Never look a gift horse in the mouth,’ my old grandma used to say. When I’d asked her why not she didn’t know, and she also didn’t seem to know what a gift horse was. She was an Irish gypsy but more Irish than gypsy, and it must have been a generation or two since her branch of the family had had anything to do with horses.
Grandma Lee’s phrase came to mind when I got a call from Sentinel Insurance offering me a surveillance job. A couple of things about that call: one, it almost certainly wasn’t intended for me. The Hartley Investigation agency, a Californian outfit, had recently begun operations in Sydney and their Yellow Pages listing came in immediately behind mine. I’d had a couple of mistaken calls and corrected the caller; but, point two, I couldn’t afford to turn this job down. Things were crook.
The GST hadn’t helped. Clients resent the investigator’s expenses as it is, and the ten percent on top of the fee and the expenses was a significant deterrent. A second factor was the advertising and respectable profile of the big agencies. In these times of corporate high power they looked more and more like merchant bankers or stockbrokers and less and less the way those of us in the caper used to look-that is, somewhat dodgy failures or retirees from other things.
‘It’s a simple surveillance matter,’ Bryce Carter, who announced himself as claims manager of Sentinel, said. ‘The subject has an income protection policy with us. She’s a landscape gardener who claims that a railway sleeper fell on her foot.’
‘Ouch,’ I said.
‘That’s as may be. By the way, who am I talking to?’
‘Hardy here.’
‘The Hartley Agency comes recommended.’
I cleared my throat. I must have misheard him. ‘I’m sure we can handle it.’
‘I’ll email you the details.’
‘We prefer fax for these matters, Mr Carter. More secure. Security is our watchword. I’ll give you the number.’
He swallowed it. I haven’t got around to email yet but I’ve found that everyone who uses it is aware that someone, somewhere could be reading them. Doesn’t stop them being indiscreet with their boyfriends, girlfriends or both.
I gave him the number and said I’d fax him a contract when I received his fax. My contract was headed Hardy Investigations, but with any luck he wouldn’t worry about it. Subcontracting, outsourcing, subsidiaries-who knows who’s doing what these days?
I read the ten-minute news summary and did the quick crossword in the Sydney Morning Herald then twiddled my thumbs, an indication of how slow things were, until the fax came through.
Rosanne Carroll had a couple of degrees in science and horticulture and she ran a business called Natural Landscaping from an address in Epping. In support of her insurance claims she’d submitted documents showing that her income over the past two tax years had averaged out at around eight hundred dollars a week. Not bad, I thought, but not vast wealth by any means, particularly because I suspected that some hard physical work was probably involved.
Her premiums were paid up and she was invoking the policy to claim her usual level of income for the six months it was estimated it would take her to recover from the injury. She’d provided a battery of doctor’s certificates to the effect that her left fibula had been fractured and there was damage to the tendons in the foot. Her lower leg was in a cast as of the day after the accident, now three weeks ago, and was expected to stay there for another three weeks. To quote the medico: ‘… some atrophy of the muscles in the foot can be expected and extensive physiotherapy will be required to restore full mobility.’
Ms Carroll also had an accident policy with the company and, with medical expenses thrown in, Sentinel was looking at a payout of more than twenty grand. As I looked through the papers I couldn’t help it-my sympathies were with Ms Carroll. For one thing I knew the injury was a nasty one, having broken a fibula a couple of years back- or rather, having had it broken for me by a baseball bat. For another, I carried similar insurance myself, resented the premiums and expected the company to come good if required. So far, on the couple of occasions I had needed to make a claim, everything had been sweet, if slow.
Against that, I knew that phoney insurance claims made the premiums higher for all concerned and that this kind of scamming was dead selfish. The amount of money involved was sufficient for Sentinel to insist on verification. Fair enough, I thought, although it wasn’t the sort of work I liked. But I disliked it less than I disliked the bills that were mounting up. Beggars can’t be choosers. Did Grandma Lee ever say that? I doubted it; when in need she could always slip into the gear and read a palm or two. I filled out the contract form, faxed it off and had it back, signed, within the hour. Licensed to snoop.
I rented a video camera, drove out to Epping and located Ms Carroll’s place of business. Natural Landscaping consisted of an old weatherboard house located on a double block of land adjoining what looked like a ten-hectare plant nursery. There were a couple of newish sheds on the land and a three-slot carport sheltering a late model Holden ute and a bobcat. One of the sheds was open and I got an impression of cement bags and tools. There were a couple of piles of sand and gravel with plastic sheets drawn over them. The operation looked, at an ignorant glance, neat and efficient.
I gathered this information from a slow cruise-by. I parked a hundred metres away and used my mobile to call the business number Sentinel had supplied along with some details on ‘the subject’. I scanned the details while the phone rang: age thirty-two, single, 177 centimetres, 75 kilos…
‘This call is being diverted to another number.’ More ringing.
‘You’ve called Rosanne Carroll at Natural Landscaping. If that’s Kay Fisher, Kay, I’m on the Morrissey job at 76 Ramsay Street, Baulkham Hills. Anyone else, please leave a message.’
Did someone drawing income support announce that they were ‘on the job’? Curious. My trusty Gregory’s told me the address wasn’t far away and I was there inside fifteen minutes. Number 76 in Ramsay Street was a corner block backing onto the Cumberland State Forest. Great views if you like trees and hills. By parking higher up I could look down into the back of the property where some work was going on. With the naked eye I could see two figures. My Zeiss glasses revealed them as two women, one in overalls laying turf, the other with a foot in plaster and supporting herself on crutches standing by, watching.
I cruised twenty metres closer, unshipped the video camera, adjusted the zoom lens and filmed the action, such as it was. Looked okay to me-injured boss supervising subcontractor. Increased overhead, income support needed and justified. All kosher, as long as she didn’t jump up and start helping to lay the sod or unload the truck drawn up near the job. I clicked off after a couple of minutes and lowered the camera. The work went on with the injured woman occasionally pointing and looking up at the sky. Rain was threatening. Did you want rain when laying turf? I didn’t know. Presumably she did know.
As I watched a white Toyota pulled up beside the back gate to the block. A woman got out, signalled to the woman on crutches, opened the gate and joined her. Had to be Kay Fisher. She helped the woman on crutches collect her belongings-shoulder bag, clipboard. The injured woman spoke to the worker and then, with the new arrival close by, made her way on the crutches to the car. She apparently needed help to get into the car and I could see what a difficult operation that was going to be so I filmed it. The car drove off and I followed. It stopped at a shopping centre and Kay got out and returned after a short time with some shopping bags. Back to Epping.
More help to get out of the car and up the steps to the house. It was three o’clock in the afternoon but the injured woman was visibly drooping with tiredness. She was helped inside. I didn’t bother filming any of this. I was convinced. Ten minutes later Kay emerged and took off. I jotted down the number of her car. I stayed where I was for an hour in case Ms Carroll came out in her tracksuit and took off up the hill. No show.
I was out at the Epping address the following day at 8 am on a cold May morning. Kay arrived in the Toyota and took Ms Carroll to two landscaping jobs, one in Lane Cove and one in Warrawee. She hobbled about and supervised, looking unhappy. I had the feeling she wanted to be at the controls of the bobcat or at the business end of the shovel. I did a bit of filming but also used the mobile to ring my contact in the RTA to get a make on the Toyota. It was registered to a home help company in Pymble.
The day warmed up and I left Ms Carroll in the late morning, sweating in skimpy shade, cajoling her subcontractor and arguing with her client in Warrawee. I drove to my office in Darlinghurst and looked up the home help mob in the phone book. Called them and got their rates. Pricey. Ms Carroll needed her income support if ever anyone did.
The day after that followed a similar pattern except that Kay waited for an hour while her client checked in at a physiotherapy clinic at the North Shore hospital. I scooted up there and took a chance by asking a white coat how a person in a cast could benefit from seeing a physiotherapist.
He was a man interested in his work. ‘Woman?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘Young?’
‘Youngish, yeah.’
‘Dead keen. Pre-therapy. Looking for accelerated healing advice. What’s the prob?’
‘Aw, broken fibula.’
‘Comfrey,’ he said, and whipped away with his clipboard.
I returned the video camera, carefully pocketing the rental invoice. Back in the office, I tapped out a report on the last electric typewriter left in Sydney. My professional opinion was that Ms Carroll was genuinely injured, virtually incapacitated, and incurring considerable expenses in rehabilitation therapy and other areas to keep her business running. I provided details about the home help she employed and their rates. I included the video tape and totted up and documented my own expenses-mileage, payment to unstated informant, cost of video tape and recorder hire with standard fee plus GST. A nice, neat package to send off by courier (cost also included) to Mr Bryce Carter at Sentinel Insurance.
Two nights later I was having a drink with Charlie Underwood, a fellow investigator who has an office in Bondi Junction. Most of his work is in the eastern suburbs but he likes to slum it in the inner west when he drinks. We talked shop naturally, and I admitted that I’d taken on an insurance job against my own inclinations. Charlie has no such scruples.
‘Growth area,’ he said. ‘I’m up to my ears in ‘em. Bit strange really.’
‘How so?’
‘Get you another?’ We were drinking scotch and I’d only had two. Three was safe enough, four meant a hangover.
‘Be my last,’ I said. ‘I’ll buy.’
We were in the Toxteth on a Friday night and it was busy, smoky and loud with the trots on the TV, the pool tables in operation and voices getting louder because the voices were getting louder. Charlie and I had snagged a table near the door and defended it so far against all comers.
I brought the drinks over. ‘You were saying?’
‘What?’
‘Something strange about insurance jobs.’
‘Yeah, well, no names, no pack drill, but I’ve done a few jobs for this one mob and the subjects are as clean as a whistle. Not a suspicion of a fiddle and there was really no reason to think there would be. You don’t know much about this side of the game, do you, Cliff?’
‘Too pure,’ I said.
‘Yeah, three suspensions and a stretch for obstructing justice. Real pure. Well, insurance companies keep pretty good tabs on their clients and they only investigate claims when they smell something. Otherwise it’s just more overheads. But these squeaky clean ones.. ’ He shook his head. ‘I dunno. What was yours like?’
I sipped some scotch, making it last. ‘Squeaky clean.’
‘Would you like to give me the initials of the company?’
‘S-I,’ I said.
‘Fuck. Same here. I bet it’s the same crowd. Sentinel, right?’
‘I’m not saying you’re wrong.’
‘Look, I was talking with Colin Hart the other day, you know him. Been in the game a while. Does nearly as much of this kind of work as me. He was cagey about the client but I’m bloody sure it’s the same mob. Weird.’
I shrugged. ‘As long as they pay up.’
Charlie looked sour. ‘That’s the problem. I thought I was on a good thing when this stuff came my way but they’re dragging the chain about paying. I put in the hours and the miles and that. I’m not well pleased.’
I finished my drink less happy than when I’d started it. I’d been counting on the Sentinel payment to take care of some bills. Still, sometimes the richer the client the slower the payment. I told Charlie I’d let him know if the account remained unpaid for too long. He nodded, looked worried, and I got the feeling that Charlie might need the money even more than I did. If so, I knew the reason why-the four-legged animals that ran around in Randwick with little men on their backs.
‘How much are you owed?’
‘A lot. Proving the subject’s clean takes just as long and as much effort as the reverse, sometimes more because you have to be dead sure. Colin’s probably into them for more than me and he’s got big problems.’
Normally, I didn’t bother too much about the doings of my fellow workers, but this was getting interesting. ‘Like what?’
Charlie drained his glass and looked ready for another one. He was fidgeting, stressed. ‘Contested divorce, threatened suspension…’
‘For?’
‘Entrapment.’
‘Colin always was a wide boy. Well, I hope it works out, Charlie. Gotta go.’
He looked at his glass again, then at the bar. ‘I might be giving you a call.’
As I left I reflected that his last remark was odd. Charlie always drank in the Toxteth on a Friday night and I mostly did. Why would he need to call me?
The call came five days later. I snatched up the phone hoping it was a client.
‘Cliff, Charlie Underwood. You free tonight?’
‘It’s Wednesday.’
‘Not for a piss-up, this is business.’
‘I could be free. Business between who and who?’
‘You, me, Colin Hart, Darcy Travers, Scott di Maggio.’
I sifted through the names. ‘I know the rest, who’s di Maggio?’
‘Yank. He’s with the Hartley Agency.’
‘What is this? Are we forming a union?’
‘We’re trying to protect our interests. Eight tonight in the Superbowl.’
‘Where?’
‘It’s a Chinese restaurant in Goulburn Street, just over George. Great food. Quiet, least it will be on a Wednesday night. It’s to your advantage.’
I had nothing else to do so I said I’d be there.
The place had an authentic look and feel with laminex tables, Chinese posters on the walls. More importantly, Asian people were eating there. I was late and the others already had food in front of them as well as open wine bottles and glasses. Charlie Underwood introduced me to the only man I didn’t know.
‘Scott di Maggio, this is Cliff Hardy.’
Di Maggio was a heavy-set individual with hooded eyes, greying crinkly hair and a square jaw. Quick nod, brief handshake. All his movements were impatient, as if he was in a hurry to be out of this backwater and home in the US of A.
‘Have the shredded chicken and salty fish, Cliff,’ Charlie said. ‘It’s great.’
‘Okay.’ I gave the order to a hovering waiter and reached for one of the wine bottles, poured.
Charlie laughed. ‘That’s Cliff,’ he said to di Maggio. ‘Doesn’t care what he eats as long as it’s hot or what he drinks as long as it’s wet.’
‘And cheap,’ I said, looking at the American. ‘Who’s this on? The Hartley Agency?’
Di Maggio grinned and shook his head. ‘Dutch. This whole thing’s been Dutch, at least to this point. Right, guys?’
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.
Women I’d known and the past I’d lived through filled my mind. I realised, as I approached my street, that I hadn’t done any productive thinking about the Sentinel matter and Scott di Maggio’s dubious proposition. Worse than that I realised, as I turned the corner and a car cruised off in low gear, that I’d been tracked on foot and by car all the way home.
It’s a fair step from Goulburn Street to the bottom of Glebe Point Road and the walk, plus the food, wine and brandy gave me a good night’s sleep. I woke up late with bright light all around the edges of the window and a bladder crying for relief. But I lay there a while, thinking. It was perverse of me, but the fact that someone had followed Charlie and Colin from the meeting, and that I’d picked up a tail as well, intrigued me and made me more interested in what was going on with Sentinel.
By the time I’d got up, pissed, showered, shaved, dressed and eaten breakfast the post had arrived. An overdue rates notice reminding me of the interest accruing, an uncomfortably large credit card bill, car registration papers and an invoice for my gym fees amounted to shovels digging me in a deeper financial hole. The only other letter was hand-addressed in unfamiliar writing. Bad-temperedly, I ripped it open.
Dear Cliff
Funny way to address your father but I can’t think of anything better. I don’t like to ask you for money but I’m going to anyway. I know it wasn’t your fault you didn’t contribute anything to my first twenty years of life and you probably squared up by getting me out of the shit I was in but… I can’t think of a way to finish that sentence.
I’ve got a scholarship to study acting in New York. They tell me I can get work there waitressing or hooking (joke), but I need the fare. Hope you can help, love (yeah?)
Megan
It rocked me. When my ex-wife Cyn was dying she told me about the child she’d had. I was the father. The child had been adopted but had come looking for her mother. I’d extricated Megan from some dangerous company and we had had a wary, distant relationship in the two years since. She’d never asked me for anything before. I put the letter down with the unpaid bills and felt myself leaning towards what I’d come to think of as the Sentinel proposal. It was mostly the money but partly the interest generated by differences I’d observed between di Maggio and the others and the tails I’d spotted last night.
I knew that Megan was working front of house at a fringe theatre in Surry Hills. I’d meant to get along to one of their plays and hadn’t made it. I rang the place, got an answering machine and left a message for her that I’d help and could have some money for her within twenty-four hours. What did a return air fare to New York cost? I rang Qantas. Three and a half thousand economy for a ticket allowing a one year stay. How long did you need to study acting? Throw in five hundred mad money. Four grand. I didn’t have it but I thought I could get it.
I rummaged in the leather jacket I’d hung over the stairwell post and found the cards. The Hartley Agency’s card was surprisingly modest-no Tommy gun. I rang di Maggio’s number and got a female intermediary.
‘Cliff Hardy for Scott,’ I said in my hardest tone.
‘Just a moment.’
Di Maggio came on the line within seconds. ‘Cliff. Glad you called. Thought you would. I primed the switchboard.’
I registered that but made no comment. ‘I’m in,’ I said. ‘With a condition.’
‘Name it, mate.’
Like most Americans, he couldn’t get the accent or the rhythm right and I mentally deducted points for his even trying.
‘I need four thousand up front.’
‘You’ve got it. Give me your account number and it’s in there electronically as of ten minutes from now.’
I gave him the number but I couldn’t help thinking that, even for a hotshot American outfit, this was a bit too slick. Still, money oils the wheels.
‘Thanks, Scott,’ I said. ‘Well, I’m off to see Harry Tickener.’
‘Ah, Cliff, can I ask what brought on the rush of blood?’
I let a moment go by. There were things he possibly didn’t know-like the tails on the people leaving the meeting-and things he probably did, like the state of my finances.
‘No.’
He chuckled. ‘No problem,’ he said, and this time he got the cadences exactly right.
Harry Tickener kept his Nikes up on his desk and examined the uppers while I said my piece.
‘Are they paying out on policies?’ he asked when I’d finished.
‘Dunno.’
‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘They’re pretty big. A lot of things’d suffer if they went belly up.’
‘What about their directors?’
Harry smiled. ‘Probably haven’t got a bean to their names.’
‘You could find out, couldn’t you?’
‘Yeah. More to the point, if they’ve made any rearrangements lately. You said there were some other private enquiry agents in this with you. Would you care to name them?’
‘Not at this stage.’
‘Reputable?’
I made a so-so gesture.
‘What’re you doing in bed with people like that?’
‘I have my reasons, Harry. You said it was interesting. Interesting enough to look into?’
‘Sure.’ He grabbed a pad and pen and jotted down some notes. ‘I’ll get back to you when I know anything. And there’s no one else sniffing?’
‘As far as I know.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Sniff,’ I said.
I went to my office and phoned Bryce Carter at Sentinel. I got his voicemail, persisted with the switchboard operator, but got no further. I left him a message enquiring whether he’d got my report and when I might expect to be paid. I attended to a few inconsequential things. He phoned within the half hour.
‘I have your report, Mr Hardy. It seems satisfactory.’
‘Not what you were hoping, I guess.’
‘Hope doesn’t play much of a part in this business. You’ll be paid within thirty days, which is our usual practice.’
‘I’m pressed for cash. I wonder if I could see you to talk about that.’
Listening to the irritation in his tone was like striking sand in an oyster. ‘Mr Hardy, I’m aware that a mistake was made in commissioning you, but-’
‘Yeah, you meant to get the Hartley Agency.’
‘Nevertheless-’
‘Listen, Bryce. I could make trouble for you. Bad blue on your part-employing a one-man outfit and not the corporate, suck-up good boy. Know what I mean?’
‘No. I-’
‘I didn’t play along, did I?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I think you do. We should talk.’
I was bluffing, flying blind, but the silence on the other end of the line told me I’d hit a nerve. I pressed harder and Carter agreed to meet me.
Sentinel Insurance occupied several floors of a tower block in North Sydney. I was passed along by a couple of desk jockeys and finally admitted to an office that had the stripped down, bare look favoured by the modern executive. Too efficient to need much paper, too busy to harbour distractions, like paintings or books. Bryce Carter was thirtyish, buffed and polished in dress but worried in manner. He waved me to a seat and went back behind his desk.
I got in first. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘I don’t understand.’
I rubbed the side of my nose. ‘I can smell an outfit that’s in trouble. Like this one.’
‘That’s absurd.’
‘A man like you, with all this behind him, shouldn’t make elementary mistakes. How come you did?’
He shrugged, but stiffly. ‘A slip. You shouldn’t complain. You-’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘I think you took your eye off the ball. Or maybe it wasn’t a slip and you were doing what you were told. You’re a worried man, Bryce.’
He stood and touched a button on his console. ‘You’ll receive a cheque in due course. There’s nothing more to say. If you don’t leave now someone from security will compel you to leave. Let’s be civilised about this.’
‘Okay, let’s.’ I got up and strolled around the room. ‘Nice office, this. Enjoy it while you’ve got it.’
He was head down and ignoring me but it was an act and not a very good one. I went out, closed the door behind me and reopened it immediately. He was stabbing buttons on the phone. I gave him a wave and closed the door again.
My car was in a station a couple of blocks away. I went down the ramp feeling for my keys and remembering the days when they used to get the car for you. Labour intensive. The light was poor and I was slow to adjust to it, courtesy of an old eye injury. I squinted, searching for the car.
I heard nothing, saw nothing, but the blow to the back of my head filled the world with bright lights and noise before everything went silent and dark.
A rushing sound, a feeling of movement, a stab of pain, then nothing more. A cough, my own, brought me to the surface. I tried to swim back down but I coughed some more and sneezed and jerked with the convulsions to find myself tied up hand and foot. That woke me up. My mouth was foul and my head felt as if it had been filled with cement. I coughed and spat and my eyes blurred so that I had to work out where I was by smell and feel.
I was lying on a sun lounge and the metal supports were digging into my back. It was night and I felt close to the stars. Crazy feeling. I blinked to clear my vision and worked out that I was on a balcony jutting out from an apartment in which dim light was showing. I swivelled my head and stared out through the railing a metre away. I could see lights in the far distance. Then a plane passed overhead and I felt uncomfortably close to it. I was somewhere up high, very high.
I wriggled but my hands and feet were strapped to the lounge by heavy cord and tight knots.
Someone has to see me here, I thought. Someone up higher. I tilted my head to look directly up. There was nothing higher. I was on the balcony of the penthouse. A chill went through me as I thought about it. Must be a hell of a long way down. I wouldn’t say I was afraid of heights, but mountaineering and rock climbing have never appealed to me. Nor abseiling, hang-gliding or skydiving. I tried to dismiss such thoughts and work out what must have happened.
The back of my head hurt but not as much as if I’d been coshed. A hit to the nerves at the base of the skull then, expert stuff. By going to see Bryce Carter I’d expected to stir the possum somehow but I’d evidently frightened it from the tree. I thought back over the encounter with Carter. It was my remark about his employing me not being a mistake, being something deliberate, that had triggered his reaction. Why? There had to be some connection between Sentinel and the Hartley Agency, or maybe just between Carter and di Maggio. I let that idea run around in my head for a while. I could see certain possibilities… then another plane roared over and I was jerked back to my present situation. First things first, Cliff.
I looked around the balcony, straining my eyes in the faint light from inside and from the stars. I could make out the shapes of a couple of garden chairs, a low table of some kind, some pot plants. The balcony was tiled and had a retractable roof. It looked to be divided into sections marked off by trellises. I tested the cord against the frame of the lounge. I was securely trussed but the frame was light. I could rock it from side to side. Without quite knowing why, I did this until it tipped over and I was lying face down on the tiles with the lounge on top of me like a tortoise shell. I rolled and slid my way to the nearest trellis and, pushing hard against the plastic slats, bullocked myself up into a standing position. I edged along and looked over the rail. It felt like a hundred storeys up and I quickly moved back.
I shuffled over to the sliding door into the apartment but there was no way to get a purchase on the handle. Suddenly I realised that I was cold. My jacket was missing and I was in my shirt sleeves. Cold wind blowing. I tried hammering the lounge back against the glass door but it was laminated, strong as steel, and I only succeeded in wrenching my shoulder. I swore and then my eye fell on the glass-topped coffee table.
I blundered across and shoved hard against it. The glass slid off and smashed on the tiles. I worked at the shards with my feet until I had one firmly wedged between a heavy pot plant and the railing. I stretched out on the cold tiles, rolled into position and managed to saw the cords around my left wrist against the glass. The position was agonising and blood made the going slippery. Praying I wouldn’t cut a vein, I clenched my teeth, swore and sawed. The cord parted and I had one hand free. I held it up and watched the blood ooze from half a dozen cuts. Ooze, not spurt. I wiped my hand on my shirt and got my cramped fingers to work on the knots around my other wrist and feet. I was a bloody mess by the time I finished, but the relief when I shook free of the lounge was like a double shot of Glenfiddich.
I slid the door open and went into the apartment, dripping blood on the snowy carpet. The place was big with a large sitting room, three bedrooms and a couple of bathrooms, I found the front door and slotted the security chain into place to give me some time if anyone happened along. Still dripping blood, I went into the largest of the bathrooms and wrapped a towel around my hand. I opened several cabinets and found antiseptic, cotton wool and gauze bandage. I cleaned the cuts, put thick pads on them and bound them into place. I left the bloody towel and the bits and pieces where they fell.
It had been mid-morning when I’d made my call on Carter, now it was after 9 pm. I realised that my bladder was full and my stomach was empty. I pissed, then prowled in the big, state-of-the-art kitchen for food and drink. There was an open bottle of white wine and several different chunks of cheese in the fridge along with jars and containers-olives, caviar, pickles. I drank from the bottle, tore a hunk from a rye loaf sitting in a perspex bread bin and wolfed it down with some Edam.
I swallowed some painkillers and brewed up a pot of Colombian coffee. Brewed it strong. I followed my bloody tracks back to the sitting room. I’d been too keen to attend to my injuries to take any notice before but now I looked around the room with interest. Scott di Maggio smiled out at me from a series of photographs showing him with celebrities-Sinatra, Arnold Palmer, George Bush Senior.
‘Hi there, Scotty,’ I said.
One of the bedrooms had been set up as a study and I ransacked it looking for evidence of what di Maggio was up to. His story about investigating Sentinel so we could all get paid was obviously a blind for something. If I’d known anything about computers I might have been able to learn something from the flash model sitting on the desk, but I didn’t even know how to turn it on. I went through the drawers and plonked anything that looked interesting on top of the computer. It didn’t amount to much-a notebook with the names and phone numbers of Underwood, Hart, Travers and myself along with several numbers for Bryce Carter. There was a copy of Sentinel Insurance’s most recent annual report and a document showing how the Hartley Investigation Agency fitted into the larger structure of the Trans-Pacific Corporation based in Los Angeles, California. It was like a spider web of interlocking entities including dot coms, investment advisory consultants, software agents, stockbrokers, legal outfits and insurance companies. Trans-Pacific had insurance companies in the US, Canada and Mexico, Hong Kong, Singapore and Malaysia, even in New Zealand, but nothing in Australia.
I sat back and thought about this while my head throbbed and the cuts on my wrists stung. When would the painkillers cut in? Then I noticed that the message light on the phone was blinking. I hit the button.
‘Scott, where the hell are you? I’ve tried your mobile. It’s that Hardy. Shit… Never mind.’
Bryce Carter. An idea was beginning to form. I got the address of where I was from one of di Maggio’s numerous credit cards bills, checked the number in the notebook and rang Charlie Underwood.
Di Maggio came home a little before 11 pm, which had given me time to do what I had to do. He had company with him, a big body-builder type with attitude. But I’d found a. 32 Beretta Puma in a bedroom drawer. Only seven rounds, not a lot of gun, but enough, going along with the element of surprise and a lot of anger. I ushered the two of them into the living room and had them sit together on the leather couch while I sat on a chair two metres away.
‘I like the way you maintain your weapon, Scotty,’ I said. ‘All oiled and cleaned and ready to shoot. A. 32 won’t necessarily kill you even at this range, but it’ll fuck up your golf swing.’
‘You wouldn’t do it,’ di Maggio said.
‘I’ve been king-hit and drugged and I lost a lot of blood getting untied. I’ve drunk most of a bottle of wine and I’m high on painkillers. Try me.’
‘He would,’ the muscle man said.
‘Shut up, Ray.’
‘He’s right, Scotty. You bet I would. And I’m guessing Ray’s the one who hit me. With you, Ray, it’d be a pleasure. Only seven shots, but. Want to have a go?’
Ray said he didn’t. Di Maggio looked around the room and winced when he saw the blood on the carpet. ‘Can we talk money, Cliff?’
I shook my head. ‘No. We talk reasons, explanations. Then we talk penalties.’
‘You’re drifting,’ Ray said. ‘Another hour and you’ll be on your ear.’
I held up the large mug; I was on my second pot of the Colombian. ‘The coffee’ll keep me going and I’ve got friends coming.’
Di Maggio said, ‘You’ll have to get up and let them in.’
I grinned at him. ‘The trouble with you Yanks is that you think everyone in the world’s dumb except you. I left the door open. Didn’t you notice?’
About half an hour later when I was definitely feeling the strain, they all trooped in-Underwood, Hart and Travers.
‘Jesus, Cliff,’ Charlie said. ‘You look like shit.’
‘I feel like shit.’ I handed him the gun and pointed at Ray. ‘You. Get up and piss off. I’ll think about laying charges against you. All depends on how things work out here. If I was you, I’d take a holiday out of Sydney.’
Ray left without a word. It was four to one now and I relaxed.
‘What’s this, Hardy?’ Travers said. ‘Charlie’s told us bugger-all.’
Underwood put the gun aside. ‘That’s because I know bugger-all. Cliff just told me we’re all being dudded by Scott.’
‘He’s lying,’ di Maggio said.
‘Shut up,’ I said. ‘This is what’s happened.’
I laid it out for them-how they were followed from the restaurant, how I went to see Carter and the result of that. I showed them the lounge on the balcony, the broken glass and the cords. I didn’t need to point out the blood.
‘This is the way I see it. Scott here doesn’t just work for Hartley. You think he’d have this pad if he did? You should see his company credit card bills and the other perks he’s got. He’s a sort of hitman for a thing called Trans-Pacific Corporation who’ve got fingers in lots of pies. They’ve got insurance companies all around the Pacific, but they haven’t got one in Australia.’
‘What’s to stop them buying one?’ Hart asked.
‘Nothing, but it’s a competitive business, I suppose. The price’d have to be right.’
Travers was up and wandering around the room. He stopped at the wet bar. ‘Anyone fancy a drink?’
‘I’ll have a scotch,’ di Maggio said.
I shook my head. ‘You’ll have nothing. Soak up as much as you want, Darcy. You might like to take a few bottles with you. The way things’re looking that’s all you’re going to get out of this.’
That got their attention. Travers poured himself a massive drink, but Charlie and Colin Hart focused their attention on di Maggio, who loosened his collar and slid his tie down.
‘Get on with it,’ Hart said.
‘I think Scott was setting Sentinel up for a big drop in their stock value. He’s got a bloke on the inside-Carter.’
Underwood nodded. ‘I know him.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘He gave us work. He’s delayed the payment. Got us jumpy. Along comes Scott who says he’s in the same boat. Let’s all pull together and get the dirt on Sentinel.’
‘You mean it’s not shaky?’
I shrugged. ‘Who knows? Probably not, or Trans-Pacific wouldn’t be interested. Bound to be some irregularities, skeletons in the closet. One way or another we would have teased them out. Working for free, mind you. A few leaks to the media about this and that, our lack of confidence, “unnamed sources”, all that shit, and a solid company suddenly looks iffy. The shareholders get cold feet. Trans-Pacific makes a low offer and they grab it. Good deal all round and Scotty here walks away with a big bonus, or a vice presidency and stock options or whatever these arseholes do for their hotshots.’
There was silence in the room except for the sound of ice cubes in Travers’ glass hitting his teeth as he finished his drink. He got a refill immediately.
‘Any proof?’ Charlie said.
I showed them the Sentinel annual report and the Trans-Pacific structure.
Colin Hart didn’t want to believe it. ‘Having that report’s consistent with what Scott told us to begin with. I mean, his worry about Sentinel.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘If you can work his computer you’ll probably find more of the same, but…’I held up my bandaged wrist. ‘It’s not consistent with this. I broke out of the huddle by going directly to Sentinel and that panicked Carter. You saw that thug who was here with Scott. I reckon he’s the one who whacked me. I was out there on that balcony strapped down like a lethal injection candidate. I wonder what the next step was for me?’
Di Maggio surprised us by getting up smoothly. Underwood moved to put himself between the American and the Beretta but di Maggio waved him away with a smile. He went to the bar and poured himself a generous scotch and went back to the couch. He took a pull, put the glass down and then broke into a slow handclap.
‘I guess you’d have been collateral damage, Cliff. I knew this guy was smart,’ he said. ‘But I underestimated him. I have to tell you guys that he’s got it pretty much right.’ He waved his glass. ‘A few things where he’s a little off beam but basically right.’ He raised his glass in a salute to me and took another drink.
‘What did I get wrong?’
Di Maggio shrugged. ‘Not much. Bryce Carter works for me and I don’t actually work for Trans-Pacific. I’m a sort of troubleshooter they hired. I specialise in making things happen the way people want them to.’
‘You bastard,’ Hart said. ‘You took us all for a ride.’
‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘You mean this was all your idea? Trans-Pacific wasn’t involved directly?’
‘No, Cliff, I wouldn’t say that. I cleared it with Hank Rapaport and a couple of the other board members.’
I nodded. Hart moved up on di Maggio and looked ready to throw a punch. ‘You’d have walked away with something like what Hardy says and left us swinging in the wind.’
‘I’d have covered your expenses, Colin, and perhaps a little more. But now…’ He swilled the rest of his drink. ‘There’s no money to play with. Not unless…’
I knew what was coming but I let him have his moment.
‘Unless?’ Charlie said.
‘Unless you guys let things go ahead as I planned. When it all goes through I’ll be generous.’
Travers looked very interested. ‘How do we know that?’
‘You’d have to trust me.’
The three detectives looked at each other and then at me. ‘What d’you think, Cliff?’ Underwood said. ‘You’re the one who twigged. You should have the biggest say.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘How about a vote? Let’s say I get two votes and I’m against. If you three can agree on a yes vote I’d be overruled. Why don’t you go out on the balcony and talk it over.’
That’s what they did. Di Maggio topped up his drink, sat down and looked at me. ‘You’re crazy, Hardy. They’ll buy it.’
‘We’ll see. Just suppose the Trans-Pacific offer for Sentinel got knocked back by the government. What then?’
‘Not a problem. I’ve got someone on the inside in the Treasurer’s Department who’d help to give Trans-Pacific a clean bill of health, which would be stretching a point by the way. And he’d see the Treasurer got on the right track. He did it for me before with Bio-Chem. He could do it again.’
‘I see. Got all the bases loaded?’
‘Damn right.’
The three trooped back into the room and I could see from Darcy Travers’ unhappy face that the decision had gone against di Maggio.
‘No deal,’ Charlie Underwood said. ‘Fuck you.’
Di Maggio shrugged. ‘That’s it then. No pie to cut up. I somehow think your paperwork to Sentinel’ll go missing. Tough luck. I’ll have to think of another way. And like Charlie said, what proof have you got of this? I don’t think the cops’ll buy your story. As for Cliff here, why, he got drunk and cut himself. What’s new?’
Colin Hart moved forward again but I pushed him back. ‘Easy, Colin. No need for that. We’ve got him by the balls.’
I don’t know anything about computers but I knew how to operate a digital camcorder and Scott had a beauty. I’d set it up to focus on the couch and I’d activated it with a remote control when I’d begun my spiel. I went over to the bookcase and revealed it.
‘It’s all on tape, Scott. Pictures and sound. Remember some of the things you said? Some of the names you mentioned?’
Di Maggio went pale and his hands shook. ‘Jesus, you bastard.’
Charlie Underwood was the first to get it. ‘What’d he say when we were outside?’
‘Oh, he just bragged about who’d okayed the deal and how he could grease the wheels in Canberra. Little things like that.’
Charlie nodded. ‘You’ve got something in mind.’
‘That’s right. I’ve been through his desk. He’s got more than forty grand in a cheque account. I think he’s going to transfer some of it here and there. What d’you reckon, Scott?’
‘What do I get in return?’
‘Eventually, you get the tape.’
‘Eventually?’
‘After you and Carter clean up the mess at Sentinel and leave the country.’
‘Bryce is an Australian.’
‘I’m sure you’ll find him something to do at home. We bloody well don’t need him here. So, you make some transfers right now or the tape goes straight to where it can do you most harm. Your choice.’
He had no choice. We went into the study, he turned on the computer, got his banking details up and transferred the amounts they specified to their accounts. Large sums.
‘What about you, Cliff?’ Underwood said.
I looked at di Maggio to see if he was going to mention the four thousand he’d paid me. He wasn’t. ‘I’ve had fun,’ I said. ‘Let’s say two grand and a hundred and twenty bucks for a new shirt and pants.’
I told Harry Tickener all about it and regretted that he couldn’t use it.
‘Sure I can,’ he said.
‘Harry, I’ve got a deal with di Maggio.’
‘I’m writing a novel. I can use it there, change it round a bit.’
Megan phoned me after I banked the money for her. ‘Hey, thanks. I didn’t expect it so soon.’
‘It’s okay. I had an insurance policy.’
‘You didn’t cash it in?’
‘No, it came due.’
‘Cool. Thanks again… Cliff.’
‘Come back a star,’ I said.