Make Me Rich (6 page)

Parker rolled off me on to his back; he lifted his head off the road. “I forgot to tell you,” he said. “There's someone trying to kill me.”

***

I went to the Noble Briton that night and on the next night, which was Saturday; both visits had their interest for a student of human nature, but neither Ray Guthrie nor Liam Catchpole showed. I made some discreet enquiries around the Cross but came up with nothing. One of the girls said she thought Dottie Williams had gone interstate for a while but was back now. Big help.

Roberta Landy-Drake had a hangover when I phoned her on the Sunday morning.

“Cliff, you're not dunning me for your fee are you? That's not classy. Especially not with the head I have.”

“I wouldn't do anything that wasn't classy, Roberta. No, I wanted to know how to get in touch with Helen Broadway.”

“Aha. I wonder if I should tell you. Why should you and she feel good when I feel so bad. Tell me that?”

“Come on.”

She gave me the phone number and the address in Elizabeth Bay. I rang the number, but there was no answer. Well, she said she was doing what she liked and you never know where that will lead you. I wrote the address down, killed some of the day at the Dawn Fraser pool in Balmain, which they've cleaned up except for the water, and went home to make my preparations for the evening's visit to the Noble Briton. Hilde was away for the weekend so I didn't have to explain why I was having steak and Vitamin B pills for dinner on a Sunday night instead of a bacon sandwich. The reason was to erect a defence against the beer I'd have to consume to maintain my standing at the pub.

It was a mild night; I put on jeans and T-shirt, and a denim shirt with a longish tail over that. Hanging outside my pants the shirt-tail concealed the gun I wore in a holster inside the waistband at the back. I'd splurged recently on
some light Italian shoes, which were the only leather shoes I'd ever had which let me forget about my feet. In the breast pocket of the shirt I put a miniature camera which is small enough to hide in your hand and still let you pick your teeth.

I drove up William Street at about 10 p.m. The council has put up a network of barriers in Darlinghurst which block the streets off and turn them into one-way mazes. The intention and effect is to eliminate cars cruising in the area for street pick-ups. As a result, the rougher trade has moved out to William Street. The girls and girl-boys were almost jostling each other in front of the car showrooms, car accessory joints, and other businesses: three steps across the pavement takes them to the open car window where the negotiation goes on. Then it's either in and off or back across the footpath to wait for the next one. The whole transaction takes place on the front seat of the car.

A few blocks back, in the closed-off streets, the women work out of houses with doors that open directly on to the street. They don't exactly stand in the doorway with one leg up, but they aren't out in the kitchen either. There's a soft light in the front room, but that's about all the softness going.

I parked around the corner in Greenknowe Avenue and walked back to the pub in Darlinghurst Road. The Cross seemed to be operating at about 80 per cent voltage on the Sunday night. Nearly everything was open, nearly everyone who should be was there—the spruikers outside the strip joints, the street girls, the cruisers, and the cops—but some of them looked tired as if the seven-day-week which is the norm for the vice business was taking a toll.

The Noble Briton is a survivor, fighting back against the homogenised, imported culture of the eighties. It has the authentic old Australian discomfort—steep, slippery steps to the toilet, cramped bar, and blind spots where the barman
can't see you to serve you. The habitués manoeuvre interlopers into those blind spots. The dimness comes from the miserly low wattage of the electric bulbs rather than from any effort at cosiness.

Trade was good: there was a strong platoon of stool-sitters and bar-leaners; there was a gang of old-timers around one table and an intense young couple drinking gin at another. The pool tables were busy. I squeezed in at the bar, ordered a beer and tried to close my nose against the smoke. There was a low hum from the lubricated voices and occasional appreciative female shriek.

As I drank I tried to keep obvious observation to a minimum. Shadowy figures came and went through the door down to the toilet in processions that suggested something other than the call of nature. Men bent their heads together just out of the pools of light cast by the big tables where the cues and balls clicked. It wasn't the sort of place in which to pay too much attention to what other people were doing.

A blonde woman in a pink, tight skirt that didn't come down very far over her fat thighs, squeezed in beside me at the bar.

“Wanna go along?” She shot a furtive look at the barman who had his back to us and his hands full.

“Fair go, love. I just got here.”

Nothing showed in her face—not disappointment, annoyance, nothing. She nodded and moved to try further along. She watched the barman like a cat watches a bird, only moving when she judged the time to be right. She also had to watch out for other whores and pimps and predators. On the third try she scored; a tall, thin man with a prominent Adam's apple drained his schooner and followed her wide, weaving bottom out of the bar.

If you think drinking in a place where you don't want to
be isn't work, try it. I paced myself, ate chips, watched the pool games, and had a brief conversation with a man about horse racing. He told me it was all fixed; I bought him a beer and agreed. He bought me a beer and said it was all fixed.

A visit to the toilet depressed still further: the authenticity there was overwhelming—authentic old drains, authentic cracked bowls, authentic mould. The tiled floor was a Sargasso Sea of soggy cigarette-ends and discarded paper towels. A blood-encrusted sock was lying in a corner near the urinal and a trail of smeared, bloody footprints led to one of the cubicles.

The mirrors in places like that were not for the vain. I washed my hands in the thin trickle of rusty water, and looked up at a man with crinkly dark hair, a broken nose and deep grooves in his cheeks. He bared his teeth at me and said, “Cliff, you're starting to look as if you belong in a place just like this.” I wanted to think of something smart to say to put him in his place but I couldn't. It was a relief to leave him there and go back up to the better company in the bar.

I worked my way back to the bar and decided to stay for the length of one more drink. The beer came and I raised it unenthusiastically—the steak and pills had probably done their work, I didn't feel drunk. I didn't drink—five metres away Liam Catchpole, with his French cuffs turned back and his hair slicked down—was gently opening his hands to let four glasses down on to the top of a freshly wiped table.

6

I'd only met Catchpole once, and then only briefly. Since then he'd had his picture in the papers. I hadn't. I knew him but there was no reason to think that he'd know me. Anonymity is an asset in my game, and I was careful to preserve it.

I took a quiet sip of the beer and surveyed Catchpole's companions. Ray Guthrie wasn't hard to spot although he'd put on weight since he stood, proud and free at the wheel of the
Satisfaction
, for the camera. He'd also grown a face-brutalising, droopy moustache. He looked prosperous in a blue silk shirt and his hair was expensively cut and styled. He was drinking beer, probably the source of the extra weight, and he'd lost his outdoors look.

The woman sitting next to him was Dottie Williams. I'd once seen a blurred newspaper photograph of her and it was enough to confirm the judgement. She had a mass of light red, curly hair, a soft round face and a double chin. She was wearing earrings that dangled near her shoulders and a frilly white blouse. The effect was supposed to be of soft femininity, but when she glanced across the bar I got a look at her blue eyes—they were as hard as hacksaw blades.

Williams kept her attention on Ray, leaning toward him, touching his arm. Like him she was drinking beer. Catchpole and the other man were drinking spirits. His back was turned to me; it was a very big back, wide at the shoulder and wide all the way down to a thick, spreading waistline.
The dark hair had departed from the top of his head, leaving him with a fringe around a bald dome. The exposed skin was very dark, so was the flesh of his thick neck.

I began to move around the bar to get another angle on the group. Catchpole was doing the talking now: four heads leaned forward toward the centre of the table like footballers in a huddle. Catchpole shut up and drank—they all pulled back and relaxed. That's when I took the first picture by cupping my chin in my hands and shooting through the opened fingers. I shifted the grip and took a few more so as not to end up with only arty finger close-ups.

The huddle again, and I moved to get a better view of the big, dark man. In profile he looked even more bulky; the depleted hair was carefully cut and his dark, fleshy face was shaved close. Everything about him—his business shirt with the gold cufflinks, the quiet tie with gold bar, the trousers so well cut that his pockets sat flat and his gut didn't stretch the pleating, said
cop
.

The crowd in the bar had thinned out a bit; I wanted more pictures, but if he was a cop it wouldn't be a good idea to be caught candid-cameraing him in the Noble Briton. He turned toward me and I took a chance; knuckling my eyes, I got one of him almost full-face. He had a meaty nose and a puffy, down-turned mouth. This guy had changed a lot, and all for the worse, since his mum had had him on her knee.

I tucked the camera away and backed off, leaving the next move to them. Their move was to have another round of drinks and do some more talking. Williams and Ray Guthrie stayed in eye contact; Catchpole and the man who I had privately dubbed “the cop,” talked intently, occasionally consulting the others. There was nodding and head shaking. I didn't think they were discussing existentialism, and I would have loved to know what they
were
talking about, but there was no chance of that. Catchpole and “the
cop” were evidently old hands at the discreet conversation. Liam would have picked up the elements in the slammer.

When they got ready to go it seemed to be at “the cop's” say-so. I had my back turned as they went past me and I let them get well clear before I followed. Catchpole had on the white shoes which were his trade mark, and they twinkled in the multi-coloured lights from the shop windows as he trotted along. He was shorter than Dottie Williams, who was a head shorter herself than the other two men, even in her high heels. She was wide in the beam and wore a tight skirt with a split in the back; she and Guthrie fell back behind Catchpole and “the cop”. She tottered on her four inch heels, Ray steadied her and once she let her hand drift out and touch him on the buttocks.

The streets weren't crowded and the road traffic was light; I was quiet enough in my Italian shoes with the rubber heels, but I kept well back and thought about crossing the road to tail less obviously. They were about fifty metres ahead when, abruptly, they turned a corner. I heard a car door slam and I increased my pace. I rounded the corner, hugging the building line: the two men waiting for me had arranged themselves across the footpath to block me. They were both big, one in shirtsleeves, the other wearing a jacket and tie.

“Stop right there, you!” The jacketless one held up his hand like a traffic cop.

I didn't stop. I side-stepped and tried to get around them on the road. A car turned the corner then and crowded me back toward them. The man in the shirtsleeves told me to stop again; he wore a pistol in a hip holster and he had the cop's voice as well as gestures. I had a pistol too, but if you're smart you don't duel with the police in the Cross after dark.

In fact, if you can, you run; which was what I did. They were both bulky and slow and the adrenaline rushing
through me countered the alcohol, or perhaps blended with it and made me nimble. I feinted to one side, ducked under the swinging arm of the man in the jacket and got past.
If they shoot, I'll stop
, I told myself as I ran down the steep road. They didn't shoot and they didn't shout a warning, which told me that their business wasn't legitimate. The camera bounced in my pocket, the beer swilled in my belly and the gun stuck into my backbone. But I had my light shoes on and I felt I could run, because they were running after me.

The two of them clattered behind me and I heard one wasting his breath with a stream of obscenities as he ran. It was downhill and around the corner and into Elizabeth Bay Road. I had a discouraging flash of memory of the one time I'd run in the City to Surf race; I'd fallen twice and pulled up lame, but I kept going then, and now. Now seemed about a thousand times more important. I had good wind, the product of my year off cigarettes, and was fairly fit from regular tennis with Hilde; I felt I was gaining on them. But an uphill stretch would even us out—I never was any good on the hills.

The streets were empty of people and cars. A man sitting on a bus stop bench said something as I ran past but I didn't catch it. It certainly wasn't “I'll take care of this.” I wanted there to be more people to cut down on the risk of shooting, but everyone was inside worshipping the VCR. All I could do was try not to run in a straight line.

I risked a look back and saw that I had gained some more, almost enough to think about hiding. My heart was pumping and the breath was loose in my chest. I didn't have much more left in me. I avoided the street that led down to the dead-end of the water, turned a corner and the street name jumped out at me—Billyard Avenue. The street where you live. I had the number in my head and I sprinted for it, trying to get there before they made the turn. The building
was a huge, white pile in which one architectural style seemed to give way to another as it went up. The entrance was a deep portico, a lousy permanent hiding place, but adequate for temporary concealment. I gambled. I ducked in, checked her name on the tenant list and nearly fractured my finger ringing the bell.