Peter Corris: Lugarno

‘Fuck you!’ He jumped at me, jabbing with the club. I hadn’t expected that but it was a bad move. I grabbed the end and pulled but he was stronger than I expected and jerked it free. It was going to be a swing this time. I ducked under it and threw the ball hard underarm. It took him in the crotch and he yelled, dropped the club and sagged to his knees, covering himself with both hands.

I picked up the golf club and hauled him to his feet. ‘It helps to move around. Let’s get that water bottle and move into the shade.’

I guided him to the cart and fished out the bottle. He was ashen and had bitten his lip or his tongue so that blood ran down his chin. He took a drink and did some groaning. I saw some players moving towards the tee so I eased him into the seat of his cart, collected up his bag and the remaining balls and got in beside him. I’d never driven a golf cart but it wasn’t hard to master. I guided it across to a stand of trees. Beating up on people, that’s your profession, Cyn my ex-wife had said and right then, feeling responsible for causing a teenager to dribble blood and hold his privates, it felt as if she’d been right.

He wiped the blood off his chin and took a couple of deep breaths. ‘I still can’t talk to you.’

‘Can’t talk is it now? That’s a bit different.’

‘It comes to the same thing.’

‘You talked to Martin Price.’

He took another swig and some colour returned to his face. ‘I shouldn’t have. He should forget what I said.’

‘I’m getting a feeling here that you’d say more if you could. What’s stopping you?’

‘I’ve been threatened.’

‘Who by?’

He shook his head. ‘Look, even talking to you could cause a lot of shit. I suppose you asked Reg where I was.’

‘The guy in the pro shop? Sure.’

He took off his cap and scratched at the thick pale hair. ‘Jesus. She… they told me that if I talked to anyone about it they’d tell Reg I was on drugs and he’d get rid of me. He’s prick enough to do it. I need this job and you’ve gone and screwed it up for me.’

‘Much money in it?’

‘Ratshit, but it’s a foot in the door.’

‘Don’t worry. I gave him the impression I was a sports rep interested in you. I could go back and give it a tweak if you like.’

‘You’d do that?’

‘Why not? All I want to do is find out who’s supplying the drugs to Danni Price and to cause them a lot of grief. Nobody else.’

‘I still can’t help you.’

Well, what was I going to do, knock out a few of those big, white teeth? I took out a card and stuck it in the pocket of his shirt. ‘I think you’re in trouble, Jason. You might need help because some shit’s going to fly whether you tell me things or not. And I recommend ice cubes for your knackers.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…’

‘You don’t have to mean it to do it. You’ve got things on your mind, son. That’s probably why you can’t hit the… whatever you call it.’

‘High draw.’

‘Right.’ I got out of the cart. ‘I’ll square it with the pro.’

‘Thanks.’ He fished out the card. ‘Mr Hardy.’

‘Think about it.’

I walked away leaving him staring straight ahead. He was a hard kid to read. Not too bright perhaps, or a good actor. Maybe I’d planted a seed, it was difficult to tell. His slip of the tongue had told me something. She had threatened him; then it was they. Who was she?

Things had picked up in the pro shop by the time I returned, with a couple of groups waiting to pay their money. I fiddled around looking at the equipment and the prices and was confirmed in my feeling that this game wasn’t for me. You only need one implement to play tennis. When the shop was empty I approached the man I was now thinking of as Fat Reg.

‘You see him?’ he said.

‘Yeah. Nice kid. Good swing.’

‘Sometimes, maybe. What firm did you say you were from?’

‘I didn’t say, but you’ll have heard of us. Could you point out Jason’s car?’

‘Why?’

I shrugged. ‘Just interested. You can tell a lot about a man from the car he drives, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Never thought about it. What d’you drive?’

‘A Falcon.’

If he’d known my Falcon was ten years old with a developing rust problem and a suspect second gear he might’ve had doubts about my bona fides, but he seemed pleased to got some definite information from me and pointed out the window. ‘That’s his car, the red Pajero.’

I whistled softly. ‘Pricey.’

‘Yeah, well you know these kids. Probably a matter of time before it’s repossessed and he’s back to the bomb he had before.’

I winked and kept him onside by buying the most expensive cap in his stock. I went out to the car park and looked at the Pajero parked in a reserved space. It was very new and very high tech. The interior was clean and neat and the dark suit on a hanger had an Italian cut and that not-much-change-out-of-a-grand look about it. There was obviously more to Jason than met the eye and I was beginning to wish I’d known about the car and the suit before talking to him. You’ll keep, I thought.

I waited until some more players went into the shop to distract Fat Reg, scooted to my trusty but rusty Falcon and drove away.

It’d been a strange morning’s work on both matters I was pursuing. As I drove towards Lugarno, I did a cruise of the area, following Forrest Road down to the river, and reflected on the coincidence that both cases involved young men who seemed to have achieved some upward mobility. It was late in the morning and I was hungry after my meagre weight-conscious breakfast. In my experience, well-heeled women like Sammy and Danni Price didn’t sit at home with a sandwich and the Midday Movie. They went out to lunch. I bought a salad roll and a Diet Coke at a milk bar and took up a position with a good view of the house, hoping one of them would emerge. If they both emerged I’d have to make a decision. It can be an intellectually challenging game, whatever Cyn used to say.

I couldn’t see the water from my spot but I knew it was down there at the end of the road that had been carved out of the rock so that some rugged bushland rose up above it. Had to be nice looking back up at Lugarno from the river. The Price house in Forrest Road was a newish rambling affair on a big block behind a high besser brick fence and large silver-frosted iron gates. The neighbourhood was a mixture of houses old and new with a few up-market townhouse developments thrown in. It was elevated and leafy, without any through traffic. Nice place if you had a good car and a swimming pool and didn’t mind being that far from the CBD. It looked as if everyone living there would be much the same — comfortable and conservative — but I knew that wasn’t true: there’d be secret drinkers and cross-dressers and One Nation voters.

I’d finished the roll and was draining the Coke bottle when a white Celica glided through the open gates. Sammy off for lunch. With whom? Where? I got a good look at her as she flashed past. Her blonde hair was formally arranged and she wore bright, dangling earrings. For lunch? But it was her bearing and expression that had me turning the key — she was high on something, very high, and looking to get higher. She looked as though she was following the Gough Whitlam adage — the fun is where I am!

I muttered this in my best Gough voice as I followed the Celica at a discreet distance. Sammy was a good driver and the Celica was a good car. Her traffic sense was exemplary. Unlike a lot of drivers, who speed up and pass only to be stopped at lights and intersections and get nothing out of it, she could judge how to get smoothly through the traffic and avoid hold-ups. It took me all my time to keep up with her while staying, as she did, just over the speed limit. The route was basically east and she eventually pulled up outside a block of flats on the outskirts of Rockdale. She drove into the parking area and sounded the horn three times. I stopped in the street, ready to follow when she pulled out. If she went west I’d have to do a U-turn over double lines. Dangerous stuff.