‘Relied on your bones,’ Wilbur said, ‘we’d be round the Salvos eatin rabbit stew.’
‘Given these pies, that’s not a frightenin thought,’ said Norm. He turned to me. ‘Jack, prepared to divulge yer thoughts on the gallops at Geelong?’
‘People in the know treat my tips as scratchings,’ I said. ‘However, since it’s you lot.’
Charlie Taub gave a snort and went off to talk football to a retired tram driver called Wally Pollard. Wally’s only son, Bantam Pollard, ruined a promising career with Collingwood through bad timing. On a Friday night in 1975, the club president took six guests into the committee box to show them the ground’s new floodlights. They came on, casting a cold white light on the playing field and on Bantam Pollard’s spotty bottom. It was dead centre of the field, bracketed by the fleshy thighs of the president’s sixteen-year-old daughter.
We were on race four when a man came in the street door. He was about fifty, bald, of below medium height, with a heavy body. RayBans sat on a darkly tanned bull-terrier face. He’d spent about three grand on his gear, most of it on gold chains and a golden brown leather jacket that fitted him like a condom. The style said Sydney or the Gold Coast; the walk, as if he were rolling a tennis ball between his upper thighs, said cop, probably vice squad.
Stan the barman was at the far end of the counter. He exchanged a few words with Mr Gold Coast and then came down to our end of the bar.
‘Bloke’s asking for Jack,’ he said, looking at Wilbur. ‘What’ll I tell him?’
‘Tell him I’ll be along in a minute,’ I said. I lingered for a minute or two and then walked down the bar.
Stan had served Mr Gold Coast something with tonic. At my approach, he smiled at me, a lip lift to show lavatory-white capped teeth. It conveyed no more sentiment than a facial tic. He put out a hand.
‘Jack. Tony Baker.’ The hand exerted no pressure; a hand that felt to be made of one-inch brass plumbing fittings didn’t need to do anything other than Be.
‘What can I do for you?’ I said.
‘Have a drink with me.’
‘I’ve got one waiting.’
‘You do work among the elderly. That’s nice.’ He swallowed the contents of his glass and rapped it on the counter several times. Stan responded to the summons by leaving the room.
Tony Baker edged closer to me. The top of his head came up to my chin. This gave me all the physical confidence the giraffe feels when it meets the rhino. He showed me his teeth again.
‘Clubby here, am I right? No risk of anyone wanting to join though, mate. Well, this isn’t a social occasion. I’m here to straighten a coupla things out.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as your getting in the way of an official investigation.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of a number of matters, one of which touches Mr Ronald Bishop.’
‘What do you mean, touches?’
Tony Baker put his hand to his muscular sausage of a neck and turned his head a few centimetres to each side. ‘Jack,’ he said, speaking softly, ‘you don’t want to know, right? If you get in the way of this investigation you’ll get squashed so fucken flat they’ll post you.’
‘Who’ll squash me?’ I asked.
His eyes went hard. I noticed a small gold fleck in the right iris. ‘You’re not listening, Jack. I’m telling you to back off, drop it. This matter is at a very high level, a national level. I’ve said too much now.’
‘Have you got some identification?’ I realised I should have asked earlier.
Tony Baker closed his eyes and sighed. ‘Can I get this across to you without a map? You don’t want to know anything about me. Take it as gospeclass="underline" you are obstructing an official operation. Pull your head in, forget about Mr Bishop, or you’ll wish it was you that cunt blew up in the carpark. Just fucken butt out.’
He left. I went back to the form but couldn’t concentrate. At six-thirty, Charlie’s granddaughter, the lovely Augustine, hooted outside. I went out with him. It was intensely cold after the warmth of the pub and the air had the burnt petrol smell of winter cities everywhere.
Charlie got into the car and wound down the window. ‘Eat some proper food,’ he said. ‘You need someone to look after you.’
I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘Maybe you can talk your driver here into marrying me. It’s all indoor work.’
‘Let’s talk pay and conditions,’ Gus said. She was a trade union official.
Charlie snorted. ‘Go,’ he said to Gus. ‘Some men you don’t want in your family.’
I stood in the street and considered whether to go back into the pub and settle down or to go home. I decided to go home. I’ve learned to take the hard decisions.
The apartment was cold, the bulb in the bathroom had fused and the fridge smelled of five-day-old fish. Cam, Wootton and my daughter were on the answering machine. Claire said: Listen, Jack, I’m just ringing to say I miss you and I’ll be down for a visit soon. I might bring Eric to set your mind at rest. Your letter sounds glum. Don’t be. Love you. Bye.
I made a stiff Jamieson’s and soda and rang Linda Hillier. She wasn’t in the office.
14
Hardhills was a shop, a garage and a weatherboard pub at a churned-up crossroads. The nearest town of any size was thirty kilometres away. In between, it was all low sky, wet sheep and ponds in every hollow.
There were three utes outside the pub. Harry Strang eased the BMW to a stop beside the shop and switched off. He looked at his watch.
We sat in silence for five minutes. I was thinking about Ronnie Bishop. Cam was reading the Sporting Globe. Harry had his eyes closed, head back on the rest. Then he said, ‘Now this fella Rex Tie, supposed to meet us out here twelve sharp, he’s sittin in the pub over there with this other fella we’ve come to see. Talkin horses. Couple of the yokels no doubt waterin the tonsils. Publican’s hangin about. Rex’s takin the view that we’ll come in, have a few gargles first.’
‘Sounds reasonable,’ I said.
‘Not in this line of work,’ Harry said. ‘Thought I’d schooled Rex the last time. Easier to train a horse.’
At 12.15, two men came out of the pub. One of them, a gangling figure in a battered half-length Drizabone, came over to the car. At his approach, Harry pressed the button and his window slid down. The man bent down to look in. He had a long, sad, middle-aged face, much of it nose.
‘Sorry, Harry,’ he said. ‘Thought you might come in for a quick one.’
Harry looked at him. ‘Rex, you’ve forgotten.’
Rex straightened up and then he came down again. ‘Jeez, Harry, have a heart. This is bloody Hardhills. There’s only about four people.’
‘That’s four too many, Rex. Drive. We’ll follow.’
Rex and the other man got into their utes and drove off, the other man in front. We followed at a distance.
‘Harry, why do you need a lawyer for driving around the Western District?’ I asked. The question had been on my mind for some time.
He gave me a quick look. ‘The yokels’ve got a lot of respect for lawyers, Jack. Doesn’t hurt to show them one. That bloke up front, he’s got a horse called Dakota Dreaming, five years old, hasn’t run for two years. Not that it ran much before that either. What’s the ’rithmetic, Cam?’
‘Seven, one, one,’ said Cam. He was studying the landscape out of the side window.
‘Five-year-old. Seven races. Now that’s what I call lightly raced,’ Harry said. ‘And the reason is, Jack, the animal’s got a horrible record, truly horrible. Lucky he’s not in the pet’s mince or got a big copper’s bum on him. The fella up there, he’s owner number four, and number three made him a gift of the horse. Gratis and for nothing. He’s put two years into patchin up the beast and he reckons it’s got one or two big runs in it. Tell Jack the history, Cam.’