Peter Corris: Taking Care of Business

I knew what was coming but I let him have his moment.

‘Unless?’ Charlie said.

‘Unless you guys let things go ahead as I planned. When it all goes through I’ll be generous.’

Travers looked very interested. ‘How do we know that?’

‘You’d have to trust me.’

The three detectives looked at each other and then at me. ‘What d’you think, Cliff?’ Underwood said. ‘You’re the one who twigged. You should have the biggest say.’

‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘How about a vote? Let’s say I get two votes and I’m against. If you three can agree on a yes vote I’d be overruled. Why don’t you go out on the balcony and talk it over.’

That’s what they did. Di Maggio topped up his drink, sat down and looked at me. ‘You’re crazy, Hardy. They’ll buy it.’

‘We’ll see. Just suppose the Trans-Pacific offer for Sentinel got knocked back by the government. What then?’

‘Not a problem. I’ve got someone on the inside in the Treasurer’s Department who’d help to give Trans-Pacific a clean bill of health, which would be stretching a point by the way. And he’d see the Treasurer got on the right track. He did it for me before with Bio-Chem. He could do it again.’

‘I see. Got all the bases loaded?’

‘Damn right.’

The three trooped back into the room and I could see from Darcy Travers’ unhappy face that the decision had gone against di Maggio.

‘No deal,’ Charlie Underwood said. ‘Fuck you.’

Di Maggio shrugged. ‘That’s it then. No pie to cut up. I somehow think your paperwork to Sentinel’ll go missing. Tough luck. I’ll have to think of another way. And like Charlie said, what proof have you got of this? I don’t think the cops’ll buy your story. As for Cliff here, why, he got drunk and cut himself. What’s new?’

Colin Hart moved forward again but I pushed him back. ‘Easy, Colin. No need for that. We’ve got him by the balls.’

I don’t know anything about computers but I knew how to operate a digital camcorder and Scott had a beauty. I’d set it up to focus on the couch and I’d activated it with a remote control when I’d begun my spiel. I went over to the bookcase and revealed it.

‘It’s all on tape, Scott. Pictures and sound. Remember some of the things you said? Some of the names you mentioned?’

Di Maggio went pale and his hands shook. ‘Jesus, you bastard.’

Charlie Underwood was the first to get it. ‘What’d he say when we were outside?’

‘Oh, he just bragged about who’d okayed the deal and how he could grease the wheels in Canberra. Little things like that.’

Charlie nodded. ‘You’ve got something in mind.’

‘That’s right. I’ve been through his desk. He’s got more than forty grand in a cheque account. I think he’s going to transfer some of it here and there. What d’you reckon, Scott?’

‘What do I get in return?’

‘Eventually, you get the tape.’

‘Eventually?’

‘After you and Carter clean up the mess at Sentinel and leave the country.’

‘Bryce is an Australian.’

‘I’m sure you’ll find him something to do at home. We bloody well don’t need him here. So, you make some transfers right now or the tape goes straight to where it can do you most harm. Your choice.’

He had no choice. We went into the study, he turned on the computer, got his banking details up and transferred the amounts they specified to their accounts. Large sums.

‘What about you, Cliff?’ Underwood said.

I looked at di Maggio to see if he was going to mention the four thousand he’d paid me. He wasn’t. ‘I’ve had fun,’ I said. ‘Let’s say two grand and a hundred and twenty bucks for a new shirt and pants.’

I told Harry Tickener all about it and regretted that he couldn’t use it.

‘Sure I can,’ he said.

‘Harry, I’ve got a deal with di Maggio.’

‘I’m writing a novel. I can use it there, change it round a bit.’

Megan phoned me after I banked the money for her. ‘Hey, thanks. I didn’t expect it so soon.’

‘It’s okay. I had an insurance policy.’

‘You didn’t cash it in?’

‘No, it came due.’

‘Cool. Thanks again… Cliff.’

‘Come back a star,’ I said.

The young man sitting across from me was the colour of teak and looked about as tough. There was no fat on him and he’d slid snake-hipped onto the chair as if he was flexible enough to sit there and bend his legs up around his head if he’d wanted to. He was wearing jeans and a polo shirt and his forearms were sinewy. His handshake was that of a heavyweight although he had the build of a welter, light-middle at most.

‘Billy Sunday advised me to get in touch with you, Mr Hardy,’ he said.

I nodded. ‘And how is Billy? Haven’t seen him in a while.’

His lean face fell into sad lines. ‘Not the best. You know how it is with us blackfellers; fifty’s old. And Billy hasn’t exactly taken care of himself. Crook kidneys.’

‘Sorry to hear it. He could handle six blokes at a time in his day. Joel Grinter, did you say your name was? How can I help you?’

‘D’you follow golf?’

‘No. I’ve heard of Greg Norman and Tiger Woods. That’s about it.’

He smiled and his face came to life. Very young life- he couldn’t have been much over twenty, but he conducted himself as though he was older. ‘That’s a start. I’m a professional golfer. Rookie year. I’ve won once already and had three top tens.’

‘You’d be making a quid then?’

‘Yeah. Doing all right. Plus Lynx are making noises to sign me up. That’s where the real money is.’

‘Good for you. It’s a better business to be in than boxing. You can keep all your marbles.’

‘Right, if I can stay alive. I’ve been getting death threats.’

He told me that he was from Canungra in Queensland, had won a scholarship to the Sports Institute in Canberra and had been a top amateur. Now he was staying in Sydney with his coach, one Brett Walker, who lived in Lane Cove. He was due to play in a tournament at Concord, starting tomorrow. After he won his first event in Queensland some months back, he got a new car.

‘Nothing flash. A Commodore. Some mongrel wrote “Golf is a white man’s game” with a spray can down one side. Bloody hard to clean up. That’s pretty funny seeing that a black man is the best in the world and another black man is in the top ten.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘VJ Singh. Fiji Indian. He’s won two majors. Anyway, I figured it was Queensland, you know-rednecks, ratbags…’

‘But?’

‘But the other day I got this.’ He lifted his hip, took a newspaper cutting from his pocket, and passed it across to me. The article was from the Telegraph and was about him. It was fairly standard sports stuff, with a photograph of him hitting a shot and sketching his background and career and touting him as the future of Australian golf. But not according to the person who’d drawn a gun on the cutting in red with a bullet travelling towards Joel Grinter’s head.

‘I’ll admit it scared me,’ Grinter said. ‘Put me off my game. I played lousy in the Pro-Am.’

I looked blank.

‘It’s a game you play a day or so before the tournament. There’s a little bit of money up and businessmen and such pay to play with the pros. It’s supposed to be a fun day, but I was looking over my shoulder every second shot. I was in the trees and the sand more than I was on the fairway.’

‘I get the idea,’ I said. ‘I don’t blame you. But don’t you blokes have a management arrangement with some mob or other? Don’t they lay on the security?’

He looked troubled. ‘Yeah, that’s right. And there’s a couple of management companies after me to sign with them. I haven’t decided who to go for, but they might shy away if they hear about this. Lynx, the one I like, might not be as keen about me. It’s not like with Elvis-you can’t sell golf gear using a dead man.’