‘Want me to carry the bag?’
‘Sure.’ He gave me the bag and we pushed our way back to the path. The bag felt full of something but light; maybe it was toilet tissue for his trip.
Back at the car, Salmon shrugged his jacket on and took the bag from me. I looked up at the starry sky out to sea.
‘Nice place,’ I said.
‘Yeah.’ He was waiting impatiently for me to open the car.
‘Changed a bit in the last year or so though.’
‘Yeah.’
We drove back to Erskineville in virtual silence; it was an easy drive which gave me plenty of time to think. As far as I knew, nothing had changed much in Whale Beach for years-the affluent and trendy locals wouldn’t permit it.
Salmon stowed the bag away in the bedroom and we had a Scotch before going to our respective beds.
‘What time’s your flight?’ I was contemplating another Scotch, mindful of the hardness of the sofa.
‘Eleven in the morning.’
‘All fixed up?’
‘Yeah. Goodnight, Hardy, and thanks,’
I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake thinking about it and trying to figure what was going on. I felt sure things weren’t what they seemed but that didn’t take me far. I dozed and jerked awake with the same doubts and confusions crowding my mind. I didn’t care about Harvey Salmon one way or another; as far as I knew he hadn’t ever killed anybody, and in the world of organised crime his speciality was more in the organisation than the criminality. Still, I didn’t like being so much in the dark. Around 7 a.m. I called Harry Tickener, who writes on crime and politics for The News. He was grumpy about being woken up so early and I had to keep my voice low which made him even grumpier.
‘What can you tell me about Harvey Salmon, Harry?’
‘At 7 a.m. nothing.’
‘Come on, I need something. I know what he looks like, six foot two, fourteen stone; what about habits and so on?’
‘Shit, Cliff, I don’t know. Wait’ll I get a cigarette. Okay… Well, fourteen stone’s a bit heavy. I can’t think of much, except that he’s a tennis nut.
‘What?’
‘Tennis, played it all the time, had his own court and that.’
‘Thanks, Harry.’
‘Any other time, Cliff. Not 7 a.m.’
He rang off and I put the phone down carefully. I was trying to digest the information when my flatmate came through the door wearing striped pyjamas and pointing the. 45 at me.
‘Heard you on the extension.’ he said. ‘Careless.’
‘You’re not Harvey Salmon.’
‘No, but I’ve got this and you’re still going to do what I say.’
He didn’t tell me his name but he told me about the deal over the next few hours as he packed his bags and we waited to go to Mascot. As he understood it, an elaborate arrangement had been arrived at between Salmon and the State and Federal police. Salmon wanted two things-a new identity and a new life in South America (that was one) and a chance to pick up a bag of money from Whale Beach. The Federal police wanted information; the State cops wanted convictions. Harvey Salmon was released on licence in return for certain information; he didn’t trust the police and he knew about a look-alike who was doing time in Grafton jail for fraud. The deal was that the look-alike would move around Sydney for a few days under police protection so that the real Salmon could get an idea of how effective that might be.
‘What about the bag of money?’
‘Salmon was dead keen to get hold of that. The State cops okayed it; the Federals don’t know about it.’
‘Why would the cops make a deal like that? Salmon’d sung already.’
‘Not the whole song.’ Harvey Salmon said. ‘He keeps the last few notes until he gets his tickets and the bag at the airport.’
‘What d’you get?’
‘Some money and my freedom.’ He grinned. ‘And Lulu. Christ!’
‘You can go back for more.’
He shook his head. ‘Deal is, I leave Sydney for good.’
‘Tough.’
‘Yeah, now give me that gun you flashed outside the club.’
I gave him the gun, he took the bullets out and put them in his pocket before returning it. That made two inoperative guns and quite a relaxed atmosphere as far as I was concerned.
‘What do you know about the cops who were tailing us?’ I said, just to pass the time.
He grinned again; he was getting more relaxed by the minute and if he kept on grinning he might turn from a sad spaniel to a happy kelpie. ‘I’d guess they were State boys the other night.’ he said. ‘Didn’t care too much if Salmon got roughed up. They would’ve been the Federals last night; they’re not supposed to know about the money, but they couldn’t follow Neville Wran down Macquarie Street, anyway.’
‘Probably right. Whose idea was it to bring me in?’
‘Mine. I heard about you from Clive Patrick.’
‘Is he in Grafton?’
‘Yeah, copping it sweet. Be out pretty soon.’
I nodded and thought it over. I could take over now; the. 45 was a liability and I was sure I had more moves than whatever-his-name-was. But I thought I might as well see it through.
‘What about the other five hundred dollars?’ I said.
‘At the airport-after the swap.’
I drove to the airport. He checked a suitcase through to Rio having collected his ticket and an envelope at the desk. He had a smaller bag as cabin luggage which was about the same size as the bag he’d collected at Whale Beach.
Pan Am flight 304 to Rio de Janeiro was on time and would be boarding in an hour. He got his seat allocated and was heading for the baggage security check when things started to happen. First, a tall man stepped in front of us and showed us his face. He had a long, droopy sort of face, baggy eyes and was built on leaner lines than my companion.
‘I’m Salmon,’ he said. ‘Let’s have the bag and the ticket.’
The false Harvey Salmon was looking nervous; he fumbled in his jacket for the ticket and seemed to be playing for time. Two men detached themselves from a knot of people looking at a flights monitor and strode over to us. They were big, wore expensive suits and had short haircuts. One of them gripped the real Salmon by the arm. ‘Would you come with us, sir?’
Salmon gave the man a tired smile. ‘It’s okay. I’ve got it here.’ He tapped his breast pocket.
‘Just come along, sir, and you too, please.’ He looked sternly at the impostor and me and fell in behind us like a sheep dog. I thought he’d be a pretty good heel snapper from the smooth confidence of his movements.
‘Along here.’ The man holding on to Salmon steered us across the floor and behind some shrubbery to a room marked ‘Security’.
‘What is this?’ Salmon said. He got shoved firmly inside for an answer.
The room contained a desk with a chair drawn up to it and a row of chairs over by a big, bright window. The sun was shining in and throwing long shadows from the divisions in the window across the pale carpet.
‘We’re police,’ the arm-holder said. ‘If you and Mr Salmon would just go over there and sit down, please.’ He struggled to frame the polite words and to keep his diction smooth. Under the barbering and suiting there was a very rough customer. Salmon looked alarmed and angry; he moved his hand towards his pocket again.
‘I’ve got it here.’
‘I’m sure you have.’ the cop said. ‘Sit down.’
We sat, not side by side but a few seats apart. Salmon had broken out in sweat. The second cop put the bag on the desk and opened it. He nodded and turned to the impostor.
‘Good. Got your ticket?’
The look-alike nodded and the cop carefully extracted a bundle of notes from the bag and passed them to him. ‘Harvey Salmon’ counted them, separated some and walked over to me. He held out the money; I sat still and he dropped the notes in my lap.
‘Thanks, Hardy. I’ve got a plane to catch.’ He didn’t look at Salmon; he turned and walked out of the room. Salmon stood up and rushed across to where the policeman was zipping up the bag.
‘That’s mine,’ he yelped. ‘We had a deal. I get the money and you get the names.’