Not their first meeting then. Three heads nodded. I found it hard to imagine Charlie Underwood, Colin Hart and Darcy Travers agreeing about anything. It made me suspicious and inclined to dissent. ‘Just what is this thing?’ I pointed to their glasses and bowls. ‘You’re ahead of me.’
‘I like this guy,’ di Maggio said.
Underwood emptied his glass, poured more. ‘I told you, Scott. I said you would.’
‘Cut the bullshit, Charlie,’ I said. ‘What’s going on?’
At a nod from di Maggio, Underwood laid it out with occasional interventions from the others. They believed that Sentinel Insurance was in big trouble, probably insuring bad risks and incurring heavy payouts. The rash of investigations was a sign of panic, an attempt to stop the haemorrhaging.
‘I don’t mind telling you,’ di Maggio said, ‘Hartley’s owed a big pile of dough and it’s not just for claims investigation. They had us in as consultants on a couple of mergers they were considering. We looked into the bona fides of some of the principals, you know.’
Underwood and Travers nodded.
‘That kinda work attracts big fees and we hit them. So far, no payment. Just the runaround.’
‘Like what?’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘Reorganisation of the accounts department, computer problems, personnel changes. Bullshit.’
‘I’m still not clear what this meeting’s about.’
Darcy Travers, a florid fatty who’d been eating as well as listening, put down his chopsticks and leaned forward just as my food arrived. As the one in the group holding the best hand for a coronary, he upped his chances by lighting a cigarette. ‘Sentinel could go bottom up.’
I was beginning to think I’d come back to the Super-bowl-they provided forks as well as chopsticks, which I’d never learned to use. I dug into the food. ‘There’s a watchdog, isn’t there?’ I said as I lifted a forkful towards my mouth. ‘Some acronym or other.’
Di Maggio took a slug of wine. ‘Yeah, ASIC. Not known for its sharp teeth, am I right? And suppose Sentinel goes into receivership, where do you reckon a bunch of private investigators will rate in the creditor list?’
I could see his point. Our trade has a bad reputation which is only partly deserved. I ate some of the shredded chicken and salty fish and found it tasty. The wine was good as well. I didn’t overplay it, just let a few beats pass.
‘Not high,’ I said. ‘Maybe ahead of the cleaners.’
Di Maggio moved his bowl, glass and eating implements aside, clearing a space in front of him as if he was going in to bat.
I couldn’t help myself. ‘Stepping up to the plate, Scotty?’
He gave me a bleak smile. ‘You’re not the first guy to crack wise at my expense like that. Joe was a great-uncle of mine, as it happens, and I played bush league ball for a time. I was offered a try-out for the show but I turned it down. Know why?’
Chastened, I shook my head.
‘The chewing tobacco gives you cancer of the soft palate and the shoulder damage makes it so you can only fuck on the bottom. You like fucking on the bottom, Cliffy?’
Underwood, knowing about my shortish fuse, was alarmed. ‘Easy, Scott. Cliff didn’t-’
‘It’s all right, Charlie,’ I said. ‘I’d like to hear what you have to say, Scott.’
Truce. Di Maggio nodded. ‘Sentinel owes us a lot of money. Hartley’s trying to establish itself here and my ass is on the line. That’s my stake. Charles and Colin are in big time. Darcy’s got a different problem. As well as them owing him already, he’s got an offer of work from Sentinel that he’s considering. Good money. Does he or doesn’t he?’
I wasn’t going to be able to finish the food even if they left me alone for half an hour. I shovelled in another couple of mouthfuls, took a swig of wine and put the fork down.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Supposing you’re right and Sentinel’s on the nose. Why d’you need me? What they owe me’s peanuts relatively.’
Di Maggio jumped in. ‘What you have to understand, Cliff, is that we’re working a strategy here. Everyone has a role. Colin’s looking into what kind of new business Sentinel’s writing.’
I nodded. ‘That’d be right. He’s a master of entrapment.’
Hart sneered at me. ‘Fuck you, Hardy. I beat that charge.’
‘Charles is looking at the directors and-’
‘Bugging,’ I said.
Di Maggio shrugged. ‘Whatever. Darcy here-’
‘Is watching the wives. Don’t tell me. I know.’
Travers leered and waved his chopsticks. Two of his three chins wobbled. He was a sleaze, probably not above a little discreet blackmail if he thought he could get away with it. It was an unholy crew and I was feeling more and more uncomfortable. ‘And you, Scott?’
Di Maggio spread his hands in a Latin gesture a la Brando in The Godfather. ‘Coordinator and… banker. To answer your question, Cliff-we need you for the media contacts.’
‘Specifically Harry Tickener,’ Underwood said.
Harry was an old mate who owned, edited and wrote a lot of the copy in The Challenger, a journal of independent opinion which he somehow managed to keep going despite lawsuits and slim revenue. His nose for a story was acute and his investigative skills were razor sharp. I lifted my glass, ‘Harry Tickener.’
For a minute I thought they were all going to join me in the toast. Charlie almost did but held back just in time.
‘Enough with the jokes, Cliff,’ di Maggio said. ‘This is fucking serious, and we’re talking serious money.’
‘For who?’
‘For all of us, you included. Didn’t I say I was the banker? You help us liaise with Tickener and you’re in for a slice.’
‘I don’t follow.’
Di Maggio leaned back. ‘Let’s lighten up. What about a real drink all round? On me. Hey, let’s exchange cards.’
He had that American bonhomie that grates after a while but is hard to resist at first. The others all drained their wineglasses, pushed their bowls away and produced their cards. I held out just a little longer. ‘What about Harry?’
Di Maggio waved his hand at the nearest waiter. ‘He’s got an exclusive lock on the story when the time’s right. His circulation goes up. He goes on teevee, as you call it, for solid fees. Might even be a book in it. Cognacs?’
We drank brandy and they pressed me. Di Maggio implied that he’d be looking for a solid bonus if Hartley could recover all it was owed by Sentinel and he hinted that some of this money would come our way. I watched him carefully and from little signs I had the feeling that he had more at stake than he’d let on. Maybe his job was on the line, maybe it was something else. I didn’t much like the smell of the scheme and didn’t feel like coming on board. I paid for my share of the meal and told them I’d think about it. The Australians weren’t happy but di Maggio was gracious. ‘Sure, take some time.’
Even on a Wednesday night, city parking is no fun so I’d caught a bus in. After I left the restaurant I ducked into a doorway and kept an eye on the exit. From long experience I’ve found it useful to learn who leaves with who after a meeting, or whether all parties go their separate ways. Di Maggio emerged first and caught a taxi almost immediately. Probably wise, he’d had his share of the drinks. Darcy waddled out next and from the direction he took I guessed he was making his way towards the nearest parking station. Maybe he’d eaten enough to blot up the alcohol. Charlie Underwood and Colin Hart came out together, deep in conversation. Charlie had lucked onto a parking space close to the restaurant and they stood talking beside his car, a Commodore Statesman with all the trimmings, before getting in and driving off. That was interesting in itself, but what was even more interesting was that as they left I heard an engine start up. I kept out of sight and watched a dark blue Mazda pull away and follow the Commodore at a discreet distance as it made its first turn.
Walking, I’ve found, helps me to think, so I decided to walk home. It was a fine night. I walked down Goulburn Street, crossed the Darling Harbour walkway and made my way up through Ultimo towards Glebe. I couldn’t help remembering how it all used to be, with the sprawling goods yards and the factories and the early opening pubs. In many ways it’s better; I’m glad the ABC has its new building and I like the Powerhouse Museum. The fish market is fun and I’m told Glebe High School does some cutting edge stuff. I miss some of the scruffiness and am trying to keep it going in my own way with my ungentrified terrace house down near the water. ‘You’re on a nostalgic and totally unproductive, negative ego trip,’ my last girlfriend, Tess Hewitt, had said. She was probably right but I didn’t care.