‘Hardy, this is Inspector Carmichael. No doubt you’ve heard about Master.’
‘I’ve heard.’
‘I want to talk to you.’
‘I don’t know anything about it.’
‘I still need to talk to you. We’re on our way to your place.’
‘You think I’ve got Stewie Master stashed away here?’
‘See you directly.’
No, you won’t. I snatched up the mobile and the keys and got out.
As everyone knows, time goes more quickly as you get older, but, in a funny way, when you’re trying to kill time it slows down. I was still much too early for the Marrickville appointment, even after filling the car with petrol and oil and getting the tyres checked and the windscreen cleaned. If I lived in Bondi, which I’d often thought of doing, I’d put in the time at the beach, staring at the waves, but where do you go between Petersham, where I got the petrol, and Marrickville?
When Carmichael and Hammond got to my place and found me gone, the chances were they’d put out a bulletin on my car. I didn’t want to drive aimlessly around. I remembered a park in Marrickville where they had some of the last remaining grass tennis courts in Sydney. As I drove I caught a news bulletin about Master’s escape from Avonlea. There were still no details on how he’d managed it, but there was a full and accurate description of him. At least he wasn’t described as ‘dangerous’.
I parked in the shade, bought a take-away coffee across the road and strolled down to the courts. I had the mobile with me. If Stewart Master wanted to contact me and was able to, he could. Involved with an assassin, a corrupt legal and police network, an escaped convict and investigating police, my position was far from secure. I’d been in the middle of nasty games before, but not with as many serious players.
A mixed doubles match between some accomplished players was in progress on beautifully grassed courts with the white lines clearly marked. Nothing quite like it. The dinosaur era, as John McEnroe calls it, right here. The old-world aspect of the tennis game, taking me back to my teenage years playing inter-club competition on suburban grass courts, had a calming effect.
The middle-aged players all had competent serves and ground strokes, but it was clear that the surface was a novelty to them. They tried to set themselves for topspin shots but the ball wouldn’t bounce high enough and they got frustrated. The players taking the net position on serve handled themselves well enough, but when it came to approaching the net at speed they faltered, unsure of their footing. All but one of them were fundamentally back court players anyway, and the woman who was most comfortable at the net chopped her opponents up severely. She and her partner were clearly going to win and consequently were having the most fun. I sipped coffee and watched, envying them the freedom to play games. I clapped one of her cross-court volleys, got an appreciative wave in reply, and went back to the car.
The mobile chirped and I answered it.
‘Hardy.’
‘This is Carmichael, Hardy. You’re being foolish.’
I cut him off.
Marrickville has been through as many changes as most places in the inner-west. Jeff Fenech was known as the ‘Marrickville Mauler’, so I guess the Maltese must have had a foothold. Then there was a heavy Greek and Lebanese presence and more recently Asians have moved in strongly. The Demetrios restaurant was a product of that earlier migrant wave, battling bravely against the rising tide of Vietnamese restaurants and Chinese supermarkets. I parked at a short distance in spaces provided for rail travellers and made my way back to the main street. I wore a loose cotton jacket with a denim shirt, drill slacks and leather boots. The Smith amp; Wesson rode high and tight under my arm. My wallet was zipped into a pocket in the jacket. I was sweating under a high sun in a clear sky. When I thought about it, Black Andy Piper was one of the last people in Sydney I’d want to see.
They were waiting for me at the door of the Demetrios- both big, both in suits, both ex-coppers. Who else would Piper employ and what else could men like that do once their warrant cards had been surrendered or, more likely, taken from them? I half recognised one of them but couldn’t recall his name; didn’t know the other.
‘Gidday, Hardy, you arsehole. Remember me?’
‘Remind me.’
‘Loomis.’
‘Oh, yeah. Mr Loomis, detective sergeant that was.’
‘Right. Come this way, Hardy, and don’t give us any trouble. This is a respectable place.’
There were a number of responses I could have made but I resisted the impulse. Loomis was a thug I’d run into years before when a missing person case had crossed wires with a semi-illegal police sting. Loomis liked hurting people then and probably still did. No point in antagonising him now. I followed him and the other one into the restaurant and straight down the corridor that led to the toilets. Loomis’s mate held the door open and I went in with Loomis following.
‘Strip, Hardy,’ Loomis said, ‘and then bend over.’
I took the. 38 and pointed it at the bridge of Loomis’s big-pored nose. ‘I’ll strip,’ I said. ‘I know you have to be sure I’m not wired. But I’m not going to spread my bum for you or anyone else and you can tell Black Andy that for me. I’m feeling fucking humiliated enough just talking to him.’
The other heavy made a move towards me but I kept the gun steady on Loomis, who gave a buck-toothed smile, causing me to remember his nickname. He gestured to his mate to back off. ‘You always had some balls, Hardy, I’ll give you that. You can put the gun within reach and strip. Me and Chris’ll just admire your physique while you show us there’s no wire.’
‘Fair enough, Bucky.’
His face darkened but he wasn’t about to be put off his stride. ‘You’ll keep, Hardy. You’ll unload the gun before we go back in and drop the bullets into a pocket of your jacket. Then I think Mr Piper’ll be happy to see you. Of course, if you’re wearing a wire Chris and me will have to take steps here and now.’
I put the pistol on the shelf in front of the mirror between two washbasins and took off my jacket and shirt along with the holster. I undid my belt and dropped my strides. I lowered my underpants to my knees, then I pulled them up along with the pants. I lifted one leg after the other onto the shelf, unzipped the boots and pulled them off, then put them back on. It was all demeaning and tiring and made my blood boil, but I kept my eyes on Loomis while making sure the pistol was within reach.
About halfway through the procedure the door to the toilet swung in, but Chris put his weight against it.
‘Not now,’ he said.
Loomis, who’d been leaning against a stall door, pushed off. ‘Okay. That’s fine. Get dressed and we’ll go and have some lunch. Remember what I said about the gun. You can hang on to the pocket knife and the mobile.’
I took my time about getting ready just to annoy him. We went back into the corridor and I flipped out the magazine of the. 38 and spilled shells into my hand. Loomis leaned down to do a count and nodded as I put the pistol back in the holster. Then he gripped my wrist, twisted it and caught the shells as they fell out.
‘Fuck you, Hardy,’ he said.
There was a scattering of diners in the restaurant but they took no notice of the three of us as we walked towards a table at the back, half partitioned off from the rest of the place. Black Andy Piper sat alone at the table and I’d scarcely have recognised him. Never tall, he’d expanded to twice the bulk he’d had when he kicked the shit out of me at the Cross. The hair was now silvery white. With his nutcracker nose and jaw structure and leathery skin, he looked like an inflated Bob Hawke. The table was big enough for four but Piper waved his minions away and gestured for me to sit opposite him. He exchanged nods with Loomis before dismissing him.
‘You’re looking well, Hardy,’ he said, and his growl wasn’t unlike Hawke s either.