‘No,’ I said. ‘I haven’t felt that.’
‘Right. Now you live in Glebe. You must have seen old Dot, the woman who goes up and down the street haranguing people for money? You’ve seen the winos and the deadbeats and the male and female executives in their suits and those beautiful people from the Aboriginal and Islander Dance Theatre. Glebe’s tolerant, Glebe’s for diversity. I was hoping you might appreciate that.’
‘I do,’ I said. I opened a drawer and took out a contract form. ‘Let’s get a few details down.’
This time I got the smile and the laugh. ‘Right. I bet you want to know whether I piss standing up or sitting down.’
‘It crossed my mind.’
‘Sitting down when I’m tired and standing up when I’m not-just like you, mate. Just like you.’
She lived in a terrace that left mine for dead. Two storeys, deep front garden, fresh paint. Encouraging, and her cheque had cleared. I parked in the wide street on the night of the next meeting and watched the guests arrive just as it was getting dark. The moon came up. Ms Cato had told me that she and her friends liked moonlit nights particularly, found it flattering.
Five of the guests drove themselves in middle-of-the-range cars and two arrived by taxi. A green Honda Accord carried two people who were obviously more confident than the rest. Ms Cato’s guests were taller than a random selection of seven women would be and, with the exception of the pair in the Honda, they moved with a kind of caution that visibly slackened as they opened the gate and went up the path. Definitely some hip sway then. There was nothing remarkable about them apart from an excessive smartness. Their suits and dresses and shoes almost had a shine, as if they were kept in layers of tissue. No motorcyclist appeared.
‘It was a comfort knowing you were there,’ my client told me later when I phoned to report. ‘We had a good meeting and a lovely time.’
‘If you had any idea who this character is I could perhaps do something to make sure he doesn’t show up again.’
‘You’re talking yourself out of a job. I want you there again next week. Sorry, I really don’t have a clue.’
I wasn’t sure whether to believe her or not so I pressed. ‘No-one got the licence number of the bike I suppose?’
‘No.’
‘No angry authors? No rejected boyfriends?’
‘No. I haven’t an enemy in the world that I’m aware of.’
I could have told her that it’s not always enemies you have to watch out for, it’s friends. But that would have got me nowhere. I agreed to be on watch the next week and I turned up on time and parked in the same spot. Daylight saving had come in that week but the time of the meeting hadn’t changed, so it was much lighter when the guests were due. A person wearing a blue silk dress with white spots arrived in a red Commodore. She looked jaunty as she locked the car, dropped the keys into her handbag and hefted the bottle of champagne. It was a fair bet not to be a six dollar special. Just before she opened the gate she looked across at me and winked.
The motorcycle rounded the corner at low revs and pulled up behind the Commodore. The rider dismounted and stood in the gutter near the gate to Ms Cato’s house. Short and stocky. Helmet, leather jackets, jeans, boots. I checked my watch. The others would be arriving in a cluster soon. Sure enough, the green Honda came into view. The biker pulled off his helmet. He wore a black balaclava. He reached into his pocket and took out a cylindrical object I recognised as a paint spray can. Any private enquiry agent knows that there is a fine line between assault and legitimate defence. The spray can and the balaclava were triggers. I jumped out of my car as the Honda stopped and the two guests alighted. I caught a glimpse of them as I moved forward-loose sleeves, long skirts, spike heels, silk scarves.
The biker pointed the can and began to shout. I caught the shrill tones, the hysterical high pitch.
‘Fucking perverts! Fucking poofters! Dirty, bum-fucking…’
The guests stopped, bottles in hand, skirts swirling, suddenly unbalanced and vulnerable on their high heels. I jumped at him as he thrust the can forward. He saw me at the last minute but shot a spray out at the nearest target-a beige silk blouse. I chopped down on the arm and the can went flying into the road. The biker was floundering and I was set, steady. I threw a short left into his ribs that drove the breath from him and clipped him with a right as his head came up, exposing his chin. I connected, not quite solidly, but he went down in a heap as if I had a punch like Mike Tyson. The guest who’d been sprayed let go with a full-bodied masculine yell.
‘Shut up,’ I snarled. Shouldn’t have gone down like that, I was thinking. Something’s wrong here.
Ms Cato and the first arrival came running down the path, heels clattering on the cement. They and the others bent over me as I unzipped the leather jacket and removed the balaclava from the stunned biker. Long, grey-streaked hair fell free and her breasts rose under the T-shirt as she sucked in air. Flesh bulged at her waist and a trickle of blood ran down from her mouth to the soft folds of her double chin.
‘My god,’ Ms Cato said. ‘It’s Brenda. My wife!’
I’d never hit a woman before and I felt sick to my stomach. ‘You told me
‘I didn’t know! I swear I didn’t know!’
Treasure Trove
‘What you need is a lawyer, Bert,’ I said, ‘not a detective.’
Bert Russell shook his big bald head and grinned. ‘No fear, I read up on this sort of thing a bit. I need an investigation to see how the land lies. Then, and only then, I make an anonymous phone call or I hire a lawyer. Shit, if it all works out well I might need a couple of bloody lawyers.’
His enthusiasm and good humour were infectious.
‘And an accountant.’
‘Too right.’
Bert was the manager and part-owner of a liquor store in Glebe Point Road and over the years I had put a certain amount of business his way. He’d tried to get me to invest in good wine and, failing that, to drink it. No go. I was a weekly specials buyer at best, and not averse to the better brands in a cask. We’d struck up a kind of bantering friendship and when, after getting a good cheque, I occasionally did buy an expensive bottle his recommendation was always sound. Now we were in my place of business, the very pre-loved office I have in Darlinghurst, and he’d told me about what he’d found buried on his land at Dugong Beach on the Central Coast, where he had a weekender- a metal strongbox, wrapped in oilskin, containing 60 kilos of gold bars.
‘That’s well over a million bucks’ worth, Cliff,’ Bert had said. ‘Give or take.’
‘Read up on that too, did you?’
‘I didn’t need to. They give you the price of gold on the radio every day. Haven’t you ever heard it?’
I shook my head. ‘Most days I’d have to say it doesn’t concern me. Come to think of it, it’s never concerned me.’
Bert had gone on to explain how it concerned me now. Along with the gold, the strongbox contained a pistol, a Colt. 45 automatic, and a photograph of a woman. He wanted me to establish, one way or the other, whether he’d be in any trouble if he claimed the money.
‘I don’t know how old it is, or the bloody gun or the picture. If it’s some drug thing, real recent like, I don’t want to know about it. If it’s old, say twenty-five years or more, I’m going to claim it. I’ll pay you your normal rates to look into it, and if I strike it lucky you’re on a percentage.’
‘How much of a percentage?’
‘I’d lose a certain amount to the government and I’ve got Tom and my two girls to think of. How about 5 per cent of what I clear?’