Peter Corris - The Big Score

‘You know who did it, do you?’

‘Not exactly. But, you know I do a bit of consultancy for this security firm. Me having certain experience.’

‘So you told me. So what?’

‘It’s not much, peanuts really. But I heard a whisper and I think I know how to go about finding out who did the business.’

It was starting to sound thin. ‘To answer your question, Jerry, it looks bloody dangerous. If Sanderson wants to keep everything quiet, what plans does he have for the ones who did the job? They’d know how much money was involved and they could sing an interesting song to the tax people and the bookie licensing board. Sounds as if they’d be expendable from Sanderson’s point of view.’

Jerry’s pipe had gone out. He shook his head as he fiddled with it. ‘Charley’s not that sort of a bloke.

‘Think about it. And think how he’d feel about anyone who fingered them. His whole future’s on the line. From what I know of him he could probably gee himself up to take drastic measures. You’re in danger just knowing about it. How come you do?’

‘Can’t tell you while you’re taking this attitude. Look, Cliff, this is my last chance for a big score and I need it bad. All I’ve got’s the fucking pension and you must know what a room costs to rent in this fucking city. I’ve gotta eat, have a drink, and I’ve got health problems.’

‘You’re healthier now than if you were dead.’

‘Ah, that’s you all over. Always fucking joking. Look, I’ve got a brother who’s getting a good deal on a decent-sized caravan in a park up on the Hawkesbury. Twenty-five thousand’d get me a half-share. I could live up there rent-free on the pension. Fish, breathe clean air. Give me another ten years.’

‘You’d miss Glebe.’

‘Fuck Glebe. What’s Glebe ever done for me?’

I had to laugh at that. Jerry laughed too and got his pipe going. The mood changed.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I don’t much like the idea of playing according to Charley Sanderson’s rules, but if you want to let me in on how you know about this and the way you’re thinking, I could perhaps give you some advice. Help to keep your nuts out of the blender.’

‘Don’t talk like that.’

Jerry puffed his pipe and thought about it. Hard to tell what he was thinking. As an experienced but not very successful card player, he could keep a blank face. Maybe he was thinking of a way to lock on to the whole fifty thousand. He got up from the chair, old joints creaking.

‘You could give me one of them cards now, mate. I’ll be in touch when I’ve had a bit more of a think.’

I gave him a card and he left.

The call from the police came two days later. I was told to drop in at the Glebe station and ask for Detective Sergeant Johnson. Johnson came down from upstairs, suggesting that he wasn’t going to take me up to the interview room for the third degree. We’d met before and treated each other with a certain amount of respect. We talked in the space between the door and the reception desk.

‘Just a word, Mr Hardy,’ Johnson said. ‘You know a man named Jerry Fowler?’

‘Yes.’

‘What would you say was the nature of your relationship?’

‘We have the odd drink together, have a yarn. He’s a Glebe identity, knows a lot about the place. Why?’

‘He was shot and killed last night.’

‘Jesus! Who by?’

‘I thought you might have some ideas. We found your card in his wallet. Was he your client?’

‘Come on, I know I don’t command top dollar, but Jerry couldn’t afford me.’

‘Card looked new. When did you give it to him?’

I shrugged. ‘Can’t remember. Put a card in a wallet and it stays looking new, doesn’t it?’

It was his turn to shrug. ‘I suppose. Well, just asking. No idea yourself about who’d want to kill him?’

‘Not a clue. When did you say this was?’

‘Last night. Well, early hours.’

‘I’m sorry, really sorry. He was a character.’

‘He was a habitual criminal.’

‘Not lately.’

‘Once a crook, always a crook. Get in touch if anything occurs to you.’

He gave me his card and I brushed it clean and made a show of putting it away carefully in my wallet. He knew what I was doing and didn’t like it. Probably not a smart move on my part.

I went in to the office to deal with routine matters, thinking that the last person who’d been there with me was Jerry. I was genuinely sorry about his murder and I resolved to go to the funeral, if there was one. But I didn’t feel a strong sense of responsibility. Jerry had been in the criminal world for a very long time and he knew the risks he was taking dabbling in the murky waters of rewards for snitching.

Of course I’d lied to Johnson. From the little I knew, Jerry’s killer could have been associated with the people who robbed Sanderson or with Sanderson himself, who might have thought Jerry less than helpful. I’d leave it to the police to sort out if they could or if they wanted to. The murder of an old lag like Jerry wouldn’t make them put their best foot forward.

The stairs up from the street to the first floor in my building are narrow and pretty dark. My habit is to take them three at a time as a little bit of aerobic exercise before sitting at the desk. That’s what saved me. Two men were waiting on the landing where the stairs take a turn. I came barrelling up, bent over a little, and the swing one of them took at me missed. He lost his balance and went down a step or two. His mate was obviously hoping to deal with someone incapacitated and he was surprised when I straightened up and slammed a fist into his gut. Soft gut. I grabbed his arm and swung him against the banister. It caught him in the kidneys and he went down.

The first guy came up with a baton at the ready but I was above him and balanced. I kicked him in the face; he dropped the baton and tumbled to the bottom. I was breathing hard and in the seconds I took to suck in some air the soft-gut scuttled past me. I collected the baton and went down to the door. Holding the baton behind my back I looked up and down the street. Nothing.

‘You’ve still got it,’ I said to myself as I went back upstairs.

I was undamaged, which is not always the way you come out of a two-man attack. But I didn’t kid myself- they weren’t very good, and it was lucky that I hadn’t just climbed the stairs normally. Of the two other offices on this level one was unoccupied and the other, allegedly the home of an independent record company, Midnight Records, was unused until late at night. To my surprise a young man in black jeans and T-shirt opened the door.

‘Hey, what?’ he said, flicking back long locks.

‘Hey, nothing,’ I said.

‘Cool.’

I went in to the office and made coffee as an aid to thinking. There was really only one line of thought-who hired them and why?

For the rest of that day and the next I kept an eye out for trouble but nothing happened. Lily was away interstate working on a mining story. She’s the one who reads the papers closely, I just skim them, so I missed the notice of Jerry’s funeral. Daphne Rowley brought it to my attention that night in the Toxteth after a game of pool.

‘You going?’ I said.

‘Wish I could but I’ve got a full day. Just can’t get away. I liked Jerry.’

‘So did I. Where is it?’

Daphne told me that the service would be held in the Unitarian Chapel in Darlinghurst and that Jerry was to be buried at Waverley Cemetery. That surprised me. I thought the cemetery was more or less full and that only people who’d booked plots could still get in. I didn’t see Jerry as someone who’d invest in that way.

I was late getting to the chapel after wasting time looking for a parking spot. The service was coming to an end. There were five people present. Four I recognised as Glebeites, the other I didn’t know, but he bore a striking resemblance to Jerry. Younger, better preserved, well dressed, but clearly of the blood. The coffin was put in the hearse and I was wondering how I was going to follow it to Bondi when the look-alike came up beside me.