Peter Corris - The Coast Road

I got up and stretched, feeling less flexible than I liked to feel. A legacy of neglect of the gym and accumulated birthdays. I mooched along the sand, kicking at plastic bottles and bits of driftwood brought in by the tide. A rogue wave rose abruptly and washed over my feet and I swore. Suddenly, I was much less enamoured of the Illawarra. Sydney was my go, along with the pollution and the traffic, aggro from the likes of Harry and the phoney glamour of places like The Silken Touch. I realised I was veering towards self-pity and shook the feeling off. I left the beach, found a park bench, took off my shoes and wrung out my socks. A passer-by smiled at me and I smiled back.

At 7 pm, back wearing my jeans, sneakers, T-shirt and a denim jacket that lives mustily in the car, I was in the bar of the pub nursing a schooner of light. Maggie had described MacPherson in detail-stocky, fortyish, red hair and beard, a smoker and Guinness drinker. Loner. I stayed in the bar where smoking was permitted, at least for now, ate some crisps, played the pokies without concentration or luck, tried to show some interest in the soccer on TV. Hard to do. I went through the saloon bar to the toilet and saw that Maggie was on duty.

‘You work a long day,’ I said.

‘I’ve got ends to make meet,’ she said. ‘No sign of your bloke so far, eh?’

‘No.’ I looked at my watch. ‘I can’t give him much longer. Have to get back to Sydney.’

‘Wish I could come with you. But my husband and two kids might object.’

I laughed. ‘Well, I’ll be back.’

She mimed shock. ‘You keep away from me. If he doesn’t show before you leave and comes in later, d’you want me to give him a message?’

I thought about it. ‘Why not?’ I gave her my card and ten dollars. ‘Tell him to give me a ring.’

‘Ooh, a private eye. Maybe I will come to Sydney with you.’

‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.’

‘Your glass is empty. You’ve paid for another one. What’ll it be?’

‘Middy of light.’

‘That’s right. You’re driving.’

She gave me the drink and went about her work. Back in the smoky bar, where the noise level from the pokies, the drunks and the pool players was rising, I looked around for the stocky redhead with no luck. I left the pub and reached my car with only ninety minutes to get to Alexandria. I was only a couple of blocks away when I saw the flashing blue light in the rear vision. The police car drew alongside and I pulled over.

Two uniforms. Both youngish. One stayed in the car, the other fronted, gestured for me to lower the window.

‘I believe you just left the hotel, sir.’

‘That’s right.’

He produced the bag with the mouthpiece. ‘Blow into the tube, please.’

I knew what was happening. Barton had put the word out. I’d had twenty-five ounces of light beer over a three hour period. Safe enough, but maybe not with nothing to eat except a packet of crisps. How light is light? How much soak-up is there in crisps? I accepted the device and blew.

He examined the crystals. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Just. Drive carefully, Mr Hardy.’

Things were very different at the brothel when I got there a little after eleven. Quite a few cars were parked nearby and, instead of letting me in, the gate remained closed and the receptionist said Phil would be out to see me. As he came out a taxi pulled up and a woman got out. Not Kristina. She was at least 185 centimetres tall in her heels and her hair added a bit to that. The elegantly tailored coat opened to reveal a generous figure in a tight red dress. A silk scarf did the job of concealing the Adam’s apple but the breadth of shoulder was a giveaway. She gave me a winning lip gloss and mascara smile.

‘Shy, darling?’ A hand with scarlet fingernails touched my sleeve.

‘I’m waiting for Phil.’

She came closer, still smiling, and the hand moved to my crotch. ‘Wasting your time, sweetheart. He’s straight. I, on the other hand…’

‘Evening, Roberta,’ Phil said from behind the gate. ‘Don’t bother the man. He’s here on business.’

Roberta pursed her lips and pecked me on the cheek. She shrugged; her breasts bounced and the gate swung open. She went in and Phil came out. He was in his nighttime work clothes-Italian suit, blue shirt, dark tie. He drew in a deep breath as if he needed fresh air and then fished out cigarettes and lit one. He offered me the packet and I shook my head.

‘Would you believe? It’s a no-smoking knocking-shop.’

‘Is she here?’

‘Not yet. I wanted to get a few things straight.’

Roberta’s scent hung heavily in the air. ‘Like what?’

He blew a plume of smoke. ‘I asked around about you, Hardy. You come up okay. A man of your word, sort of.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘Just thought I’d tell you I’ve got some insurance. Tape of you giving me money, you with Roberta…See what I mean?’

‘Clever,’ I said.

‘Careful. When this cunt arrives you take her away and do whatever you like, but she was never here. Understand?’

What I understood was how good he was at what he did. From the way he stood, balanced and steady, I could tell that the cigarette could be flicked in my face in an instant if required, and the blow would be a nanosecond behind.

‘I understand,’ I said. ‘What you have to understand is that I’m likely to be back when my business with Kristina is all over.’

‘Look forward to it. She should be here any minute.’ He’d only taken one drag on the cigarette. It hadn’t been for smoking. He dropped it, pressed the buzzer and went through the gate.

I went back to my car and waited. Fifteen minutes later a taxi drew up and a young woman got out. She wore white trousers, white high heels and a white leather coat. There was a white band in her hair. She paid the driver and tripped across to the gate. She buzzed and leaned close to hear the intercom. She straightened up, hitched up her white shoulder bag and looked ready to break something, anything.

‘Kristina,’ I spoke quietly and approached in as nonthreatening a manner as I could.

Anger had brought a flush to her face. Phil had been right. She looked much older than her years, but the white outfit lent her a kind of vulnerability, no doubt deliberately contrived. ‘Who the fuck are you? What do you want?’

‘I’m a private detective. Your mother hired me to find you. She’s worried about you. With good reason I’d say.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘If I do, what d’you do next? I’ve had a word here. You’re out.’

‘There’s plenty of places.’

I shook my head. ‘Not for you. Not with me along telling them how old you are.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘You should’ve stayed at school. You need a wider vocabulary. So what d’ you reckon? I can’t see you in William Street, doing it in the backs of cars.’

‘You say she hired you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Can’t be paying much.’ She opened her coat. She wore a tight, low-dipping white lacy top. No bra. Her nipples poked through the lace. ‘Maybe we could come to a different arrangement.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Man of steel. Well…’

A car drew up. ‘Let’s continue this a bit further away. I don’t think Phil’d like us blocking up the access.’

She said, ‘You scared of Phil?’ but she moved with me away towards my car.

‘Under the right conditions, no. Under the wrong ones, yes.’

It’s a technique-keep ’em talking, keep ’em moving.

‘What would the right conditions be, then?’

‘Probably him drunk and me with a shotgun.’

Kristina laughed, still moving. A nice, musical laugh. Very commercial.

‘We’re out of the same box, Phil and me, ex-army, but he’s got youth on his side.’