Peter Corris - Taking Care of Business

The barman palmed the note and inclined his head at one of the single drinkers. Not a word spoken. I carried my drink across to where he sat on a stool. ‘Mr Barnes?’

He looked at me, raised his glass and took a drink, then picked up his cigarette from the ashtray and had a drag. There was one cigarette left in the open packet. Both hands shook and I could tell that Kev’s burglary and standover days were past. He was big but the flesh was sagging on his bones as if something was sapping him from inside. The ashtray was full of butts and his bleary eyes and slack mouth told me the middy he was drinking was more like his tenth than his first. His woman was on the game and cats were pissing on his doorstep.

‘I’m Barnes,’ he slurred. ‘An’ I wish I wasn’t. Cop?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Sorry to trouble you.’

I moved away and finished my drink. I put ten dollars on the bar and the barman stood ready to pounce. ‘His next packet of smokes is on me,’ I said.

It took me three days to track down Jim Petersen because he was in funds, and when Petersen was in funds he went to racecourses. I caught up with him at Rosehill. ‘Jockey-sized’ was how James’ notes described him, and others had told me about his dressing-New York gangster style, pork pie hat, dark shirt, light tie. I watched him place a large bet and then stroll to the ring to take a look at the horses parade. It was an unimportant race at an unimportant meeting and not many people were about. When I joined him at the railed fence there was no one else within ten metres. I stood slightly to his left, partly blocking anyone’s view, and bent his right arm halfway up his back while clamping his left hand on the rail with my left.

‘Gidday, Jim,’ I said.

‘What the hell’re you doing?’

‘Engaging you in conversation.’

‘Piss off.’

‘Jim, if you don’t cooperate, I’m going to break your right arm, dislocate your right shoulder and break your left wrist all in two seconds flat.’

‘You wouldn’t.’

‘You’ve climbed your last wall.’

I increased the strain on his arm to just short of breaking point. Sweat broke out on his face.

‘Okay, okay’

I escorted him to a quiet spot under the grandstand and we had a talk. Not much to it. Stevenson had hired him to steal the pearl, helping out by disabling the alarm system and pointing out the most accessible window. Five grand for the job.

‘I figured it was an insurance job, you know how it is.’

‘Where’s the pearl?’

‘I ditched it according to orders.’

‘Jim.’

I was thirty centimetres taller than him, ten kilos heavier, and clearly not in a good mood. He was backed up against a metal post. I flipped his hat away and pushed against his forehead so that the metal bit into the back of his head.

‘It’s in my car. In the upholstery.’

I let him watch the next race and collect his winnings. As we walked towards the car park, the question in my mind was: Why did Stevenson hire me if he didn’t want the pearl to be found? Why not just let sleeping dogs lie?

Petersen dug the pearl on its ribbon, all sealed in a plastic bag, from the back seat upholstery and handed it to me. Then he gave me the answer to my question.

‘Guess I’ll have to do what I said I’d do,’ he muttered.

‘What’s that?’

‘Use the ticket he gave me to fly to Perth. I’m my own worst enemy. Couldn’t resist a flutter against these bloody bookies.’

I don’t like being taken for a ride by a client, so I made another call on Quentin James to talk things over. I’d agreed to pay him a percentage of my bonus, so he had a stake in the matter.

‘Very considerate of you, Cliff,’ he said, turning the pearl over in his pudgy hands. ‘As it happens I’ve worked out what was troubling me. And by the way, the leak about the missing pearl came from Stevenson himself. Quite contrary to what he told you, the publicity would add value to the painting, pearl or no pearl.’

‘Okay, but I still can’t see why he wanted it to go missing.’

James pulled down a book from his dusty shelves. ‘You have to understand how the art business works. At any one time there are three or four versions of a valuable painting in circulation, or out of circulation. They all have provenances, documents and so on. Now here is a photo of that particular Galliard. It was taken over fifty years ago. The picture was in private hands then and now Stevenson claims to have it. No doubt he has proof of its authenticity, but…’

He opened the book to show a high quality photograph of the woman in the black dress. He produced a magnifying glass. ‘If you look closely at your pearl and then at the one in this photograph, you’ll see that they’re rather different. Slightly different shape and colouring. Yes?’

‘Mmm, yeah, I guess so,’ I said. ‘Therefore Stevenson’s picture’s a fake. Or this one is.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ James said. ‘As soon as doubt arises the damage is done. My guess is that Stevenson twigged to the problem and couldn’t afford to display the pearl in case someone made this same comparison.’

‘He won’t be well pleased when he gets it back then.’

‘Correct, but he’ll honour your contract.’

‘Oh, he’ll honour it all right, and you’ll get your cut, Quentin. But aren’t you concerned that he was trying to pass off a fake picture as the real thing?’

James shrugged and lit a cigarette from the butt of the previous one. ‘Not at all. They’re both beautiful pictures and, my boy, the art business is a racket.’

I need a bodyguard,’ Charles Marriott said.

I said, ‘Why?’

‘Because I think my life is in danger.’

‘All our lives are in danger,’ I said. ‘Nothing surer.’

He looked at me through his wire-framed glasses and stroked his short, gingery beard. He was a tall, spindly individual with narrow shoulders, a pasty face and a slight stoop. He didn’t look the sort of man who should fear for his life, barring accidents, until he was near his three-score-and-ten. Quiet type. Safe. But his eyes were busy. They darted around my office looking frightened. I can understand why you’d look frightened in my office if you have phobias about dust, draughts and old furniture, but not otherwise.

Marriott stopped fiddling with his facial hair and brought his scared gaze around to fix on me. ‘I’ve been told you like to joke to upset people. You don’t need to do that to me. I’m upset already. I need help, Mr Hardy, and I’m willing to pay for it.’

I wondered who’d told him that and whether it was true. I couldn’t think of a recent client with that kind of analytical capacity, but his response got my attention.

‘If I can help, I will, but everybody who employs me pays the same-a retainer variable according to how long it looks like the job’ll take; two hundred and fifty a day, GST included, plus expenses.’

He nodded. ‘So can I consider you engaged?’

‘No, not quite. I’ll have to hear what’s on your mind first. If you’ve been importing heroin freelance from the Golden Triangle and the Triads and the Yakuza are after you, I’ll have to pass.’

My father used to say that only men with weak chins grew beards. He continued to say it after I grew one, and I’ve got as much chin as anyone needs, but I still tend to look at bearded blokes with the thought in mind. Marriott s beard was wispy, but it grew on a solid chin. ‘When do the jokes stop?’ he said.

I pulled myself up straighter in my chair. ‘Now,’ I said. ‘Tell me why you feel in danger?’

‘What d’you know about the IT industry?’

I moved my hand across the surface of my computerless desk. ‘Nothing.’