Make Me Rich (2 page)

My turn to nod; he walked away—a calm, self-assured little man with something on his mind and what looked like
mineral water in his glass. He looked slightly out of place in the gathering, but it didn't seem to worry him.

Everything was quiet outside. I stood near bush with a nice, strong scent and enjoyed the cool evening air as a break from the noise and the smoke. I'd left the jacket of my suit inside, but I still felt uncomfortable in tailored pants and a collar and tie. It was that sort of party though, and in my usual get-up of shirt and jeans I'd have stood out a mile as the crowd controller. The party was up at a loud roar; a few people trickled past, going in and out. They all seemed to be having a good time, and I wondered if their lives were fuller and richer than mine. Richer in worldly goods I could be sure of; they had expensive cars and credit cards to keep the tanks eternally full. My car was old and half a tank was all it was used to. On the other hand, jobs like these had pushed me into the black economy. Some of the clients wanted to pay in cash and who was I to quarrel? I'd had a conversation recently with Cy Sackville, my lawyer, in which he'd advised me to form a limited liability company in order to protect my earnings.

“I'd make a loss,” I said.

“That's the idea. The shot is to get someone else to act as a director—your brother or someone …”

“I haven't got a brother.”

“No? You'd probably be a better person today if you did—less selfish.”

“Have you got a brother, Cy?”

“No.”

I hadn't formed the company, and tax problems were a possibility; even so, a year's income wouldn't buy most of the cars owned by Roberta's guests. Against that, I could have the collar and tie off in an hour and spend the day on the beach.

Back inside everything was going swimmingly—some of them were actually splashing about in the pool—and the dry
ones were happily getting wet in their own way. Roberta wafted up to me and put the hand that wasn't carrying the champagne glass on my arm.

“Cliff, darling. So marvellous of you—getting rid of that awful footballer. Paul told me all about it.”

“Why was he here, Roberta?”

She looked at me with eyes that seemed to be focused on something that would happen the day after tomorrow, if then.

“Why are any of us here?''

She drifted away and joined a group that was admiring the view across to Point Piper through a floor-to-ceiling window. A tall, strongly built woman with a lively, broad-featured face and short-cropped reddish hair broke away from the group and strode across the room toward me.

“Hello,” she said. “Been hearing all about you. So you're the minder.”

She had a deep, husky voice like a blues singer, and her party clothes consisted of a black overall arrangement without sleeves, which zipped up the front and was gathered at the ankles. There were no doo-dads on it and she wore no jewellery.

“That's just what they call it on TV,” I said. “I don't get paid in Nelson Eddys or anything.”

She laughed. “D'you know much rhyming slang?”

“Not much, no.”

“I heard a good one the other day—'arris for bum. Know it?”

“No.”

“It goes—'arris is short for Aristotle, rhymes with bottle; bottles and glass equals arse. See?”

“Yes, good. What're you, a writer?”

“No.” She waved the hand that held a cigarette; a wisp of the smoke went into my face; I coughed and moved back.

“Don't!” she said sharply. “Look, it's a Gitane; I only smoke one a day. Don't spoil it for me.”

“All right.” I sniffed at the cigarette. “Wish I could smoke one a day.”

“Why can't you?”

“I was a tobacco fiend for twenty years. Gave it up. Scared just the one would probably set me off again.” “Mm, might. Better not try. I'm Helen Broadway; I asked Roberta to introduce us but she didn't seem to understand what I meant.”

“Cliff Hardy, hello. I think the champers has got to her. She's Brahms.”

“And Liszt.”

I laughed. “Right.”

We moved away from other people, as if by mutual agreement. I looked around a bit, staying in touch, but most of my attention concentrated on her.

“Apart from the fact that you're sober, like me,” I said, “and that you're not wearing any jewellery, like me, I'm trying to work out what's different about you—I mean, compared with all these people.” Mentally, I put Paul Guthrie in the “different” basket too.

She leaned toward a table and stubbed out the Gitane. She had a dusting of dark hair on her long, brown forearms.

“You won't guess,” she said. “I'm not foreign, I haven't got cancer, I'm not a lesbian. I'm from the country.”

“You're not! That's original—where?”

“Up near Kempsey, ever been there?”

I had, chasing people and being chased, some years back. Shots had been fired and a truck with people in it had gone up in flames. Not my favourite memories. But I was prepared to give the place another chance. I liked Helen Broadway.

I told her I did know the Kempsey district and we exchanged a few place names. I told her I should go on my
rounds and she came with me, again by unspoken agreement. It was very pleasant; I almost felt as if I was at a party. It was cool outside; she wrapped her bare arms around herself and stood close, using me as a windbreak.

“Good name,” I said. “Broadway.''

“Maried name. I'm separated though, I think.”

“How does that work? Thinking you're separated?” We went back inside and I poked my head into a room where bags and other guests' belongings were stowed.

“Mike's given me a year off.His sister's going to look after the kid. She's twelve and she needs a break from me as much as I need one from her. I can do what I like for a year.”

“How long have you got left?”

“Well, it's coming up for a six-monthly review any day. I can go back or stay on down here.”

“Which?”

“Don't know.”

“How about money?”

“We had a good year on the farm and in the business. Mike gave me half.”

“What have you been doing?”

We were back in the main party room now; the noise level was still high but the party had thinned out. I was wondering whether Helen had an escort or whether she might like to stick around until the last reveller left. And what would my approach be? The matter was set aside by Paul Guthrie who planted himself squarely in front of me.

“I'd like to talk to you, Mr Hardy. Excuse us, Helen.”

I didn't want her to excuse us, but Guthrie was one of those experienced social movers who knew how to get his way without giving offence. I gave Helen Broadway my best we-haven't-finished-yet look before Guthrie guided me into a quiet room. There was a table covered with a white cloth which had a nest of bottles on it and some baskets and
plates with crispbreads and wafers of smoked salmon and turkey.

Guthrie poured an inch of Jack Daniels into a glass and added an inch of water.

“You can have your drink now,” he said. “Party's nearly over, and I cleared it with Roberta. I want to talk business. You want to sit down?”

I shook my head; I was leg-weary, but when I sat down I wanted to stay down. I leaned against a wall and took a sip of the bourbon, which tasted wonderful: I made a silent, private toast to Helen Broadway.

“You handled that rugby clown pretty well,” Guthrie said. He didn't have a glass or props of any kind; he just stood there in his well-tailored lightweight suit with a soft collar and a quiet tie, and exuded his own brand of charm.

“He'd handicapped himself.” I held up my glass. “That elbow of his gets him into trouble in more ways than one.”

He smiled and nodded. Then the smile fell away. “How would you like to earn ten thousand dollars?”

I took another sip to give myself reaction time and looked down at him; concentrating on him now and not on the woman somewhere in another room. For the first time, I saw the strain in his face. He must have been over sixty, but his slim figure hid the fact. Now, very late at night, he had a greyish tinge and the white stubble on his face etched worn deep lines. He was old, tired, and deadly serious. That's a combination to make you nervous and send you in the other direction. Worst comes to worst, you can lay a joke over it. I took another sip.

“Who would I have to kill?”

“Not for killing, Mr Hardy. For saving someone's life.”

2

Paul Guthrie was exaggerating, of course; people usually do when they want something from you. But his problem was real enough. He was, he told me, sixty-two years old, a businessman with interests in sporting and leisure activities. He owned a couple of marinas in Sydney, leased game fishing boats to the rich, and had controlling shares in a ski lodge and a dude ranch. He used that expression with obvious distaste, which lifted his stocks with me. He'd rowed for Australia in the double sculls at the 1948 London Olympics.

“Unplaced,” he said.

“Still, a big kick.”

“Yeah, it was. A bigger kick was coming home through the States and seeing how they were organising things there. Business, I mean. You never saw anything like it. Marinas sprouting everywhere, airfields; lot of ex-service stuff going into recreational use. That's where I got the idea for the leisure business. It was slow to take off here, but it has now. I built it up sure and steady.”

“Well, the Yanks were always long on ideas. You certainly got in early.”

“Right. Too early, I thought for a while. I worked like a dog at it. Blew a marriage to pieces in the process. I got married again ten years ago. She's twenty years younger than me, and had two sons from her first marriage. They were about eight and nine at the time. I didn't have any
kids, and I helped to raise those two. I think of them as mine.”

The value of sentiments like that depends on the speaker. I rated Guthrie pretty high: he wasn't big-noting himself about his business success, just filling me in. And he'd put it down to work rather than brilliance—always a sign that the person is a realist. Physically, he was impressive too; there was no fat on him and he looked as if he could still pull an oar. But his problem was eating at him, sapping his reserves.

“The boys are the problem, that right?”

“One of them, Ray—he's the oldest, nineteen. Just under nineteen. I haven't seen for four months.”

“That's not so long.”

“It is for the way it happened. The other boy, Chris, he went up to Brisbane at the beginning of the year. He's all right—went to university there. They've got special studies in race relations—Aborigines, Islanders and all that. That's what he's keen on.”

“What about Ray?”

He rubbed at his close-cropped grey hair, making it rough and spiky. “We had our difficulties. Started a few years back. We just didn't get along as well as we once did. No serious stuff; just sulks and no cooperation. A real pain in the arse to have around.”

“That's normal enough.”

“So they tell me. Now, Chris could be hard to handle too but he'd go off and hit the books. Ray's no scholar. He's not dumb, mind. Passed the HSC, but he wasn't interested in going on.”

I finished the drink and thought about another. I was tired, and still had some clearing up to do at the party. It was a sure bet that there'd be someone asleep somewhere to be woken up and poured into a taxi. Besides, he was reluctant
to tell me the trouble and that's an attitude I've come across before. Sometimes it takes three runs before they come out with it and tonight I didn't have the time. I wanted to let him down gently, though.

“I'm sorry, Mr Guthrie. It just doesn't sound so different from a lot …”

“It gets different,” he said sharply. “We had a bit of a row the day Ray left. He wasn't under the thumb, you understand. Lived on the boat … I'm sorry, I'm having trouble coming to the point.”

“You had a row.”

“Yes. He stormed out. No word since. His mother's out of her mind. I asked around. Couldn't find him, and then I heard about the company he's keeping. Bloke like you would know what I mean. Apparently he's hanging around with Liam Catchpole, Dottie Williams, and Tiny Spotswood … that lot.”

Those names changed things a lot. Catchpole, Spotswood and Williams were all crims. Not big-time enough to make their full names a household word—Liam Angus Catchpole or whatever—but consistent, professional wrong-doers. All had convictions, but it was rumoured that Tiny Spotswood had done things much worse then those he'd been convicted for. Bad enough, but there were other reasons to avoid them: I wondered whether Guthrie had the whole picture.

“Bad crowd,” I said. “Bad example for an impressionable lad.”

“It's not the bad example I'm worried about. Those three are police informers.”

“Right.”

“
And steerers!
”

He meant
agents provocateurs
, and he was right again. Catchpole survived by steering men into gaol. Dottie did the same with women and she had a sideline as a drugs provider
and procurer. I knew Catchpole had had some connection with Glebe in days gone by, but the details eluded me. I knew of no one who trusted him—not the crims he associated with nor the policemen he provided with information. He was almost, but not quite, a pariah. Tiny's muscle helped to make people civil to him some of the time.

“Do you have any idea what's going on?” I asked. “Has the boy had police trouble?”

He shook his head emphatically. “Never. I'd have to say he's moody and stubborn—but honest as the day. And he's not lazy—worked like a bastard on the boats. In my experience it's the work-shy that run into trouble first. Ray's not work-shy.” Now that he had it all out in the open, he was determined to convince me. “Look, Hardy, you know your way around. I've seen you in action and Roberta speaks very highly of you. She's a good judge of character, though you mightn't think it. I want you to take this on. Find Ray, talk to him. Find out what's going on. Get between him and that slime somehow, before he goes wrong.”