Bob Lowenstein runs a private detective agency in Broadbeach, close to Surfers Paradise. He used to work in Sydney until an arthritic hip got so bad he had to move to a warmer climate. I advised him to have a hip replacement and stay in civilisation, but he was a Christian Scientist of sorts and didnt believe in arthritis or surgery. He went north, tried natural remedies and hydrotherapy and the hip got a bit better, thus proving, to him, that modern medicine was all gimcrackery and that Mary Baker Eddy had it right all along. Despite this, he was an intelligent and amusing guy who had taken to the computer like a plumber to PVC. He made a good living running credit checks on people for the hotels and the casino, locating missing kids courtesy of the CES computer and checking insurance claims. Lots of dodgy insurance claims on the Gold Coast. Bob was one of the very few people I corresponded with. His letters came to me immaculately from the word processor and I scrawled a few lines on postcards in reply. Hed bought a small apartment block and had often invited me to come and stay. I rang him from the airport while Max arranged the car hire.
Bob, Cliff Hardy, hows the other hip?
Both hips doing fine, no thanks to you. Where are you?
Almost on your doorstep. Can you put me and a mate up for a few days? We sort of dont need to sign hotel registers or use credit cards. Might need a bit of help from your computer as well. You can bill me.
Sure, got a flat vacant. Be glad to see you, Cliff. Bill your client, dont you mean?
Thereby hangs a tale. Well be along soon, Bob. And thanks.
The air carried just a touch of that tropical tang as we walked through the car park to pick up the Laser Max had hired while I was talking to Bob. Good choice, I thought. I wore my old linen. jacket, a denim shirt and newish jeans. Max was in the mood with cotton slacks and a Hawaiian shirt.
Its a funny thing, he said as we got into the car. But the traffic authority doesnt seem to think hearing is relevant to driving. No endorsement on the licence. I nearly had a half a dozen prangs before I got used to looking hard and really reading the traffic
Im glad of that, I said. Because this is a manual with a floor shift and driving it would be tricky for me with these ribs. Youre in charge, mate. Were going to the Florida Apartments in Broadbeach.
Max reached into the glove compartment, consulted the local street directory briefly and started the car. Normally, Im a nervous passenger, but he drove extremely well, decisively with good judgment. I relaxed and told him a bit about Bob Lowenstein as I looked out on the sun-faded strip development of used-car lots and fast-food joints with the Surfers Paradise high-rise in the distance.
Sounds like a good man. A Christian Scientist, eh? They must be a dying breed. Whatre you, Cliff?
A pagan.
Max overtook a Kombi van with a roof-rack that held at least three surfboards and cruised up behind a white BMW. He shot a quick glance sideways to get my reply. Me, too, he said. Me, too.
The Florida Apartments was a white stucco block comprising four self-contained flats just back from the highway. No view of the water, good view of the casino. Bob Lowenstein had lost hair and gained weight since shifting to Queensland, but I have to admit that he was moving better. He shook our hands, admired Maxs shirt, settled us into the vacant flat, phoned for a pizza and opened two bottles of red wine.
Tell me, tell me, he said. Im fucking dying to hear what you big-city detectives are up to these days.
We were sitting in Bobs downstairs flat, the biggest of the four. Ours was directly above. Bobs housekeeping was basic; we ate the pizza straight from the box and he produced a toilet roll for us to wipe our hands on. The wine we drank from the kind of glasses you can bounce on a cement slab. It was good wine, though. I gave him the gist over a couple of glasses and answered his questions in between slices of pizza. Bob had grown a thick moustache to compensate for the loss on top and this made it difficult for Max to lip-read him. I could feel his irritation and didnt blame him for getting stuck solidly into the red.
I wouldnt give shit for your chances, Bob said when I wound up.
Thanks, Bob. Wouldnt you say a million bucks is worth playing a long shot?
Bob shook his head. The bloody lawyerll chisel you out of it somehow even if you do get a sniff. Sounds to me like the lawyer put the heavies onto you.
I recalled Cavendish on the mobile as I left the Beckett house. Maybe. I turned to face Max who was pouring himself another glass. Bob does this, knocks everything on the head then hops in and shows you how it should be done.
Good, Max said. Lets see you hop, Bob.
Bob wiped his hands and his moustache, slid the few bits of crust and droppings into the box and dumped it into a bin in the kitchen. He came back with a notebook computer and another bottle. I looked at Max and he shook his head.
Coffee, Bob.
Pikers, its on. This is for me. He turned the computer on and started tapping. Right, now, first up, Colin fucking Sligo. I take it you want dirt on him? Some leverage?
Wouldnt hurt. And his current circumstances, how he stands with the powers-that-be, retirement date, health, you know.
I know, I know, Bob said. Plus you need an address and info on Peggy Hawkins. Shouldnt be too hard. Whats her line, bowls, golf, gambling, booze…?
Sex, I said. Our information is that shes most likely to be working in the sex industry, in one capacity or another.
You didnt tell me that, Max said.
You never asked.
Easy, that should be. Bob said. Now about Andrea Craig. Is she likely to link up with Peggy?
They were both screwing Johnno Hawkins. Who knows?
Bob tapped the keys. Hawkins, Craig, Neville… ages, any descriptions?
Not sure, I said. Peggy could be forty plus, Andrea a bit younger, maybe. Peggy was thin and dark with big tits fifteen years ago.
Bobs balding head was bent over the keyboard. He made a Roy Orbison growl. Sounds good but women change.
Yeah. Tired and a bit drunk, I tried to recall the trashed photograph. Neville or Craig is or was blonde. Big eyes.
Lesbian, Max said. Very small mouth.
No disadvantage, Bob said.
Max had adjusted to the moustache and was following. We were three men without women, all a bit pissed. We all laughed.
There was no food in our flat so in the morning Max and I went down to Bobs. We found him reading the paper and eating crumpets with honey, accounting for the expanding waistline.
No challenge, Bob said when we appeared. Or not much of a one.
I put the rest of last nights coffee on to reheat and dropped four slices into the toaster. Max looked seedy. Hows that? I said.
Youll like this. Peg Hawkins runs a brothel in Surfers by the name of Satisfaction. High-class place apparently. She lives on the premises and runs a tight ship. In good standing with the council and with the constabulary andwait for it menone senior member in particular.
No, I said. The toast popped and the coffee got hot.
Thats right. Deputy Commissioner Sligo is a devoted customer. Word is, Peg services him personally. I got this from a journo of absolute unreliability, mind. Needed confirmation and I got it. Silly fucker uses his credit card but not, Im happy to say, his departmental one.
I poured two mugs of coffee, buttered the toast and brought the lot over to the table where Max sat with his head in his hands. I should never drink red wine, he said.
Balls, Bob said. Its good for your heart.
Max groaned. Its my head Im worried about. Got any pain-killers?
Panadol. Top drawer. Cols pretty dirty by all accounts, but hes got less than a year to run on his contract and the general view is that everyones happy to let him go quietly.
I got the Panadol from the drawer and put the packet in front of Max. Thats useful, Bob. He might be open to some persuasion.
Yup. He doesnt do much these days. Plays a lot of golf at Robina. Easy to get a quiet word with him. Ive got the licence photos of all three for you. Cols the ugliest, needless to say. Peg still looks pretty well-preserved. Cant tell about the tits of course. Craig was booked for speeding yesterday in Kempsey. Driving a yellow Subaru coupe. Ive got the registration number. Going north obviously, but whether shes come up here or not I cant say until she buys something with a credit card, checks into a hotel or breaks the fucking law.
I looked at Max who had taken a couple of capsules with his coffee and was nibbling on a piece of toast. This is the sort of thing thats putting blokes like me out of business.
Dinosaurs, Bob said. Dyou want to know when Sligos teeing off next at Robina?
Come on, I said.
I kid you not. They put the tee-off times on the computer and the computers hooked to a modem. If you know the password to the system youre in like Flynn.
Passwords are secret by definition.
Hah, Bob said. Theyre a tradeable commodity, like everything else. I know bloody hundreds and I can trade with the best of them.
I drank some coffee and ate some toast. Id managed to sleep on the undamaged ear and the ribs werent hurting much. And I was more practised at drinking red wine than Max. I felt pretty-good and optimistic, although I was still worried that finding out whod paid off Hawkins might not lead any further. Im impressed, I said.
You should be, Bob said smugly. Colin tees off at eleven this very day. Theyre playing a four-person Ambrose, whatever that is. Apparently they take a rest after the first nine holes. Thatll be around twelve-thirty.
Wheres Robina? I said.
Bob pointed out of the window. Just down the way.
I turned to Max who was looking better by the minute. He tackled a second piece of toast. You getting all this, Max?
Enough.
Would you rather tackle Peggy or Colin? Im easy.
I think the fresh aird do me good.