Thackeray got in and Rusty and Stafford followed it on up the hill towards the Cross.
Out of habit I jotted the numbers of the taxi and the van on the back of a withdrawal slip. I could find out where Thackeray had gone easily enough, but I was more interested in why Rusty and ‘Bomber’ were interested in him. Rusty has a lot of trades-police informer, leg man for a few people in my game, small time fence. ‘Bomber’ Stafford quit the ring after an undistinguished career as a prelim boy and prelim old man. He’d done some standing-over since then and worked for security services and some corner-cutting private enquiry men. He’d do just about anything that didn’t require any brains, he knew his limitations. Working with Rusty topped up their collective IQ, but not by all that much.
A phone call to Thackeray’s office brought me the information that he was attending the opening of a photography exhibition in Paddington. I drove there and parked down the street. Rusty and ‘Bomber’ were sitting in their van drinking beer and watching the place. Rusty put down his beer can and wrote something in a notebook. I shuddered to think of his spelling but I’d have liked to get a look at the notebook. I could have fronted them but even Rusty knows enough to keep his mouth shut when he’s working and ‘Bomber’ might just get lucky with a punch. Things were coming together in my mind: Cummings mentioned reports on Thackeray and here was Rusty Fenton on surveillance, sucking his pencil and making notes. Rusty could report to someone else who could make some sense of what he said and report in turn to Cummings. Who?
It was becoming ridiculous; the only course I could think of was to follow Rusty-I felt I was getting a long way from my brief but hell, anything was better than the Hunters Hill affair. The photography exhibition must have included eats because Thackeray stayed a few hours, and was wiping his mouth with a spotted handkerchief when he left. Rusty had sent ‘Bomber’ for pies; I had no one to send so I missed lunch. Thackeray walked off the canapes with a stroll through some of the pricier streets of Paddo to a tall, well-appointed terrace in the priciest street of them all. Rusty’s van crawled along after him and I crawled along too. It was a wonder the Shark Patrol didn’t spot us and report us for suspicious conduct. It was mid-afternoon and pretty warm; Rusty and ‘Bomber’ seemed happy to park outside the house but then, Rusty could send ‘Bomber’ for beer. I wasn’t prepared to wait.
After Paddington, the back streets of the Cross felt like Bangkok. I parked the Falcon on the concrete patch Primo Tomasetti, the best tattooist in the country, rents to me and went to see the artist himself. My recollection was that ‘Bomber’ had been a client of Primo’s not so long back.
‘Hi, Cliff.’ Primo was bent over a hairy forearm, trying to shave it without drawing blood. The young man being operated on was gritting his teeth and looking away. He didn’t seem to be quite the type for what he was doing. Primo wiped the suds off.
‘Go have a look at the designs my son,’ he said. ‘I gotta talk white slavery with my friend here.’
The tattooee-to-be walked shakily across to a wall poster covered with signs erotic, nautical and extra terrestrial.
‘You sure he can take it?’ I whispered.
‘We’ll see. Some people, it turns them on. Gets messy here sometimes. Did you know that? Do you care?’
‘I learn something new from you every time we meet, Primo. Remember when you did a little job on ‘Bomber’ Stafford?’
‘Sure. Last month.’
‘He have much to say?’
‘ “Bomber”? Talking’s not his thing. Just said he needed the tattoo for his come back.’
‘His what?’
‘His come back, in the ring. He reckoned tattoos were all the go-all the fighters got ‘em. I told him to forget the come back; stick to stealing I said.’
‘What’d he say?’
The gilded youth was stroking his smooth forearm and looking impatient. Primo caught the look and moved away from me. ‘He reckoned he was serious and that Rusty was helping him, training with him. Gotta work, Cliff.’
‘Thanks, Primo. Training where and when?’
‘Trueman’s he said, most nights. He was serious about getting himself punchy.’
Trueman’s gym is not a place a fighter goes to when he’s on the way up. It sits in a back street in Newtown behind a faded sign that hasn’t been really bright since Vic Patrick retired. It was after seven when I got there, getting dark and cool. Rusty’s van was parked outside Trueman’s. The street smelled of old air and the air in Sammy’s gym smelled of old bodies and old hopes and dreams.
I stood on the dusty boards and looked at the sweat-stained ring and the cracked leather of the heavy bag and speed ball. The only new things in the place were the cigarette butts in the smokers’ bins. ‘Bomber’ Stafford was lumbering through a skipping routine in one corner of the gym and Rusty was working on an exercise bicycle. A thin Aborigine wandered over to the speed ball and began setting up a pretty good rhythm on it. He was better to watch than ‘Bomber’ but I was disappointed to see so few people in the place. My chances of getting a sneaky look through Rusty’s locker looked slim.
‘Hey, Cliff; Cliff Hardy!’ ‘Bomber’ concentrated hard to skip and talk at the same time.
‘“Bomber”.’
‘Come to work out?’
I had a bag of bits and pieces in my hand, more for show than anything but as I looked ‘Bomber’s’ flabby torso over I had an idea.
‘Yeah. You want to go a round or two?’
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Rusty shaking his head but ‘Bomber’ ignored him. He dropped the rope, went over to an equipment locker and pulled out two pairs of battered gloves. He tossed one set to me.
‘Let’s have a go.’
I caught the gloves and went back to the locker room at the end of the gym. It smelt of sweat and was poorly lit; only two of the lockers were closed. There were a few clothes and magazines sticking out of others but Rusty and ‘Bomber’ were security conscious. I reckoned the locks would take me about thirty seconds apiece. I stripped, put on running shoes, shorts and singlet and went out pulling on the gloves. ‘Bomber’ was in the ring already, and Rusty was in his corner bending his ear. The Aborigine and another pug who’d appeared from somewhere were standing expectantly by the ropes. I slipped under and jogged a bit to get the feel of the canvas.
‘This is bloody crazy,’ Rusty said. ‘ “Bomber” outweighs you by a stone, Hardy. There’s no bloody resin, the ropes’re slack…’
‘Just a spar, isn’t it “Bomber”? Three rounds do you? One of you blokes keep time?’
The Aborigine glanced up at the wall clock and grinned.
‘Time,’ he said harshly.
I’d never fought professionally and was only average as an amateur, but I knew what to do against an overweight slob like ‘Bomber’ Stafford. You handle a guy like that in one of two ways, or both ways if you can do it: you wear him down or you get him off balance. I didn’t have time to wear him down. ‘Bomber’ came out swinging, and I ducked and weaved and let him miss. I went in and under a couple of times and dug hard punches into his gut. I left his head alone, heads are easy to miss. At the end of three minutes he was blowing hard and Rusty was muttering about stopping it. But ‘Bomber’ came out for more; this time I baulked and changed pace on him and worked him first this way, then that. He landed one punch-a looping left that I saw a bit late. It hurt but Stafford was off balance with surprise when it landed. I moved up, feinted, moved the wrong way and hit him with a left hook as good as any I’d ever thrown. Then I hit him on the point with an unorthodox short right; his eyes rolled back and he hit the deck.