Black Tide (10 page)
A man in his forties, greying red hair, came over, hand outstretched to Harry. They shook hands, an incongruous pair: small Harry, close-shaven, scrubbed, sleek hair, three-piece midweight Irish tweed suit, spotted tie, glowing handmade brogues; large McCurdie, toilet-paper patch on a shaving cut, finger-combed hair, grubby check shirt, stomach overflowing the belt that held up his filthy moleskins, scuffed, down-at-heel workboots.
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‘Thanks for comin, Mr Strang,’ McCurdie said.
‘My pleasure,’ said Harry. ‘Introduce these fellas. Jack Irish, my lawyer, does the things I can’t do. Cameron Delray, does the things I won’t do. Which is not much. Mick Moon, y’might remember him, rode a few.’
‘Do indeed. Jack, Mick.’ We shook hands.
McCurdie took us around the horse handlers. The young woman, big, open, freckled country face, was his daughter, Kate. The small and sinewy boys were his nephews, Geoff and Sandy.
Harry and Cam studied Vision Splendid, walking around him. He was a big creature, placid and with the wise look older horses get.
Harry gave him a nose rub. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘best you can say, he’s got surprise in his favour.’
‘How’d you want to do it?’ asked McCurdie.
‘This track safe?’ said Harry.
‘Oh yeah. There’s twenty-two hundred rolled and walked every inch. Don’t risk me horses. Nor the boys. Grass’s a bit long, that’s all. There’s a startin thing we welded up down there at the eighteen hundred. Ten stalls. Well, they’re like stalls. Works pretty good.’
‘Ten,’ said Harry. ‘What’d ya have in mind?’
McCurdie scratched his head. ‘At the moment,’ he said, ‘I can’t remember.’
‘These three,’ Harry said. ‘Pretty forward.’
McCurdie nodded. ‘Other two racin at Gunbower Thursdee week.’
‘They friendly?’
‘Oh yeah. The old bloke’s the boss.’
Harry nodded. ‘Boots on, Mick,’ he said. To McCurdie, ‘Send em around the eighteen.
Put em in four, five and six, the grey in the middle. These boys ride a bit?’
‘Ridin since they was little. Ride anythin. Fast work since eleven, twelve. Their dad was a jock, got too big. Tractor fell on him. Me sister’s brought em up on her own. We give her a bit of help.’
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Harry nodded. ‘Mick’ll hang around the back. Cam tells me the horse used to like it just off the pace, bit of a kick at the end. Then he lost it.’
‘Got it back. He can kick.’
‘Tell the young fellas to try to drop him off in the last four, five hundred.’
McCurdie went to give the boys their instructions.
Mickey came back, booted, helmeted, sad as Hamlet. Harry put a hand on his shoulder.
‘Mick, few questions. This McCurdie reckons the old retired bugger can still street these youngsters. Now that’s good out here in the nothin. Could mean fanny in town. Relyin on you to rate him for us, say in a pretty ordinary eighteen hundred in town? Get the drift?’
Mickey sighed assent.
‘Settle in behind, stay out wide, don’t care for this rail. See how he handles the pace.
He’s happy stayin with em, three, four hundred from home, see if he can show em his bum, shut the gate. He does that, it’s over. Bugger the post. And don’t flog him. He’s got the heart or he hasn’t.’
Mickey screwed up his eyes, looked as if he’d been asked to write a sonnet, a haiku, the preamble to a new constitution.
McCurdie hoisted the riders up, little flick, flick, flick and they went off like a small riding school group. Then he drove off in the Toyota to operate the gate.
‘Okay to get on the truck?’ Cam asked Kate.
‘Oh. Sure. Yes.’ She looked at him in a shy and electrified way that said all requests for permission would get serious consideration. At the very least.
Cam stepped onto the front bumper, walked up the horse truck, stood on the cab. From his inside suit pocket, he took binoculars, about the size of a compact disc, thick as a paperback. A thumb-button on the bottom activated a built-in electronic stopwatch with a digital display for the user.
‘Stroll down a way,’ said Harry.
We walked about a hundred metres and found an intact piece of fence to lean on.
‘Largely a waste of time this,’ Harry said. ‘Not like a race. Nothin’s like a race except a race. But you find out a bit about the animal. Mostly whether he wants to be the boss horse. Horse race’s just a stampede, y’know, Jack. Some horses always want to be the 66
leader. If they’ve got the power, jockey’s job’s the timin. Get em there when it counts.
Some want to but there’s not enough under the hood. Pick the right races, jockey can do a bit, place em, settle em, hope the others bugger it up. Then there’s animals just don’t want to. Give up. Happens with the best bred. Bugger all the jock can do. And some want to be boss when they’re young and then they say, stuff it. Great horses, they never stop tryin, but the opposition keep gettin younger. This one give it away early.’
Harry lifted his binoculars, an ancient pair, fifteen magnification, made by Steiner of Bayreuth. ‘There they go,’ he said.
When they reached the turn, about a thousand metres from us, Mickey Moon was following instructions to the letter, sitting well outside the second horse. The pace was good and the leader picked it up in the turn. In the straight, about six hundred out, the second horse went up to the leader and they came towards us stride for stride. Mickey moved Vision Splendid out a bit further, well away from the horse to his left.
At the four hundred, the second horse’s rider went for it, got a head in front, half a length, drew clear.
‘Time, Mick,’ Harry said.
Mickey appeared to hear the instruction, touched Vision with the whip, not a hit, just a wake-up call.
The response was immediate.
The big grey lengthened stride, put its head down, flattened, had pulled back the nearest horse within twenty metres, hunted down the leader in another thirty. Kicked past it, one length, two lengths, three, four, five, six, full of running.
Mickey straightened up, looked back at the horses behind him, began to rein in Vision.
At the post, he was still three lengths ahead.
‘Game old bugger,’ said Harry thoughtfully.
Cam came up behind us, leaned on the fence next to Harry. ‘Not short of kick,’ he said, expressionless.
‘Today,’ said Harry. ‘Today.’
13
67
I ate at Donelli’s in Smith Street, Collingwood, whenever possible because I could write on the bill: To be deducted from legal costs owing to the undersigned. Then I signed and wrote in capitals, JOHN IRISH, BARRISTER & SOLICITOR.
The great man himself, Patrick Donelly, an Italian trapped in the body, the corpulent body, of an Irishman, brought the menus. His eyes lit up when he saw my guest.
‘Good evenin to you, Mr Greer,’ he said. ‘Twice in a week, Irish. That outrageous bill of yours will be meltin away like the snows of Friuli in the springtime.’
‘Oh, the snow’s still thick and crisp and even in this frosty corner of Friuli, Donelly.
Spring is some time away. What’s the special?’
‘In your fortunate position, Irish, I’d be havin the risotto moulds with tomato and red pepper sauce, followed by the lamb shanks, simmerin away since the early afternoon.’
‘So be it. Two glasses of the Albrissi, please. And a compatible red of your choosing, maestro.’
When Patrick had swept off, Andrew Greer eased his long body down in the chair, said,
‘Offhand, how much older would you expect Tony Ulasewicz to get?’
‘Actuarial tables may not be a good guide here.’
‘No. What makes the prick think it’s better to owe Brendan a hundred and sixty grand than the Armits?’
‘Armits weren’t planning to kill him. Not soon, anyway.’
‘I can follow that reasoning. How’s Linda?’
I didn’t say anything.
‘That bad?’ The long face didn’t convey any sympathy.
A small explosion of happy sounds. Donelly had come out of the kitchen to greet a mixed group of six. He said things in Irish-Italian and put his big pink hands on some of them. The anointed shivered with delight, touched his arms, huge starched white linen sausages.
‘Rosa says Linda’s been seen to be kissed on the ear by Rod Pringle,’ I said.
The glasses of white arrived. Drew took a tentative sip, screwed up his eyes, nodded approvingly. ‘Surprised Donelly doesn’t try to poison you,’ he said. ‘The ear. That’s bad.
The mouth is better than the ear. Your aunt can kiss you on the mouth.’
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‘Also she hasn’t been back in six weeks. Urgent weekend work.’
‘You could go up.’
‘Urgent out-of-town work.’
Drew had another sip, sighed. ‘Well, if I was a sheila, I’d cover your hand with mine and pull that sympathetic face.’
‘Fuck off.’
Drew looked thoughtful. ‘Bren O’Grady owes you,’ he said. ‘Bet he doesn’t even watch Rod Pringle. Wouldn’t mind if there was no Rod Pringle. See my drift?’
I drank half my glass. ‘This is marvellously helpful, Andrew. You could advertise this advice service in the Law Institute Journal.’
‘Just trying to cheer you up. I remember how you picked me up when Helen fucked off.
Two handicap and a twelve-inch dick, I think you said the bastard had. Certainly wasn’t the other way round.’
‘Sometimes it helps to put a number on things,’ I said. ‘Listen, discussion of personal inadequacies aside for the moment, I’m trying to help an old bloke who worked with my dad.’
I told him the story.
‘Why doesn’t Des report Gary missing?’
‘At present, he’s not missing, he’s just not home. The old bloke doesn’t see him from year to year. Gary may do this kind of thing all the time.’
The first course arrived, followed shortly by a tall wine waiter with a swimmer’s build.
She pulled the cork expertly, put it in a silver bowl for inspection, poured half a glass for judgment. I passed the vessel under my nose and nodded. She filled us up. We ate.
‘You wouldn’t swap sex for this risotto,’ Drew said, ‘although it would be a close-run thing.’ He wiped his mouth with a starched napkin. ‘But you don’t think Gary’s popped down the corner for smokes.’
‘No. Too many funny signs.’ I listed them.
Drew took a mouthful, savoured it, studied the ceiling. ‘For a lawyer,’ he said, ‘you’ve acquired some unusual powers of observation.’
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‘There’s more.’ I told him about Gary being followed by a man, Gary meeting Jellicoe, Jellicoe’s murder.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘How do you manage to get involved in this kind of shit? What does Gary do for a quid? Apart from borrowing it?’
‘According to his tax return, he’s a security consultant.’
‘His tax return. You’ve seen his tax return?’
‘Yes.’
‘At the flat?’
‘No.’
He closed his eyes. ‘Forget the question.’
‘I’ve had someone look at his clients. Private companies overseas, about a dozen of them. Companies owned by other companies. Registered in one place, owners registered somewhere else—Cook Islands, Cayman Islands, Luxembourg, British Virgin Islands. Andorra.’
I took out the two-page report from Simone Bendsten and passed it over. The waiter took our plates away.
‘Nice names,’ Drew said. ‘Klostermann Gardier, Viscacha Ltd, Scazon, Proconsul No 1.
Some kind of tax dodge?’
‘Not by Gary. Declared an income of $345,000, paid tax on about $185,000. The tax people audited him, okayed all his deductions. Mostly business travel expenses, documented by American Express statements.’
‘So?’
‘Gary was a cop for five years. Drummed out, his ex-wife says. On the take. Then it’s a job in security for TransQuik. Cop fallback position, generally not the beginning of a glittering career. Wrong. Last year, he declares three hundred and fifty grand as a global security adviser. And there’s still a TransQuik connection. Worth $55,000.’
Drew read on, came to Simone’s link-up of Aviation SF with Fincham Air and the director of TransQuik.
‘Connection?’ he said. ‘The term tenuous was invented for describing connections like this.’
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‘I rang TransQuik. Four people say, sorry, never heard of Gary Connors. Then a man calls from Sydney, says all the company knows about Gary Connors is that he worked for them as a security officer and left of his own volition a long time ago.’
‘Yes?’
‘I took a chance. I asked how come an associated company was paying Gary large sums of money. Man said he didn’t know what I was talking about. End of conversation.’
Drew was wearing his watchful courtroom expression.
‘But not for long,’ I said. ‘An hour later, I get a call from a lawyer with Apsley Kerr Woodward in Sydney. She says she is instructed to tell me that TransQuik has no connection with Gary Connors or with Aviation SF.’
Drew raised his eyebrows.
‘I never mentioned Aviation SF. Somebody at TransQuik knows Aviation SF paid Gary.’
‘Ah,’ said Drew. ‘Well, maybe a little thicker than tenuous. But still. You want to walk carefully with TransQuik. Big end of town. All the towns. I take it you saw Linda tangling with Mr Steven Levesque the other night?’
Steven Levesque. The handsome man with the wayward hair and the genuine laugh. I nodded. ‘What’s he got to do with it?’
Drew sighed, shook his head. ‘Levesque is TransQuik. Was, anyway. Levesque and the Killer Bees. Carson and Rupert and McColl. You should talk to my mate Tony Rinaldi.
Remember Rinaldi? The fat bloke who used to sing?’
‘Yes. Quit the DPP’s office last year.’
‘Well, you don’t miss everything.’
‘Only the important things. How is it that you miss nothing?’
‘Nice little drop this,’ Drew said, examining the label. ‘Barone Ricasoli. A red baron. I miss nothing because I’m a citizen of the world, playing a full part in civic life. You, on the other hand, allow the affairs of the public sphere to pass you by while you master pigeonhole joints.’
‘Dovetail. Tricky things.’
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The main course arrived: dark meat falling off the bone, pool of glistening dark sauce, sweet potato with flecks of something, baby green beans, crunchy.
We didn’t talk for a while. Finally, Drew said, ‘Jesus, how can I get Donelly to owe me money, lots of money? Are these bits of apricot?’