Peter Corris - Master's mates

‘Are you Hardy?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Come aboard.’

I eased down onto the short gangplank; a section of the railing had been slid clear and I stepped through to the deck. Penny dropped the mobile into the back pocket of his shorts and stuck out his hand.

‘Gidday. Reg Penny.’

‘Cliff Hardy, but you know that.’ I shook a hand with more calluses on it than smooth skin. ‘Who told you? Rosito or Rivages?’

‘Both, mate. I’ve been expecting you. Gabe said you liked a beer. Want one?’

‘No, thanks. Bit early. So you know why I’m here.’

‘Sure. All about Stewie Master. We’d better get out of the sun, you’re gonna burn. Doesn’t feel that hot but it’s deceptive. Follow me and watch your head.’

Barefooted and agile, he moved forward, instinctively ducking under ropes and other nautical things I’m ignorant of. The boat was bobbing gently at its mooring. I was in deck pants, a sports shirt and sneakers and felt overdressed, again. I followed him to a hatch and down a set of steps to a tight space with a built-in bench, seats and kitchen fittings.

Both big men, we wedged ourselves in on either side of the bench. Penny gestured at the stove. ‘I could make coffee or something.’

I shook my head. ‘No, thanks. I suppose you’re just going to confirm everything Rosito said to me-you don’t know anything about Master and drugs. All news to you. Poor Stewie. Business deal fell through and you’re just here trying to sell your boat.’

He surprised me then by throwing back his head and letting out a bellow of a laugh that ended in an alarming wheeze. ‘That fuckin’ Gabe. He’s full of shit. Most of what he said’s right but I’m not selling the yacht. Yacht, not boat. No way.’

‘Why would he say that?’

He shrugged. ‘Who knows? That’s Gabe. Always sorta big-noting. Him and his Caldoche widow. You heard about that?’

I nodded.

‘She’s a looker all right, but he’s got Buckley’s.’

‘What about Rivages?’

‘What about him?’

‘He fronted up to me at the hotel this morning, or rather his heavy did.’

‘Sione.’

‘Right. Sione.’

‘Don’t worry about it. It’s all just fun and games. Pascal likes to come on as… you know.’

‘The Abe Saffron of Noumea.’

He laughed again. ‘Yeah, and it’s about as real as that. There’s no fair dinkum crime here. The lid’s on the joint real tight. Everyone’s got it too cushy.’

‘So where did Stewart Master get a couple of keys of heroin?’

‘Search me, mate. I’ve got no idea.’

I examined him closely before I spoke again. He was older than he looked, possibly in his mid-forties and keeping the years at bay with physical activity. The hair was receding a bit and on inspection the yacht wasn’t quite as spiffy downstairs as up on top. The paperback books and magazines on a shelf had a well-thumbed look and there was a flat, almost empty, small packet of cigarette tobacco. Rollies, the economic choice.

I leaned slightly towards him across the bench top. ‘I didn’t mention this to Rosito, but I’ve got some money to pay out for information.’

‘How much?’

‘Depends. Why’re you guys all so defensive and sticking together? Why did Rivages virtually threaten me? Why did Rory McCloud shoot through?’

He screwed up his face in order to think about it and crow’s feet leapt into life around his eyes. His mouth and chin sagged a little, I noticed. He wasn’t quite the boyo he made himself out to be. The old shorts fitted the image but the oil ingrained into the pads of his fingers and the dirt under the nails suggested that he was having trouble with his engine. Eventually he made up his mind.

‘I’ll be honest with you, Hardy. I’d like to get out of here but I’m strapped for cash. The engine’s buggered and the rest of the equipment isn’t too flash for a long sail.’

‘Where would you go?’

‘What d’you reckon? Back to Australia. Beats this place to a frazzle. I need nine or ten grand. Could you run to that?’

‘Have to be good information.’

‘It would be, but I’d have to have the money real quick so I could leave pronto.’

‘What’s quick?’

‘Today. Tomorrow at the latest.’

‘That’s quick all right. Give me a taste.’

He stroked his beaky nose the way some people do when they’re trying to decide. He looked around the cabin at the faded books and the torn curtain only half covering a porthole. It occurred to me that he hadn’t made up his mind about selling the boat and didn’t want to. Maybe I was giving him an out. He stopped stroking and decided.

‘Okay. One, Rory didn’t shoot through of his own accord. He disappeared. Two, Jarrod Montefiore’s the guy you need to see. He’s got a story to tell and he’ll tell it for the right kind of dough. I know where he is or at least I can find out. Gabe and Pascal don’t.’

‘He’s not at the address I’ve got, the lie de France?’

‘Moved out like me. Similar reason.’

I thought about it while he fidgeted, scratching at some sun spots on his hands. ‘That’s why you’d have to p.o.q. Because of Rosito and Pascal?’

He made a zipping motion across his mouth. It was a bit theatrical, but there was something in his faded eyes that spoke of concern, even fear.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll go into town and get the money. I’ll give you five straight off and the rest after I talk to Montefiore. That could be whenever you can arrange it.’

‘Deal. I’ll send someone with you to get the five.’

‘How do I know five isn’t enough to get you on your way?’

‘You don’t, but it isn’t.’

‘I have to tell you I’ve had a feeling that my movements are being watched. Does that worry you?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But I’ll take the chance.’

I drove to the bank with a silent young Kanak whose name I never learned. On presentation of my passport, the card and keying in the PIN, I was told that I could draw on the sum of close to fourteen million Pacific francs. An image of Cagney on top of the electricity supply station flashed into my mind: I made it, Ma. A millionaire! My mother would’ve laughed and ordered a champagne cocktail instead of a Para port.

I gave the youngster the equivalent of five thousand Australian dollars and he walked away without a word as if he was a mute. Maybe he was. I was finding Noumea stranger and more interesting by the hour. I’d told Penny where I was staying and he said he’d send a message when he had the information.

I walked around until I found somewhere to have a drink and a think in that order. By chance it was the Saint Hubert, one of the places mentioned in Master’s letters. I went to the bar and bought a Heineken. The glass had a plimsoll line on it so that you could tell you were getting the right amount of beer with the froth as extra. Not something I could see catching on at home. There was a bowl of nuts on the bar, a touch long departed from the places I usually drink at, and I took a modest handful over to a seat where I could look out at the city square and the passing parade. It also gave me a chance to spot interested parties.

The place had a lot going for it-a very good-looking barmaid, reasonable lighting, cooling fans and a good semi-outdoors feel. I could see why the Aussies would choose it as their watering hole. The fact that a standard beer cost the equivalent of seven Australian dollars would keep the riffraff away but would make a round pretty expensive. I hadn’t seen any drunks about, perhaps because a good skinful would cost more than it was worth. I sipped the beer and studied everything around me, still and moving, and decided that if I was being watched, the watcher was so good I’d never spot him anyway.