Peter Corris - Master's mates

He took a bite of toast and appeared to chew it the prescribed number of times, whatever that is. He washed it down with some coffee. ‘No problems.’

‘Not afraid you’re stealing a march on them, you being a slope and all?’

He laughed. ‘Every one of them’s just as competitive as me.’

‘How about Karl Knopf?’

‘What about him?’

‘Your assessment.’

‘Eat your breakfast. First class.’

I ate and drank. ‘Would he talk to me if you asked him to?’

‘What about?’

With Peter I was always upfront and honest. He was too intelligent and experienced to deal with in any other way. He saw through evasions and half truths immediately and responded appropriately. I told him about the Master trial and its peculiar tidiness.

‘Karl’s straight, he wouldn’t be in anything dodgy.’

‘Good. I’d just like to get his impression of the way things went down.’

‘It is strange, the prosecutor shooting through like that. How about the customs guys?’

I shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

‘I’ll ask Karl to give you a call and I’ll see if I can find out anything about the customs men.’

‘Thanks, Peter. I’ll owe you. Again.’

He smiled. ‘Never know, you could have given me a footnote.’

Worked out, saunaed, breakfasted and feeling pretty good, I phoned Lorraine Master at her office and Fiona put me through.

‘Anything to report, Mr Hardy?’

‘Not really. Nothing solid but I’m following up on a few things. I’m booked for tomorrow.’

‘The money’s there. I’m faxing you the PIN. Present ID at the bank and you’ll be able to draw on the full amount.’

‘You’re sure I won’t take off for Tahiti?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘What gym did Stewart go to?’

‘Why?’

‘Might be useful to ask around. See if anyone else has been asking around. See if anyone’s interested that I’m asking around. It’s a technique of the profession. It’s called stirring the possum.’

‘I see. Quaint. The Atlas, in Watsons Bay. I go there myself. You could ask about me.’

I let that go by. ‘Why there?’

‘It’s a good gym. Plus it’s close to the marina and the yacht club.’

‘Stewart has a yacht?’

‘No, Mr Hardy. I do, the Merlot, and Stewart doesn’t know about it. It’s that kind of a marriage. Is that all?’

More than enough, I thought. All I could say was, ‘Thank you.’

The Atlas was located in a small street on the eastern edge of Watsons Bay. Unlike a lot of gyms-the Redgum, for instance, which has had earlier lives as a factory, a warehouse and dirty movie house-it didn’t bear the signs of having once been something else. The cement block building with the landscaping and tiling and tinted glass couldn’t have been more than a few years old and the discreet neon sign and name etched into the glass door were fresh and sparkling.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

The young woman behind the desk was wearing a top that stopped just below her breasts and well above her track pants, revealing a perfect midriff. She was fined down and buffed up and jumping out of her skin to be helpful. Even after my workout and clean-out I suppose I still wore my look of an approaching use-by date. She arranged her sharp, low-body-fat features sympathetically.

‘I’d just like to look around,’ I said. ‘Thinking of joining a gym, you know.’

‘Sure. New to Sydney?’

Felt like an insult, but I took it. ‘Up from Melbourne.’

The sympathy increased. ‘Look, by all means, Mr…?’

‘Master.’

‘Mr Master. Everything’s clearly signposted-weights room, machines, aerobics, sauna, pool.’

‘Pool,’ I said. ‘That’s nice.’

Her phone rang and she picked it up. ‘Heated,’ she said and her smile dismissed me.

It was mid-morning, and the place was busy. The free weights and machines sections were well patronised, mostly by yuppies but with a few oldies thrown in. Lines and wrinkles moving substantial weights, good to see. One sauna is much like another; the pool was a twenty-five metre job and would be very inviting at almost any time. I could see Lorraine Master here in her spandex with her personal trainer. What about Stewart?

At a gym there’s always someone as interested in talking as working out, sometimes more interested. I spotted him in the weights room. He took every opportunity to chat to the other people there, worked the weights reluctantly and put them down gladly. A class started up on the aerobics floor and that took most of his attention. Well-toned women moving rhythmically will do that. I watched the whip-thin instructor bounce and strut and most of the class stay in sync. I felt my age and caught his eye as he towelled off unnecessarily. He wandered over.

‘Gidday. Lookin’ the joint over?’

‘That’s right. Not that aerobics stuff, though it’s nice to look at.’

‘Tried it once. Fuckin’ near killed me.’

I gave him a conspiratorial nod. ‘My brother comes here and I thought I’d take a look. Stewart Master, know him?’

He was a big bloke, fiftyish, balding, overweight but not too bad. Nothing he couldn’t lose if he treadmilled, lifted more and talked less. ‘Yeah, I know him. Knew him anyway. Bad luck, that.’

‘Right, well I don’t make a song and dance about it. I’m up from Melbourne to help his wife straighten things up a bit. It rocked the family. I mean, we knew Stewie was no angel, but drugs… not like him. Did you see much of him?’

He was cooling down and had to make a decision now whether to go on talking or go back to the weights. The talking won. He swigged from his water bottle and wrapped his towel around his shoulders.

‘We chatted a bit, yeah. Not much. Nice enough bloke, Stewie. I’m Les, by the way.’

I played safe. ‘Bob.’ Forgettable.

We shook. ‘Yeah, he mentioned he was from Melbourne. Talked about the AFL. Meant bugger-all to me. I’m a League man. Broncos. Ex-Queenslander. He put in serious time here. Going for tone rather than bulk, you know? But he was bloody strong. You’d be a fair bit older than him, eh?’

I grinned. ‘I’ve lived hard. I’m not as old as I look. Still, I should’ve kept an eye on him.’

‘Right, I know what you mean, but you can only do so much with a goer like Stewie. Still, it’s going to be a blow to the people here.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Stewie put in a bid to buy the place. Big, big bucks. Didn’t you know? I thought…’

I clapped him on his beefy shoulder. ‘It’s all right, mate. Just playing it a bit close to the chest. Melbourne boy being cautious in the big smoke. Well, you never know. It could all work out okay. See you.’

Time to go. I didn’t know whether I’d got away with it or not and wasn’t going to hang around to answer questions. It was something to show for the visit. Hard to interpret. There’d been no reaction to the surname from the receptionist but it’s not an uncommon name, and chances were she didn’t know anything about the business side.

I walked away and looked back at the building. Freehold, very big bucks indeed, and even the price of the lease and the business goodwill would be heavy. I drove back to Darlinghurst and went to the office. Lorraine Masters fax with the PIN for an account with the Banque de France had come through. The card would be with me tomorrow, she said. I folded the sheet and put it in my wallet after writing the number in my notebook. Under the number I jotted two questions: did Stewart Master have that sort of money? Did Lorraine know about his interest in buying the gym?

I went out for a sandwich and when I got back there was a message from Peter Lo. I made instant coffee and rang him, talking between bites.