I drew out some money thinking that it might help to soothe the beast if it turned savage, equipped myself with a small, lead-weighted cosh that snuggled into a jacket pocket and set out for Zetland. Wesley was already there when I arrived at 6.20, sitting in his old Volvo and listening to ‘PM’. I rapped on the window and he wound it down.
‘Go in early,’ I said ‘Advantage of surprise. Old private eye trick.’
‘Bullshit. Mandy says we should call in the police-arrest you, arrest Tank, arrest Nickless, arrest everybody.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Neither does she. She’s just anxious. I didn’t tell her about the woman and the burns. It made the story kind of thin.’
‘Let’s try and firm it up.’
The gym was a converted factory-concrete surrounds, high-set windows, flat roof. A loading dock ran down one side of it and there were holes in the cement out front where a chain link fence had been removed to make way for cars to park. The nine or ten cars were a mixed lot, from a Merc and a souped-up Mini through several Japanese compacts down to a battered VW, identical to one I’d owned twenty years ago. There were no houses in the street, just factories and storage facilities, all quiet at this time of day.
We went in through an automatic-opening front door to a carpeted reception area where some money had been spent-grey paint, concealed lighting, pot plants, stairs with a polished rail to a mezzanine floor. Through another set of doors I could see gymnasium equipment under fluorescent light that bounced off the many mirrors around the walls.
‘I don’t see a boxing ring,’ I said.
‘There’s a kind of bear pit out the back.’
We approached a counter where a short man with no shoulders, no chin and no hair stood tapping a pencil on the surface in front of him.
‘Members only,’ he said.
Wesley fronted the desk and the physical differences between the two men made you wonder if they were of the same species. ‘Wesley Scott. To see Tank.’
The man nodded and showed small, badly decayed teeth. ‘He said to challenge you.’
‘You did that,’ Wesley said.
‘Up the stairs, gents.’
We went up the staircase and Wesley knocked at the door that had a sign reading Manager on it.
I said, ‘Manager?’
Wesley shrugged. ‘Tank manages rather than owns for tax purposes.’
‘Wise,’ I said.
‘As I told you, Tank isn’t dumb.’
The door opened and a giant stood there, filling the space. He was over two metres tall and must have weighed more than 150 kilos. He stood in the doorway but his belly, enclosed in an immaculate lightweight suit, protruded out beyond it. His head was shaved and oiled and it and his neck made a continuous column down to shoulders like a wardrobe. Wordlessly, he opened his arms to embrace Wesley who stepped nimbly back.
‘No way, Tank. I don’t need any crushed ribs.’
‘Wes, my man, I’m hurt.’ The accent was heavy, a product of some part of New York City.
‘You’re not and neither am I. Tank, this is Cliff Hardy.’
I nodded and kept my hands in my pockets.
Turkowitz grinned, showing gold-filled teeth. He also had a diamond stud in one ear. ‘Hi, Hardy. I see my man here has briefed you.’
I smiled and said nothing. I was glad to have his man along as my man. From the look of him, you could whale away at Turkowitz with your hands and feet and even your little cosh for an hour and he’d still break you in half.
‘A bit of your time, Tank,’ Wesley said.
‘As much as you want.’ Turkowitz stepped aside, waved us in and shot back his snowy French cuff to consult a gold Rolex. ‘As long as it isn’t more than fifteen minutes.’
The office was about as tastefully got up as you could manage in a space carved out of a factory. The carpet, desk and trophy cabinet were a hymn to past success and present prosperity. Turkowitz motioned us into chairs and sat behind his desk. He folded his massive hands on the surface in front of him. His manicured fingernails gleamed.
‘What’s goin’ down, Wes? We goin’ to arm wrestle or are you opening up a branch down the block?’
‘Let’s cut the bullshit, Tank. My son’s missing. Hardy here’s looking for him and his enquiry has sort of led him here.’
Turkowitz shook his head. ‘Man, I didn’t even know you had a son. Me, I’ve got five, or maybe six. I forget.’
‘I’m not saying you know anything about Wes’s son,’ I said. ‘Not directly. But you did meet a man called Mark Alessio.’
‘Who says?’
‘He did.’
Turkowitz raised his hand to his mouth as if he wanted to chew at a fingernail. He thought better of it, but the hand wavered uncertainly. ‘He’s dead, I heard. An’ if he’s been shooting his mouth off about me I ain’t sorry.’
‘He hasn’t. He created some computer files about his investigation into how some athletes get hold of steroids. Your name’s in the files as someone who could put the finger on the source. Specifically, some steroids used by a girl named Angela Cousins. The stuff killed her.’
‘Dumb little shit. What’s he doing writing stuff like that down?’
‘All I want to know is what you told him.’
‘And why you talked to him,’ Wesley said.
‘Second question’s easy. Kid paid me. An easy two grand. Sold his fucking bike, he said.’
Wesley cracked the knuckles on one hand. ‘Did you kill him, Tank?’
‘Shit, no. But like I say, I might’ve if I’d known how loose his mouth was.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘He built a code into his computer set up. The file with your name on it got wiped when we called it up a second time.’
Turkowitz’s smile returned, complete with the glinting gold and what I now saw as the glistening porcelain caps. Slowly, lovingly, he turned the diamond stud in his ear. ‘Then you got no leverage,’ he purred.
Wesley cracked the other set of knuckles.
‘No,’ I said. ‘But I’ve got Wesley who’s got a big vested interest.’
Turkowitz’s hands were folded again, composed. He stared at me and then shifted his massive head fractionally to look at Wesley. ‘Be interestin’,’ he said.
‘Ten years ago, Tank,’ Wesley said. ‘Maybe. Not now.’
Turkowitz sighed. ‘You’re right. But I could whistle an’ get me some heavy help.’
Wesley looked around the room and his gaze rested on the trophy cabinet which held, among other things, an ornate ceremonial sword. Turkowitz swivelled to see where he was looking.
‘I hate to think of the damage that could be done here,’ Wesley said. ‘Me being a man of peace.’
The tension went out of Turkowitz’s expression and body. He leaned back against his chair and it groaned in protest.
‘You’re a slob, Tank,’ Wesley said.
Turkowitz’s swarthy face darkened. A flush spread up to his bald head. ‘Don’t fuckin’ push me, Wes. Right, I talked to the Alessio kid. I have to say he had balls, comin’ in here like that. I told him who most likely gave the horse pills to this girl.’
‘Horse pills?’ I said.
Turkowitz waved me quiet. This was between him and Wesley now. ‘Manner of speakin’. I told him Stan Morris.’
It was Wesley’s turn to relax. ‘Morris being your main rival in the all-in fighting business.’
Turkowitz shrugged. ‘I heard all his blokes’re on the horse pills. Seemed likely.’
‘How do I get in touch with Morris?’ I said. ‘Where does he live?’
Turkowitz flicked a finger at his desk calendar. ‘I don’t rightly know and I don’t know nobody who does. Moves around, I guess. Just so happens though, there’s a smoko tomorrow night out Badgerys Creek way. I’ve got a boy up in the main event and so has Stan. You could try your luck there.’
‘Is that what you told Mark Alessio?’
Turkowitz nodded. ‘Same thing. Sent him to a smoko down south. Albion Park, around there.’