Make Me Rich (16 page)

“We could sleep on it,” he said.

“No, we need some ground rules, right now. We're about square—neither of us owes the other a thing. We can get up from here and go about it in our own different ways.”

“That couldn't be the smart thing to do.”

“Did you push Spotswood off the roof?”

He gaped at me. “No.”

“All right, I had to ask.”

“Look, Cliff, I'm a bit desperate about this, I know. I am taking it personally. But it hasn't got to me that much. We can't afford to split up. Hayes is good, really good. The fee he'd be on must be enormous. He'll go all the way for it. The whole thing is bound to be messy.”

“That's why I should take the Guthrie kid out now.”

“Maybe. If you could find him, and if he'd go. Neither sounds real likely to me.”

“The kid doesn't know what he's involved in. He doesn't know Collinson's his father. He's in the dark.”

“That's tough. But this is bigger than that. Collinson
owns policemen, he own politicians. While that goes on no one's safe, everything's up for grabs.”

“It was like that in Jericho, probably, and Athens and Rome. I'm not a crusader.”

“It'd be nice to get him.” He named one of the government ministers who'd go down with Collinson, and I had to admit that that prospect had a strong appeal. I could feel myself coming around, and Parker knew it.

“I'll try not to hurt the kid if it comes to something rugged. You'd be there, that'd be your job. I wouldn't want to hurt anyone except Hayes and Collinson.” He grinned. “Especially not you or me.”

“What would the next move be, then?”

“To check on my bloke in Parramatta. Tiny said they were worried about that. I'll worry 'em some more.”

“What happened to Tiny could worry them too.”

“Right. I feel we could get the initiative, with a bit of luck.”

That decided me, plus the feeling that I had one long shot that could give
me
the initiative. I could make my moves about Ray Guthrie when the time came. I looked at Parker's shadowed, weary eyes—if the thoughts behind them were private, so were mine. I put some whisky in my cup and clinked it with Frank's.

“Cooperation,” I said.

“Talk some more tomorrow?”

I nodded, he went to the bathroom and then up the stairs. When I heard Hilde's door close I pulled the telephone over.

Helen's voice was sexy, I decided, even at 1.30 a.m.

“It's 1.30,” she said.

“Do you want to see me or not?”

“I do.”

“Keep your finger near the buzzer.”

15

In the morning we did the coffee and toast routine in reverse. It was late when I came into the bedroom, juggling the plates and mugs; the sun slanting in through the window had warmed the room up, and Helen lay naked on her front on top of the bed. I looked at her wide shoulders, marked by the swimsuit straps and the hollows and curves lower down. Her long toes were hooked over the end of the bed and I could see the muscle, like a rounded W in outline, in her calves. She had dancer's legs. She heard the crockery rattle.

“I'd like you to rub oil into every inch of my body,” she said.

“Can I drink my coffee first? Which hand do you want me to use?”

“And then I want to go to a beach where we can swim naked. Can you take the time, Cliff?”

I put the mugs and plate down by the bed and began rubbing both hands over her back. Her skin was smooth and her spine felt supple and strong, like a whip.

“One phone call and I'm free.”

She half-turned around and reached down for her coffee; it was about the first movement not connected with sex she'd made since my arrival at 2 a.m. She drank the coffee in a couple of gulps, the way I usually do myself. She ate a piece of toast. Then she put her face close to mine and looked at me as if she was counting the crow's feet.

“Something bad happened last night,” she said. “You fucked me to help you to forget about it.”

“Not exactly.”

“Yes, you did. It was terrific; I'm not complaining.” She held out her cup. “Now I want some more coffee and some toast and the oil, and I want to hear about it.”

Parker sounded grouchy on the phone, as if he and Hilde had struck their first reef. We agreed to meet later in the day to review procedure, but I had a feeling that the Hardy–Parker accord would prove uneasy.

Helen had a red Camira, one of the kind they drove from Sydney to Melbourne on less than a tank of petrol. The way she drove she'd be lucky to make it to Gundagai. She was a fast, aggressive driver with a good traffic sense, and a fine disregard for the workings of the machine.

Lady Bay is at the top of the peninsula, one bay on from Camp Cove. I thought I knew the way but I gave Helen a wrong direction and we ended up within the bounds of the Naval Base Watson. A land-locked sailor, with one of those shaves you can rub with a cigarette paper and not hear a sound and wearing starched, knee-length shorts, steered us right with a leer.

The deal is that you park at Camp Cove, which is a topless but not bottomless beach, and walk around the cliffs a kilometre or so to Lady Bay. Helen was wearing loose, light-blue trousers, a striped T-shirt and sandals. She climbed the fence, jumped across gaps between the concrete slabs, and negotiated the gun emplacements which were built to repel an invader that never came. Her dark-red, cropped hair shone like polished stone when the sun caught it, and she moved effortlessly, like an expert bushwalker.

I brought up the rear, carrying the bag and the towels and feeling the sweat running down under my shirt. It was hot
with no wind; it was too early for the sea breeze, and the still, warm air gave the sea sounds a special clarity—the noise of the birds, the water against the cliffs and the scrape of Helen's sandals on the rocks.

The nude bathing beach looks to have been designed by Nature for the purpose; you reach it by going backwards ten metres down a ladder attached to a sheer drop. The distance was about the same as Tiny Spotswood's fall, but here you descended from grass to sand, by wood not metal, and in the full clean light of the sun. The top of the cliff is a flat sward and there, fully clothed, with their legs dangling over the edge, sat three men with their eyes fixed on the people below. I went down the ladder after Helen and we stood on the sand and surveyed the sixty metre beach, flanked at both ends by rocks.

All the sun bathers were men; they were very tanned and most were muscular. They lay and sat, very still, and seemed to be thinking about stillness.

“It's a
tableau vivant
,” Helen whispered.

“What's that?”

“Look it up.”

“You're the only broad on the beach.”

“Somehow that seems more novel than taking the clothes off.”

We took the clothes off, just dropped them and the bag where we stood, and ran down to the water. It was cool, a bit cloudy and very deep within a few metres of the shore. Helen waded a few steps, dived and went underwater for about ten metres. She surfaced and swam seawards with long, easy strokes. I ploughed along after her with my Maroubra-basic stroke, and we swam well out to where the water was translucent and cold. We trod water and touched each other.

“I was going to say how does a country girl like you get
to swim like that, then I remembered that you're not a country girl.”

“Coogee,” she said. “Remember the trams?”

We paddled around for a while, and then swam in. Stretched out on the sand, side by side, we joined the statuary. A quarter of an hour of that, and Helen started to giggle.

“I can't take this; it's like being in Madame Tussaud's.”

We were back at her place, drinking coffee, when I finally got around to telling her the shape and substance of the Guthrie case. I'd already told her about Spotswood's fall, this was the context. I sanitised it a bit. I told her about Parker.

“He sounds ruthless.”

“He's not generally, or I used not to think so. This seems to have made him harder. People don't realise what being a cop is like, especially a Homicide detective. It's not all free beers and fucks. In a funny way, a cop is what he does. An honest, energetic cop like Parker is very honest; uncomfortably so, maybe.”

“What about you? Do you become what you do?”

I smiled. “Not as much. That's one of the reasons I'm not a cop. Tell me about Michael.”

“Mike. No one calls him Michael.”

“I felt Mike was a bit informal, under the circumstances.”

“What are the circumstances, Cliff?”

“God knows. How much of your first six months have you really got left?”

“Hours.”

“Let's not waste 'em.”

We went back to bed with enthusiasm and success. There was a good deal of tenderness too, for the first time. I learned a bit more about Mike; that he farmed everything
from pigs to grapes; that he operated a small cannery; that he worked twenty hours a day.

“He's in love with the land,” she said.

“Uh huh.”

“He's writing a book about it.”

“When? In his sleep?”

I only got information about her by way of trade. She'd been a librarian in Sydney before meeting and marrying Michael Broadway, teacher turned gentleman farmer. She'd done a degree by correspondence, and got first class honours in English.

“I'm depressed,” I said.

“Why?”

“I dropped out after one year of Law. I passed Constitutional History and Criminal Law—failed Contracts Torts.”

“What're Torts?”

“I forget.”

Helen's advice on my professional problem was to get hold of Ray Guthrie, tell him everything I knew, and detach him from the criminal element.

“He might be part of the criminal element himself by now,” I said. “And there's his attitude to his real father to consider. I just don't know how powerful a feeling that is. You're a parent, tell me about what children feel for their parents.”

“Parents don't know what they feel.”

“There you are, then.”

“It sounds as if it'll all end in grief,” she said. “I'm sorry, but that's how it sounds to me.”

“That's why I have to stick with it and see it through in something like Parker's terms. Not exactly his, but to some sort of resolution. If I'm on the spot, maybe I can cut down on the grief a bit.”

“I hope so.”

My arrangement with Parker was to meet him back at my place at around seven. That gave me several hours for my long shot. Mahoney Place is a narrow, one-way street in Surry Hills which runs off South Dowling Street, opposite Moore Park. I left my car in a lane nearby and walked in the park for a while, watching some kids risking their lives at grass skiing. I was trying to change gear out of “tenderness” and into “work.” Kids having a good time on the grass didn't quite do it—maybe if one of them had broken his neck.

Right now, “work” meant going to make enquiries about a private detective named Phillips; “loathsome” in at least one person's memory, who had pursued our noble calling in Mahoney Place twenty years before. It was hard to do without at least one decent drink inside me.

The street was narrow enough for a ball thrown against a brick fence on one side to rebound and hit the opposite fence on the full. That's if you were good enough to judge the force and distance right; the kids who were playing this game halfway down the street were good enough. There were two of them—Mediterraneans—taking it in turns, I grinned at them and they stopped to let me pass—the coordination and the sweat on their faces was reassuring in the pinball age.

Number 32 was a white-painted brick wall, built on the street line with a door in it, no window. TOTAL GRAPHICS was painted in red on the bricks in metre-high letters. I knocked, reflecting that maybe I'd be more successful if I called myself TOTAL INVESTIGATIONS.

The man who opened the door looked pretty successful in his field, if clothes maketh the man: he wore a velvet shirt open to the waist, revealing a bushel of hair and a kilo of gold charms and medallions. His legs were stick-thin inside
tight leather pants. His head was shaved and he wore a diamond stud in one ear. The shaved head gave him that exhibitionist look it always does. Otherwise, he was normal. He went back inside as soon as he'd pulled the door open and I had no choice but to follow him.

It was a long time back since it had been a private detective's office. That would be just a bad memory. Now the deep, narrow room was scrupulously clean. Light came in through a bank of skylights high up on one wall. A long bench held half a dozen VDT screeens, each with a chair in front of it. There was a large bank of Swedish-looking storage baskets filled with paper and a bookcase half-filled with books whose spines looked all the same. A desk as big as a pool table was covered with coffee-making gear—an urn, filter machine, a grinder, packets of coffee, and filter papers.

Baldy practically ran back along the bench and threw himself down in front of one of the screens.

“Be with you in a minute,” he said. “This is nearly out. Bloody exciting.”

Nice to see a man happy in his work
, I thought. I closed the door behind me and walked in. “Graphics” suggested paper and pens to me, scissors and set squares. Apart from the paper in the bins there was nothing like that. A big photocopier was in the corner, and here at least there was some frivolous paper—a big poster of Orson Welles as Charles Foster Kane—1 was surprised it wasn't a holograph.

The bald man's hands danced over the keys and he tapped his sneakered foot as if he was playing Scott Joplin. I looked over his shoulder but couldn't make anything of the zig-zag flashes that appeared on the screen.

“Got it!” he bawled. “Fucking A!” He swivelled around and stood up. Two long strides took him to the coffee table, and his leather pants didn't split.