
“Saul James. An actor she… lives with.”
“She’s on with him?”
“Yeah. In a funny way, seems to me.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Well, Noni’s my girl from my first marriage. Her mother died eight, ten years ago. I didn’t see her for most of her young life but she came to me when Ingrid died. Finished school and started acting. That’s when she met this James. She moved out and set up with him a couple of years ago. I only see her from time to time. I pay a lot of her bills though.”
The cork heels came clicking again and Madeline’s husky voice broke in.
“Too many.”
“Yeah, well, she’s my kid and I can afford it.”
Mrs Tarelton was carrying a tray with three tall tinkling glasses on it. They were amber and had little bubbles rising through the liquid. Looked for all the world like Scotch and soda to me. I accepted one and looked at the gargoyle clock on the mantel – eleven o’clock, quite late.
