Peter Corris - Torn Apart

I trawled through the people I knew-the ones I'd met in jail and in the course of my work; the ones who'd come to me with information in the past and the ones I'd had to handle when all they wanted was to crack my skull. Some I liked, some I almost liked, most I disliked intensely. I met them in offices, in restaurants, in pubs, in hospitals and a couple in jail visits. It was like panning for gold with nothing showing. Then there was a nugget in the form of Marvis Marshall.

Marshall, an African American, had come to Australia in the eighties to play basketball for the Sydney Kings. He'd played a season or two in the American league but hadn't made the grade and Australia offered him a chance to play successfully at a lower level. He did well for a season, injured his knee as so many do and that was the end of his career down under. During the year he'd met and married an Australian woman and had a child, so his citizenship was assured. In retirement, he operated for a while as a player agent and manager but suspicion arose about him attempting to influence players to tank games and he was warned off the basketball scene.

At 199 centimetres and a hundred kilos going up, he was scary big and he found work as a bouncer and enforcer for gamblers and a car repossesser for some of the more dubious dealers. He was charged with assault several times but evaded conviction by intimidating witnesses. His bad character was equalled only by his charm and I had got, warily, to know him, at the Redgum Gym in Leichhardt where he lifted weights with the pin in the bottom slot. After those he'd known in Chicago and Detroit, he had contempt for Sydney crims. He made fun of them and would tell tales about them if he was in the mood and the beer was flowing.

I'd been looking out for him for a few days during my own workouts and eventually he turned up. He was running to fat but still awesomely powerful. He saw me going through my middle-of-the-range workout and beckoned me over to the bench press stand.

'Hey, Cliff, my man. Spot me?'

He meant stand by and help if the weight attempted proved too much for him or if he faltered for some reason. This was a ridiculous request given the difference in our strength and he knew it.

'Don't be silly,' I said. 'If you can't handle it I couldn't and you're looking at a crushed chest.'

'Piker,' he said, as he loaded weights onto the bar.

'Tell you what I will do,' I said. 'I'll buy you a few schooners in return for a chat.'

'You're on, man. Stand aside. I got testosterone to burn.'

He went into his routine, muscles and veins in his head and torso bulging and sweat breaking out all over his big, brown body. It made me tired to watch him. I finished my stint, showered, and waited for him in the foyer. He came bounding out dressed in his usual tight T-shirt, hooded jacket, jeans and basketball boots. But the outfit was shabby and some flab was moving on his torso. Marvis's best days were behind him.

We crossed to the pub on the corner of Carlisle Street and

I ordered two schooners of old for him and one of light for me. He put the first drink down in a couple of gulps, sighed and settled back in his creaking chair.

'So, Cliff, I hear you had a bout with the big C.'

'No, with a heart attack, and I won.'

He patted the roll of fat around his waist. 'Headed that way myself less'n I make some changes.'

'I'm looking for someone.'

He smiled. 'Ain't we all?'

'Frankie Szabo.'

'Don't know why anyone would be looking for him. He's a mean mother.'

'I know that. I have my reasons.'

He held out his empty glass. 'Which are?'

I shook my head and got up to get him another drink. My glass was half full, but when I got back he'd emptied it.

'Savin' you from yourself, brother. Why I'm asking is that I can see that you're carrying and I like to know what I'm selling and why.'

I was wearing a loose denim jacket that I thought concealed the shoulder holster, but Marvis's eyes were sharpened by experience.

'It's for protection, nothing more.'

'Yeah, sure. I'm just a dumb nigger doesn't know nothing.'

'Don't come that line with me.' I pulled a newspaper cutting, a bit frayed now from constant use, about Patrick's death, from my pocket and passed it to him. I told him the dead man and I were related, that we looked alike and the killing happened in my house.

Marvis whistled. 'I get it.'

'I never thought you were dumb, Marvis.' I took out my wallet and peeled off two hundred dollar notes and one fifty. 'For the pleasure of your company. Same again if you can help.'

'You trust me?'

'No.'

'Good. I don' trust folks as trust me.'

I put the notes under my empty glass. 'Szabo. He was in your line of work but he expanded a little which put him inside.'

'Dumb, and him not even a nigger.'

'Marvis.'

'Happens I did run into someone who ran into Frankie recently. Sold him certain items, he said.'

'What items?'

'Didn't say, but this man deals in what you might call ordnance and mind-altering substances.'

'Great. Who are we talking about?'

'Nobody you know or want to know, but he told me a bit about Frankie's new… field of endeavour. Seems he joined a certain organisation. Another two-fifty you said?'

'For something solid that checks out.'

Marvis slid the now damp notes towards him and beckoned with his index finger. I took out more money and leaned closer across the table.

Marvis smiled and chuckled like Gene Hackman. 'Frankie's in with a soldier of fortune crew, name of the Western Warriors up Hawkesbury way. Ain't hard to find- fuckers have themselves a website.'

I was heading for home and my Mac when Sheila called on my mobile. Mindful of my precarious legal position, I pulled over to take the call.

'Where are you?' she said.

'Almost home.'

'Can I visit? I've got something to celebrate.'

She was waiting out front when I arrived. She put her arms around me and we kissed. Then she pulled back, pointing to my armpit.

'Is that what I think it is?'

'For protection only. Come in and tell me what's happened.'

I thought it was going to be something legal-applying for the document Viv had mentioned, or a positive result from the divorce records search, but her manner and her clothes told me something different. She was wearing a blue silk dress with a faux fur jacket. She'd had something done to her hair and her shoes looked new. She moved with the same grace as before but perhaps more confidently. No whiff of tobacco smoke. She produced a bottle of champagne from her bag and waved it in my face.

'I got the part.'

Her face was alight with happiness and it communicated directly to me. I reached for her and we kissed again. It had been a long time since I'd had what has to be one of the great human experiences-the blending and sharing of sexual and emotional and professional pleasure. It had happened a few times before-when Lily won a Walkley award for journalism; when Glen Withers got a police promotion; when Helen Broadway's vineyard scored a gold medal; when Cyn had got a commission to design a building. I hadn't expected to feel it again, but here it was.

We opened and poured and drank. She told me about the role in the film she'd auditioned for-the avenging mother in a thriller about a miscarriage of justice. She said she needed to project sex and danger and cracked it at the audition.

'I have to thank you, Cliff.'

'How's that?'

'You supplied the sex charge and you still aren't sure that I didn't arrange to have Patrick killed, are you?'

I'd taken off my jacket, removed the shoulder rig, stowed it away, and taken out the notebook I'd opened just that morning to keep track of what I was doing. My habit was to write down the names of the people I was dealing with under the case heading and draw connecting arrows and dots between them indicating possible guilt, possible lies, gaps in information. I showed her the dotted lines running from her name.