The Washington Club (11 page)

‘What's your name?' I said over the babble.

‘Todd.'

I opened the gate and went through, shoving Todd away, keeping him outside. I grabbed his hair and brought his ear closer to my mouth. ‘Tell them I said no comment, Todd. And anyone who touches this fucking gate is gone for trespass.'

I let him go, banged the gate shut and went up the path which is so overgrown all the cameras would be getting was branches and shadows.
Hardy handles the media and scores his first win of the day.
But in fact it was the next day and the day that had just slipped away had taken a lot with it. I felt physically and mentally sore as I slammed the door behind me and faced the old familiar smells and sounds.

I was dog-tired but somehow I didn't want to go upstairs and climb into my bed with the sheets and pillow covers overdue for a wash and the mattress settling into a one-person-only shape. When Glen was around the bedroom had a kind of symmetry—two clothes racks, books and magazines on both sides, coffee mugs, massage oil swapping from one side to the other, stains on the surfaces. Now one clothes rack was empty; the globe in the reading light on one side had been dead for months and the dusty massage oil bottle was in the chest of drawers.

For the first time I noticed that there was blood on my shirt and trousers. I had a shower
and dropped the clothes into an old topless Esky where I put things destined for the dry cleaners. I had a shower and wandered about with a towel around my waist, rejecting the idea of wine, Scotch or coffee. I thought about taking my unlicensed Colt .45 out from its hiding place in the cupboard under the stairs and rejected that idea too. If I'd known who to shoot maybe I'd have done it, but I hadn't a clue.

That led me to thinking about Cy and the times we'd called each other and left affectionate, abusive messages on the answering machines. I noticed that the light was blinking on my machine and I pressed the PLAY button, expecting to hear nothing but routine communications.

‘Cliff, this is Claudia. The policewoman was okay. She's gone now. It's two o'clock. I got your note. That's terrible about Cyrus. I'm so sorry. And I know he was your friend. It couldn't have anything to do with me, could it? There were a whole lot of reporters at the gate but the security people got rid of them. I know you'll be busy so I'm going to knock myself out with a Mogadon until the afternoon. I'll be here. Please call me. Again, I'm terribly sorry about Cyrus. If there's anything I can do you must tell me . . . In fact, I think I need you to tell me what to do next, anyway . . . I'll wait to hear from you.'

‘We never sleep,' I'd told Cy, but I did—until late in the morning. I came up from the deep sleep more fresh and eager than I'd felt in many weeks and I knew the reason why. I surveyed my body as I dressed—not too bad, love handles but not out of control, more grey hairs on the chest than on the head and overall muscle tone reasonable. Not finished yet. I did a few perfunctory exercises—stretches, knee bends, nothing serious—and then I was reminded of Cy and his extensive exercise sessions before our squash games. They'd exasperated me slightly and made me anxious to have a whack, probably a piece of smart strategising by Cy.

I shaved carefully, something I'd neglected lately, and ate breakfast, which I rarely do—an almost-past-it orange, toast and two boiled eggs. After two cups of coffee I was ready to face the paper, but Cy's death had just made the Stop Press and the details were minimal. There was nothing about me, and if the TV boys and girls had got some meaningless
footage, dressed it up somehow, and run it early I didn't want to know. I brushed my teeth several times, regretting the chips and discolourations—talismans of fights, poor dentistry and bad habits—and got out my notes and diagrams to review the state of the matter.

Nothing had changed. There were no new names to add to the equations, only one to subtract. Perhaps Cy's death had nothing to do with the Fleischman case. For all I knew he could have been representing someone with some connection to Neddy Smith, in which case anything was possible from any angle. But I didn't think so. Why hit him just there and just then? Why not as he got into the car or got out of it? My gut feeling was that this was directly related to either Fleischman's death or Claudia's future. Was it a warning? If so, from whom and with what intent? It pained me to reach the conclusion, but I decided that my courses of action remained the same—protect Claudia, find Haitch Henderson, identify white-sleeve of Watsons Bay and, if possible, communicate with Anton Van Kep.

Hardest things first, always. I phoned the office of Deputy Police Commissioner Frank Parker and after exchanging wisecracks with his secretary, Abigail, secured an appointment with him for early that afternoon. I didn't kid myself about my persuasive powers, the police bureaucracy is as impervious to plea and reason as any other; Frank had no doubt
monitored the conversation and intervened himself. He'd know that I knew. He might even know what I wanted. It was impossible to wrong-foot Frank. Just to be evenly balanced with him was good going.

Frank Parker had secured his promotion after the last ICAC enquiry had cleaned out most of the dead wood and rotten apples above him. Frank believed in the cop culture and had done his share of verballing and corner-cutting in the old days, but he had managed to keep himself clean while not stepping on too many toes of the dirty. I owed him more favours than he owed me when you added them up but in Frank's eyes he'd incurred a debt to me he could never repay—I'd introduced him to the woman who became his wife.

Hilde Stoner had been a lodger in my house, a dental nurse and an all-round terrific person. Some bad business in Bondi had brought me into contact with Parker and through me he met Hilde. His marriage had collapsed; she was looking for more in life than crowns and root canals and they never took a backward step. They'd been married for going on ten years and had a son, name of Clifford, poor little bugger. Frank knew and I knew that it was Hilde and the boy that had got him off the bottle and kept him back from all the rancid deals that come the way of cops, whether they're straight or bent. It was good to have someone of influence feel that grateful
to me, even if I'd done nothing to deserve it, except put in the odd good word—and stand aside myself, of course.

The phone had been ringing pretty steadily—journalists seeking interviews. I ignored the messages and wiped them as soon as they'd finished talking. Three faxes came through in similar vein and I tore them into strips to use as scrap paper by the phone. I knew it'd be the same at the office and I didn't want to go there. I phoned Pete Marinos and made sure the watch was being kept on the Fleischman apartment. Then I took out the Colt, cleaned and loaded it and put it in a plastic shopping bag which I carried out to the car. There was some evidence of the events of yesterday—fragments of the busted Commodore tail light, oil spill from something that had been fractured in my Falcon, two cigarette packets, a rash of butts and some soft-drink cans from the last night's visitors. No blood or tissue, making the Glebe asphalt a hell of a lot better than the trendy paving outside Claudia's front gate.

Frank was standing by the window in his office in the Darlinghurst Police Centre, looking towards the city. There were a surprising number of trees to be seen in that direction. He swung around as soon as I entered and stuck out his hand.

‘Gidday, Cliff. You look pretty good, considering.'

We shook and I joined him by the window. ‘Considering what?'

‘Oh, years on the clock, bottles and glasses, blast grenades, things like that.'

I grunted. ‘You heard about Cy?'

‘Of course. I'm sorry, mate. He was a good bloke—great bloke in fact, for a fucking lawyer.'

He sat on the edge of his desk which was untidy, covered with papers and reports and all the other snowstorm of bumf that descends on bureaucrats. Essentially that was what Frank now was. He was about my height and weight, a few years older but he didn't look it. He and Hilde were passionate tennis players and they exercised so as not to lose their suppleness. Me, I exercise hard when I've got the time and so far I'm holding up reasonably well. Although Frank paid his dues as a beat policeman and detective, he didn't get his nose broken in the boxing ring, cop malaria in Malay when fighting the Chinese communists and stop a lot of fists and several bullets. That's my explanation for my treadmarked face.

‘What can I do for you, Cliff?'

‘You know I was working for Cy on Claudia Fleischman's defence?'

Frank nodded.

‘She didn't do it, Frank.'

‘You sure that's not your dick talking?'

There were never any punches pulled between Frank and me. That's how we both
played it and oddly it worked. We both thought that pussyfooting causes more misunderstandings and resentments than directness. Frank would have learned things from Bolton when he knew I wanted to see him, and he wouldn't hold back from drawing obvious conclusions.

‘Let me rephrase that,' I said. ‘I
believe
she didn't do it. I also believe that Cy s murder has something to do with the Fleischman case.'

‘Evidence?'

‘Scrappy.' I sucked in a breath and gave him as good as he'd given me. ‘I
know
the police are under pressure to settle the Fleischman thing and that you've got a neat package with Van Kep and all. I say it's bullshit.'

‘Okay. What d'you want?'

‘How're Hilde and the boy?'

Frank shook his head. ‘Cliff, that's not worthy of you.'

‘Humour me. I've lost one of my best friends and, as you say, my dick's involved.'

He opened his hands. ‘Ask.'

‘I want to have a talk with Van Kep.'

‘Jesus, Cliff. I can't do it. He's a protected witness.'

‘He's a lying turd. Claudia hired him to protect her from Fleischman. Someone turned him around and he killed Fleischman and lumbered her.'

Frank shook his head. ‘You're way off. Van Kep couldn't kill anyone. They've done extensive psychological tests on him. The muscles
and balls are all for show—he's a physical coward, doesn't know whether he's AC or DC sexually and is as dumb as shit with just enough brains to act bright.'

I could have told Frank about Haitch Henderson then, suggested him as the trigger-man, captured his interest. I didn't. I wanted Henderson for myself, and something else, something unexpected, was building inside me. I was noting Frank's shirt, white with a thin grey line in the weave; his tennis club tie and the double-breasted blazer on a hanger on a low clothes stand in the corner of the office. In the old days Frank used to drop his single-breasted Grace Bros suit coat over the back of his chair and feel in the pockets for pens and failed lottery tickets to scribble on. I was aware of the difference between a career and a living, between a marriage and what was probably going to be just another ‘relationship', with all the trouble that can involve. I bubbled over.

‘Fuck you, Frank. You've got it soft. You can coast to a pension or a fucking payout that'll keep you in Slazenger Topspins for life. I'm still out there trying to make shit fit.'

Frank stared at me for what seemed like a long time; his long, lean face was set in hard lines with all the friendship gone out of it. I knew that desk jockeying wasn't to his taste and that he'd taken the position because it was his due and because, with a wife and child, it didn't make sense for him to be sitting in cars with shotguns or walking up to houses with shuttered 
windows. I'd scored a bull'
s-eye and I was ashamed of it.

‘Frank, I'm sorry. I . . .'

‘Don't worry about it. There's a lot in what you say and you don't know the half of it. This fucking job's mostly paper shuffling and what isn't is just politics.'

I eased up out of my chair. ‘I know. I shouldn't have asked you.'

‘Sit down! Let me think. You made the appointment with Abigail, did you talk to anyone else?'

‘No.'

‘Sign the book downstairs?'

‘Come on, Frank. I wrote David Ritchie of Burnt Ridge, Kempsey.'

Parker nodded. It was a favourite false name of mine. David Ritchie was the real name of the Aboriginal boxer, Dave Sands, who was killed in a truck accident in 1952. It was one of the regrets of my life that I was too young to have seen him fight. People whose judgment I respected said he was the best ever. Frank had seen him at Rushcutters Bay and was one of the praise-singers.

‘Okay,' Frank said. ‘Abigail's reliable, but I'm still putting my arse on the line here. If you fuck up . . . Hilde's told me how women can turn your brains to shit.'

‘Don't do it if you don't want to.'

‘Fuck you. On the way out you'd better be the invisible man.'

I nodded. He was still working himself up
to do something dangerous and I gave him the time. Again, I felt guilty about putting him in the position, but an image of Claudia—frizzy hair and dark red parted lips—came into my mind and I held my ground.

‘D'you think the same guy did the hits on Fleischman and Sackville?'

I wanted to say,
Yes! Yes!
But I couldn't do that to him and he was leaning forward slightly in his chair, watching me intently. I rubbed my closely shaven jaw where the bristles were just starting to break through. The Claudia image had gone and I was left out there where the only signposts are the ones you write yourself.

‘I honestly don't know, Frank. I haven't got any details on how Fleischman got it yet. I read about it at the time but the details didn't stick. If it was a handgun at close range, no way.'

‘Rifle. Two shots through the pump from about a hundred yards or so.'

‘It could be the same shooter.'