Peter Corris - The Coast Road

I finished my coffee and fingered the rents in my dirty shirt. ‘I’ve been dealing with bikies down there for the last twenty-four hours, thirty-six, maybe. One friendly, most not. I’m not surprised.’

‘You got hurt again? I don’t-’

‘It’s all right. My pride mostly. There’s something very strange going on in the Illawarra, Dr Farmer, and you’ve put me right in the middle of it.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘No, that’s not right. Don’t say that. You still want to find out why your father died?’

‘I do.’

‘So do I, and I’ve got an ally or two.’

We sat quietly for a few minutes in those up-market surroundings. My thoughts drifted to Marisha Karatsky and the only moments of comfort I’d had since this whole thing started.

She broke in. ‘I can tell you something-if Sue Holland says she heard a motorcycle engine you can believe it. She was a motorbike dyke in her day.’

‘I believe it,’ I said. ‘Tell me, what does Tania do?’

‘She’s an accountant. Why?’

‘I need someone to go to the casino with me. An accountant sounds right.’

I explained about Wendy Jones and the possibility of finding out, through her, what might be going on down south.

She made a face. ‘Why can’t I go?’

The last time I’d taken a client into what might be called an operational situation, the client had been shot and later abducted. I could hardly tell Dr Farmer that, so I fell back on not involving a client at the sharp end as a professional principle. I asked her if Tania would be willing.

‘She’d love it. She complains about the dullness of her job.’

‘She knows about all this?’

‘Of course. We’re married.’

It was said as a challenge but I didn’t respond. I knew that same sex weddings were going on all the time and that they probably had the same ups and downs as the other kind and de facto set-ups. Downs and yet more downs in my own case.

‘Ask her as soon as she comes in. Tonight would be best.’

‘It won’t be dangerous?’

‘No.’

‘She’ll do it, I know she will. But just supposing she won’t, what would you do?’

I shrugged. ‘Hire a professional. That’d cost you more money.’

‘So you…haven’t got anyone…?’

‘No.’

‘Why’s that?’

After the events of the morning I wasn’t inclined to go down this road. ‘It doesn’t happen,’ I said. ‘And when it does, it doesn’t last.’

‘That’s bleak.’

I shrugged again and got to my feet. ‘I’ll wait for your call. If it’s a go, Tania should wear something smart and you should give her some gambling money.’

She smiled as she moved to escort me out. ‘I sometimes wish I’d studied psychology instead of linguistics. This is all very interesting.’

Interesting, I thought. Sure, with a couple of people dead and the welts from the prod of a double barrel sawn-off shotgun smarting on my neck. I kept moving and didn’t say anything.

‘Do you wish you’d done something different, Cliff? Another profession?’

I didn’t even have to think. ‘Yes and no,’ I said.

My reasoning was this: the casino had good people and any security man worth his salt would take a close look at someone like me. They might even have me on file, with a photo or video or both, after some of the matters I’d dealt with over the years. If I turned up with a female partner the temperature would drop and she might even be useful in getting me close to Wendy Jones.

As I headed for home, I tried to remember what Tania looked like from the glimpse I’d caught on the street. That’s if it was Tania, and Elizabeth Farmer wasn’t sharing herself about. Blonde, I thought, suede coat. An accountant might be a good companion to go gambling with, but what would you talk to her about? The only accountant I knew was my own and our contact mostly consisted of him telling me what to do and how slack I was about keeping documents.

There was the usual build-up of mail after an absence, mostly inconsequential, and a stack of phone messages, mostly ignorable. The house felt plain and dowdy after the opulence of my client’s place but that’s probably how I like it. Unlike several women I’ve known, my habit is to unpack completely on getting home. Dirty clothes in the wash, other stuff back where it belongs. My ex-wife Cyn was capable of stepping over her unpacked bag for weeks, taking what she needed out of it piece by piece.

I showered, applied some antiseptic cream to my scraped shoulder, put on a tracksuit and sneakers and went for a walk. The apartment development at the end of Glebe Point Road was just about ready for the well-heeled owners to move in on their water views. I turned off and did a long circuit through Jubilee Park, over the bridge and back up around Harold Park. The pub has gone and I wondered how much longer the pacing could continue. It seemed like time was passing it by. Up the Wigram Road hill and back home. A couple of kilometres and forty-five minutes of time out. I didn’t think about Frederick Farmer or Adam MacPherson or Wendy Jones or Marisha Karatsky.

There was a message with an attachment on the computer from Purcell. The message asked me to scrub the whole lot once I’d looked at it. The attachment was a photograph of Wendy Jones in the company of a gang of bikies. She was in the middle, astride her bike, and looked completely at home. At a guess she was in her mid to late twenties. Her face was arresting-high cheekbones, bony nose, thin lips. The quality wasn’t good enough for me to tell the colour of her eyes below heavy, dark brows. Her hair was mid-blonde, drawn back in a bikie ponytail. Slap on the makeup, change the colour and arrangement of her hair, put her in a dress and she could be transformed. But I wouldn’t have any trouble recognising her-the photo was sharp enough with the light coming in from the right direction to show that she had a winking jewel implanted in both of her front teeth. I could hear Purcell laughing.

Dr Farmer called to confirm that Tania was a starter. At 10 pm, in my only dark suit with a collar and tie and well-shined shoes, I parked outside the bijou terrace in Newtown. Dr Farmer ushered me in and introduced me to Tania Vronsky. She was the woman I’d seen in King Street- medium height, short blonde hair, an athletic body. She wore a black silk dress with a cream jacket, medium heels.

We shook hands. I said, ‘Ms Vronsky’ and she said, ‘Mr Hardy.’

Elizabeth Farmer snorted. ‘It’s going to look bloody funny the two of you walking around calling each other Ms and Mr. His name’s Cliff.’

‘Hello, Cliff. Thanks for the invitation.’

‘A pleasure, Tania.’

‘Let’s have a drink,’ Elizabeth Farmer, who’d obviously already had a few, said. ‘Put you both in the mood.’

She had a bottle of champagne open and the glasses ready. She poured, a little unsteadily. ‘Good luck,’ she said as she handed the drinks around. ‘Tell me all about it after, darling.’

In the car, I said, ‘She’s not too happy about this, is she? D’you want to back out?’

‘Shit, no. I love her dearly, but sometimes she’s too clingy. This is a godsend. I need some space. Just a bit. For now.’

I started the car. She leaned back and sighed. I drove in silence for a while, threading through the traffic towards Broadway.

‘D’you think you could stop so I can get cigarettes, Cliff? It’s another no-no at home, but it’d be in character in a casino, right?’

The casino was part of a complex on Darling Harbour. I’d been to a Van Morrison concert in the entertainment centre nearby and I’d eaten in one of the associated restaurants, but I’d never been inside the real money-spinner, the casino. I’d been in others though, and knew what to expect- over-the-top bad taste decor and an arrangement of lights and mirrors that made you think you’d entered another universe. I wasn’t wrong: the entrance had lights in the floor and spouting water up glassy walls. Inside the look was something between a tropical island and an Arabian tent- glass, steel and plastic thrown together with a few million watts. Pink dominated, followed by yellow and pale blue.