The Marvellous Boy (18 page)

“Tell them to give us room Green,” I panted, “or I'll blow a hole in you. Tell them!”

Green waved his arms like a man signalling a plane in. “Go away,” he moaned, “go away. Oh Christ look at the place, what a mess.”

The fat man had melted away somewhere, leaving his mirror clouded and streaky, another six-foot stretch of glass was blood spattered and broken pieces littered the floor. There was a deep gouge in the polished boards where the thrown bar-bell had landed after it hit the mirror. I wasn't feeling so good myself.

Green got up off his knees and I signalled him with the gun to move to a corner where there was a chair and a low bench. He moved and did some more arm waving.

“Leave us alone. Kurt, Carl, get this mess cleaned up and piss off. We're closed.”

He seemed to have the authority he needed and some to spare. Two of them picked up the man whose face I'd smashed and carried him like a baby. A section of the mirror swung out and led to a locker-room and storeroom evidently, because they came back with brooms and wet towels and got to work on the devastation.

Green plonked himself down on the bench and gave me and my gun an ugly look.

“Do you know what those mirrors cost?” he barked.

“I didn't throw it,” I said. “I didn't want any trouble. Now I'm going to ask you again, do you know anything about the man in those pictures?”

He paused and looked keenly at me; his eyes seemed to be mocking me or maybe they were just hostile. “I said I didn't know him,” he said deliberately.

I brought the gun up a few inches but he knew I wouldn't use it; we both knew it. He relaxed and I wondered if he was thinking about trying to take me, but there was a deep cut under his knee, bruised around the edges and dripping blood, and I didn't think he'd risk it.

“Why did you start all that?”

He shrugged. “I don't like coppers of any kind.”

“Bullshit. Who was the guy who spoke to you when Carl hit the five hundred?”

The eyes mocked or were hostile again. “Nobody. He was putting on a bet.”

I looked at the clean-up gang. “Where is he now?”

“Didn't you see?” Green sneered. “He got in the way of some of the glass, I imagine he's gone for stitches.”

I tried to bring the man's features back and up into focus but I couldn't. I hadn't bothered to look at him closely, I'd been too interested in the stupid medicine ball game. He was big and dark, I had that much, but nearly all of them were big and dark.

“What's his name?”

“I'm not going to tell you. What are you going to do—shoot me?” He laughed and ran his hand over the grey hair.

“There's a racket here,” I said. “I can smell it.”

“No racket here, my friend, I make men into the men they want to be. That's all.” He started to stand up and let out a gasp when the weight fell on his injured leg. He slumped down onto the bench. “You've cost me money. I wouldn't come around here again if I was you.” He drew in a breath and yelled, “Ronnie!”

The girl stuck her head around the partition, she saw the gun and pulled back out of sight.

Green yelled again. “Ronnie, get me the first aid box . . . and bring a hand-out over here.”

She came teetering across the boards as the clean-up finished. Her eyes were big and frightened and her expensive top teeth were chewing on her ripe lower lip. She was carrying a white case about the size of a shoe-box and a piece of foolscap-sized, buff-coloured paper fluttered in her hand.

Green stuck out his leg. “Clean this up, Ronnie.” He took the paper from her, folded it down the middle and handed it to me.

“This is a legitimate business, probably more legitimate than yours. Have this in exchange for your crummy card.”

I put the gun away and took the paper, feeling bad. It had
the name of the joint printed stylishly across the top with a photo of Green striking a pose beside it. I put it in my pocket and got up. I had nothing more to say. I felt that if I threatened to shoot out all his mirrors Green would still laugh at me. I was preoccupied with the thought that Warwick Baudin and my bonus and everything else that mattered might have passed within touching distance of me. Green swore when Ronnie started in on his wound and I felt a little better about it all.

I unshipped the .38 when I passed Ronnie's desk and watched for vengeful lurkers on the stairs but there was no one. The disposals store bristled with bayonets and knives and there was a gun-shop next to that; the place was high on weapons and low on intelligence and I included myself in that. I bought coffee and some aspirin in the next block and sat rubbing the sore spot near my ear and wondering about my next move. I pulled out the Spartacus Studio's blurb and looked it over; Leonidas had his name in about ten times and there were testimonials to the efficacy of his courses from satisfied Mr. Victorias and Mr. Queenslands. A name near the bottom of the screed took my eye—the supplier of weight-lifting and gymnasium equipment to the studio was Richard Selby.

I was doing it all by reflex now, bouncing from point to point and not initiating anything, but that's the way things break sometimes and I had the feeling that my bounces were taking me closer to the nerve centre of whatever the hell was going on. Selby's firm was listed—the Titan Gymnasium Equipment Co. Its factory and office were in St. Peters, a short drive, but a hot, bustly one in four o'clock traffic. I dragged myself back to the car and broke all the rules about drug use by swigging some of the Irish whisky before I started and smoking a cigarette as I drove.

I passed the dark, satanic chimneys that landmark St. Peters and started threading through the streets that are a mixture of light-industry, factories and terrace houses. Selby's place was a big, red-brick structure with a flat face sitting flush with the pavement. It had big roller doors at either end and a glass-panelled door in the middle. The word Titan was written across the front, the letters being composed of strokes in the shape of barbells.

I sat in my car watching the place, smoking, and wondering how to tackle Selby. Maybe I could strongarm him into telling me what he knew about Brain and Bettina's child and Warwick Baudin and maybe I couldn't. Maybe he
didn't know or someone else was using him. It was a tangled skein with the deaths of Brain and Callaghan as knots and the lost Chatterton at the end of the string. I was musing, stalling like this when two men came out of the centre door. The shorter man, wearing a yellow blazer and tan slacks, was Selby. His face was brick red in the sunlight and his oiled, black locks glistened. The other man was a few inches taller and very broad; he was wearing a fawn suit and his face was partly swathed in fresh, white bandages. I watched them talking for a while and then had to gulp for air; I realised that I'd been holding my breath. They talked intently for a few minutes and then Selby clapped the other on the arm and went back into the building. The man with the bandages stood for a moment squinting against the sun; I strained my eyes at him willing him to be the man I wanted but I couldn't be sure. He was about six foot two and his hair was dark but his features were disguised by the wrappings. His clothes were good without being handmade; he looked fit but a bit on the heavy side: it was possible.

He walked over to a blue Datsun and got in it by bending the right places at the right time. I tagged along trying to feel confident that I had the fish in the net, but full of doubt. He stopped in Newtown for a paper and had his car checked right around; wherever he was going he wasn't in a hurry. His next stop was at Victoria Park where he sat on a bench and read the paper. Then he smoked a cigarette. I did the same fifty yards away sitting in my car with the beginnings of a bladder problem. He strolled across to a telephone booth, not far enough from his car to give me time to do anything about my bladder, and did some nattering. Then another cigarette, then some tie-straightening and comb work in the side mirror and he was ready to go.

The traffic had thinned out in Broadway and we took it nice and easy and turned right into Park Street. After the two soapy shaves in Canberra I'd stood back a bit with the razor and my face was blue and bristling. I'd talked to whores and he-men and had taken one smart tap from a man who knew how to dish it out. We were heading up towards the Cross and I wasn't in condition for a disco or blackjack den, but on reflection neither was the man in the Datsun. He looked in need of a good meal and some loving kindness; that made me think of Kay and my promise to ring her. I had almost two hours in hand.

We by-passed the Cross and went through Rushcutters Bay where the Stadium used to be—where the crowds came to see the men punching each other for the fame and the money until there was no fame and no money in it any more. And nobody wore hats any more the way all those men did and no one would ever smoke again the way they did, so guiltlessly. Now there were pricey boats tossing on the water; there were waiting lists for those moorings and people scanned the death notices hoping for a name to appear so that they could move up in the queue and tuck their own little fifty thousand dollar dream up near Sir Ian's and Sir Abraham's.

We climbed and took some turns and suddenly I knew where I was—right, slap-dab in millionaires' row and the Datsun was turning into Lady Catherine's drive and I was going past with things dropping into place in my mind like snooker balls being run into the pockets. The man driving the Datsun into the Chatterton residence had been driving it out when I'd last come calling, and that little blue car was the self-same one that had been parked on Nurse Callaghan's land the night I got my skull dented.

I waited an hour, getting more impatient and uncomfortable by the minute. I took in a little more whisky and a little more tobacco. A few expensive cars purred past and I prayed that the cops would be far away keeping the lower classes in order where they belonged—in that street the Falcon stuck out like a clown at a funeral. I kept low and was considering risking my aim into an empty beer can when the Datsun came out of the drive. I hung well back and let him pick up a couple of other cars as we headed back to the city. He drove fast and well, moving between the lanes and judging the lights; Warwick Baudin had had some car trouble, I'd been told, but that didn't mean he wasn't a good driver.

He turned into Macquarie Street and headed down towards the water. I got close, closer than is classical and confirmed that there was a woman in the car beside the driver. The impression I got was of thinness—Verna Reid. It looked as though they were headed for the Opera House which was good because I could get a parking place there and bad because there were a dozen different places they could go. I stayed close and parked a few cars behind them. He was gallant with the car door and his arm and Miss Reid hung on tight; she would have had her head on his shoulder if she could, but she'd have had to jump to get it there. They ambled on towards the billowing sails, the box offices and the Bollinger' 71. I followed, gunless, innocent and with a bursting bladder.

They turned a few heads as they promenaded. You don't see a six-foot-three Hercules with his face in bandages boulevarding with a handsome eagle-faced woman every day. I kept back in case Verna looked around and tried to blend in with the tourists and the lookers and the buyers. They hung over the rail watching the ferries pull in and out
and the plastic bottles bobbing in the water for a while and then made their way around to the restaurant. I felt like cheering; if they only had the soup and salad it'd still give me time for a piss. I hung around for a minute to make sure they were settled and then set off in search of a facility. That was when I saw him or sensed him. The first rule in following people is not to make any sudden movements; you can pick up a quick movement even when it's outside your field of vision—an atavistic instinct maybe. As I turned around to go down the steps from the restaurant I caught a disturbance of the landscape behind me and to my left. I hopped down the steps and turned the first corner and put the antennae up: there were a few strollers and purposeful walkers about and there was someone following me.

He was still there when I went into the toilet and still there when I came out. I wandered about, getting the lie of the land and waiting for a few evening shadows to fall. The lights of the city and the expensive suburbs across the harbour started to do their job and the water turned from a soft blue to green and then to a flinty grey. The revellers went to their revels and I walked to the end of the point and ducked in flat to the wall around a corner. He came on. His feet were quiet but I thought I could hear the rasp of his breath and I fancied I could smell him. When he came around the corner I slammed my fist into his gut and twisted his arm like an elastic band. I rushed him over to the rail, thumped his back into it and bent him. Albie Logan looked up at me with big, round, frightened eyes like a frog about to give its life for science.

“Well, well,” I said nastily, ‘it's Mrs. Logan's boy Albert. Now just what would you be doing here?”

He didn't answer so I took him off the rail an inch or two and put him back on it hard. He yelped.

“Turn it up Slim, you're breaking me back.”

I did it again. “Why are you following me, Albie?”

“I wasn't,” he said and then he yelped again as I bounced his spine off the rail.

“Why?”

“I was . . . hired to,” he gasped.

“You're lousy at it. Who hired you?”

“I dunno his name.”

I looked around. We were alone on the concrete peninsula. Albie was wearing a suit and tie and I yanked the tie off and pulled the handkerchief out of his breast pocket.

“Can you swim Albie?”

“Not good,” he stammered.

“Tell you what I'm going to do. If you don't speak up and answer every question I ask you to my satisfaction, I'm going to tie you up with this,” I showed him the tie, “and stuff this in your gob and drop you over here. You're a dealer—who'd give a fuck?”