Peter Corris - The Washington Club

Still, I wondered how to tackle the situation. Marching up to the door and knocking didn’t seem like such a good idea and this was no place for my Rooty Hill fire trick. I resorted to the technology again and dialled the number. Plenty of rings and then that almost-familiar voice.

‘Yes?’

‘Could I speak with Ms Daniels, please?’

‘Who the hell is this?’

‘Tell me who you are and I’ll tell you who I am. I’m right outside.’

Silly thing to say, but I couldn’t think of anything else. I hung on to the phone and waited for a response. He shouted something but he wasn’t talking to me. Then the front door opened. I half-expected to see Judith Daniels come trotting out. Instead a man in a white shirt, with the long sleeves buttoned at the wrist, rushed out and took the steps down to the street three at a time. He was big, he moved fast and fluently and he was carrying something in his hand that wasn’t a mobile phone. He vaulted over the gate and headed straight for me.

I scrambled out of the car, pulling the. 38 from its holster and straining to see what sort of a weapon he had. He was halfway across the road before I recognised it as a taser, a stun-gun. I raised the pistol.

‘Stop right there. Drop the taser or I’ll put a bullet in you.’

He stopped, flicked long straight black hair out of his eyes and stared at me. ‘Fuck me dead! Cliff fucking Hardy.’

Rhino Jackson had been in the PEA game about the same length of time as me. Our paths had crossed more than once and the encounters had never been friendly. He was something of a drunk, something of a thug, but reasonably honest. One thing was for sure, he was ruthlessly, professionally, violent, a better man to have on your side than against you, which was why bodyguarding was his main line of work. For him, a stun gun was a mild instrument of control. As I looked at him I remembered hearing that he’d been burnt in a factory fire some time back when he tried to carry a whole filing cabinet out of the blaze by himself. Jackson was good-looking in a craggy sort of way and vain. The long sleeves were probably to cover scars.

I lowered the. 38 ‘Hello, Rhino. I thought I knew the voice on the phone.’

‘That was you the other day, too, wasn’t it? What the fuck are you playing at, Hardy?’

I felt silly standing in the middle of a sunny suburban street with a gun in my hand. I holstered it. ‘Like I say, you tell me and I’ll tell you. Or was it the other way around?’

‘You always were a clown. I’m providing security for Miss Daniels.’

‘Sure. You’re in Watsons Bay and she’s in Woollahra. Great security.’

‘She’s here at my joint some of the time and I’m there some of the time. Shit, I don’t know what fucking business it is of yours.’

‘It is, believe me. Let’s go inside. I won’t touch her, I won’t even look at her. I just want to talk to her.’ I grinned at him, sensing that he was as relieved as me that there was no real trouble here. ‘Got anything to drink in there?’

‘Every fucking drink you can think of. The lady’s a lush. How about you put the gun in the car as a sign of good faith?’

‘Okay.’ Jackson wasn’t a killer and although, like all of us, he sometimes walked a narrow line, he wasn’t a crook’s hireling either. I opened the Nissan and put the. 38 under the driver’s seat. We walked across the street; he opened the gate and went up the steps into the house. I followed him. He was bigger than me and stronger but he seemed to have lost something of his old bounce. He rubbed at his right forearm with his left hand. The burns.

We went into the house and into a strong smell of cigarette smoke, which is getting to be a rare thing. There was a short passage and Judith Daniels stood in the opening to a door on the left. She wore black slacks and a red silk blouse, high heels. She was smoking and she held a glass in her other hand-one of those two-fisted drinking smokers, right, left, right, left. Jackson was right; she was good-looking, arresting even, but the booze was beginning to soften her features and move her towards her first facelift.

‘Who’s this?’ Her voice was Eastern Suburbs polished and clipped, with only the slight suggestion of a slur. She was a biggish woman, five foot eight or nine, solidly built. She could probably hold quite a few of whatever she was drinking before it showed.

‘Name’s Hardy. He’s a private detective, Judith. Says he has to talk to you.’

Judith? Well, well. But who was I to comment?

She disappeared into the room. I looked at Jackson; he shrugged and rubbed his forearm. We followed her into a small room that seemed to be set up for watching TV, drinking and, just possibly, fucking on the big couch. Judith Daniels was behind a portable bar pouring orange juice into a big tumbler. When she had the bottom well and truly covered she added champagne until the glass was almost full. She took a sip and added some more champagne until it was absolutely full. She raised it to her lips without spilling a drop. A good trick after three or four of them. She picked her cigarette up from the edge of the bar and took a drag.

‘You’d better give the man a drink, Reg,’ she said.

Reg. You learn something new every day.

Jackson looked embarrassed. ‘What’ll you have, Hardy?’

It was just past eleven o’clock. ‘Beer,’ I said. ‘Light, if you’ve got it.’

Judith Daniels sneered. ‘Another pleb. A pleb and a wimp.’

‘Shut up,’ Jackson said. ‘The man’s working.’

The look she shot him showed that she liked it. Rhino had a reputation of being rough with the women, nothing far-out, just a bit physical as required. He took a can of Tooheys Light and one of draught from the bar fridge. Handed me mine, popped his own and leaned back against the wall. She moved slightly closer to him, blowing smoke well away from him.

‘So, he’s sussed us out, has he?’ she said to me.

Puzzling. Not what I expected. To conceal the reaction, I opened the can, drank and felt the welcome bite of the alcohol. The sexual lines between them were open and I felt like a voyeur, also deprived. ‘You’ll have to explain that to me, Ms Daniels,’ I said. ‘Who would he be?’

She had a deep drink of the pale orange mixture and took smoke into her lungs. She looked relieved at my response and expelled the smoke towards the ceiling in a thin, expert stream. ‘I don’t have to explain a bloody thing to you. You wanted to talk to me. I didn’t want to talk to you. Still don’t.’

She looked hard and composed, almost amused, ready to send me on my way. Jackson was curious but he wouldn’t do anything to influence her. The only tack I could think of was the one I’d tried before.

‘I think you should. I’m working for Claudia Fleischman.’

The high colour left her face and she looked urgently, pleadingly, at Jackson. The hand carrying the drink shook and drops splashed onto the carpet. I’d seen her type before. Her chief prop was alcohol; when she didn’t have enough of that on board her fall-back position was anger. She sucked in smoke and it came out in spurts as she spat words at Jackson. ‘Don’t you know anything! How could you let him come in here? My life’s in danger from that woman. Get him out! I want him out!’

Rhino may have wanted to know what was going on but the customer was always right with him. He moved forward obediently and fished in his pocket for the taser. What the woman had said was too important for me to back away from. I’d barely tasted the beer; the can was heavy in my hand. I threw it at Jackson and it hit him squarely on the nose. Judith Daniels screamed, Jackson swore. I moved in close and punched at his Adam’s apple with a loosely closed fist. He gasped as the breath left him and I kicked his feet out from under him. He fell heavily on his left forearm and let out a deep grunt of pain. I reached into his jacket pocket and removed the stun gun.