Peter Corris - The Washington Club

I let my mind wander and I found myself thinking of old Paddy White and the way he’d arranged to have himself disposed of-by cremation, and his partner Manoly Lasceris privately to scatter the ashes in Centennial Park across the way. I knew Jews didn’t cremate and that it wasn’t on, but I couldn’t help thinking that the private and personal way was more to the point than the ceremonial style. Such thoughts, of course, tend to circle back and I thought about who might do the job for me-scatter the ashes on Blackwattle Bay. Offhand, I couldn’t think of a candidate.

I was still in a kind of daze when the service ended and Claudia had to grip my arm to get my attention as we filed out.

‘What now?’ she said.

‘Now nothing.’ I realised how harsh my voice sounded and I tried to soften it. ‘They’ll be going out to Rookwood now and then to the house where they huddle for quite a while. Days. It’s not like a wake or anything. I’m not going.’

‘Why not?’

We were out on the street again and people were heading towards their cars. ‘Naomi doesn’t like me. She wouldn’t want me there. And I’ve got things to do.’

She fished for her sunglasses in her bag and put them on against the bright light. ‘That seems a bit insensitive.’

‘It isn’t.’

A woman broke from the pack and approached us. She was about Claudia’s age, a good deal heavier but handsome and forceful.

‘Claudia Rosen,’ she said. ‘I’m Ruth Simon. Goldman now. Remember, from Fort Street?’

‘God, yes. I do remember you. Hello, Ruth. I… Why are you..?’

‘Cy was my cousin. Lovely man. This is all dreadful.’ She let her handbag slip up her arm and put both hands on Claudia’s shoulders. ‘You don’t have to explain anything to me. I’m married to a lawyer. I’m sure you had nothing to do with what happened to your husband.’

‘Thank you, Ruth. This is Cliff Hardy. He was helping Mr Sackville with my defence.’

Mrs Goldman looked me over critically. She knew the suit was an off-the-peg job and that the shirt was from the bargain basement. Her smile and nod were wary. She had nothing to say to me but she gave the impression of wanting to spirit Claudia away for a month or so. It occurred to me that I hadn’t heard Claudia mention any friends apart from the woman with the house at Bluefin Bay. Suddenly, in her smart clothes and expensive sunglasses, she looked lonely. Mrs Goldman was the antidote to that.

‘You’re coming to Rookwood and to the house?’ she said.

Claudia looked at me. ‘No, I… ‘

‘You must! We’ve got so much to talk about. You should meet some of these people. They can help you.’

Claudia flared. ‘How?’

Mrs Goldman backed off a fraction but she was remorseless and a good observer. “These are your people. I’ve got a car here. If Mr. Hardy isn’t going to the cemetery you can come with me.’

‘Well…”

I could tell she wanted to go quite as much as I didn’t want to. ‘I’ll have a word to the driver, Claudia,’ I said quickly, ‘and I’ll be in touch later. Nice to have met you, Mrs Goldman.’

The hearse and two limousines with family members inside emerged from the bowels of the building and set off on Cy’s last trip. I moved away to where Gatellari was stopped with his engine running. ‘She’s going out to Rookwood with that woman she’s with now. Little drive for you, Vinnie. Then they’ll be off to Neutral Bay. Keep as close to her as you can.’

‘Right.’

I watched as Ruth Goldman steered Claudia towards a silver grey Mercedes which pulled smoothly out into the funeral procession. Gatellari let a few more cars go by before he joined in.

One of the calls I had made the day before, when Claudia and I were driving back from the peninsula, had been to Clive Borrow, a friend who was a life member of the White City tennis club. He had no trouble identifying the left-hander named Todd I’d seen at the Washington Club. Todd Rattray, several times a semi-finalist in the club championship, a former policeman, now a security consultant. I spun a tale about needing to get some practice against a double-fisted leftie for a game I had coming up involving serious money. Clive is a gambler and I knew the story would play with him. He gave me Rattray’s mobile number and I had called him, used the same story and Clive’s name, and lined up a game at the Washington Club. Easy. I called myself Warwick Lee, the oldest ploy in the book-my father’s first name and my mother’s maiden name. If he phoned Clive to check on me it wouldn’t matter-Clive knows what a slippery customer I am.

As I drove towards Northbridge I tried not to think about Claudia. I wanted to focus on what I was trying to do-get inside the Washington Club (avoiding Mrs Kent and Anton Van Kep at all costs), and try the key on C20. I was expecting it to be Wilson Katz’s locker but that was as far as my thinking went. Surprise me, I thought. But I couldn’t get the image of Claudia, entranced inside the Chevra Kadisha, responding to Ruth Goldman’s warmth and urgency, out of my head. I crossed the bridge and usually the sight of the war between the water and the buildings can distract and please me, but not this time. I gave up and allowed my thoughts to drift out to Rookwood, where I’d been more times than I cared to remember to see people being put in the ground. Some of them I was happy to see go, others not. I knew how much I would miss Cy, and for a long time, but my mental pictures were all of Claudia in her dark olive suit with the black hair escaping from under her hat.

I’d arranged to meet Rattray in the car park at the club. I was a few minutes late and he was there right on time, standing beside his gun-metal Mazda. Security consulting must pay better than PEA work. He was talking animatedly on his mobile phone as I rolled up and parked between a Merc and a Jag. He finished the call before acknowledging my presence. We introduced ourselves and shook hands. He was already in his tennis gear with that long bag at his feet. His grip was strong and although he was a bit heavier than he should be, so was I. I was glad I was playing tennis with him rather than wrestling. I gestured at my suit.

‘I need to change, Todd. Been to a bloody funeral. Where’s the locker room?’

‘You can change at the court, Warwick. Let’s go.’

Bad news, but nothing I could do about it. I hefted my bag and followed him through the gardens towards the court. He was shorter than me, maybe ten years younger and he walked with a bounce. Worrying. Also troubling was the sudden drop in the light. Some clouds had come across and there was a very distant rumble of thunder. Rattray looked up at the sky through the leaf canopy.

‘We’ll get a set in, Warwick, with a bit of luck. But it’s going to piss down later.’

‘Wasn’t in the forecast,’ I said.

‘Fuckin’ idiots, those blokes. What d’they know? If their jobs were performance-based they’d all be on the dole.’

Hard to argue with that. We got to the courts and he pointed me towards a structure that was little more than a shell-fine for changing, storing nets and balls and court maintenance equipment, but no shower. My spirits rose. I was bound to work up a sweat against Todd. Just watching him do stretching exercises over by the net post was tiring. He unzipped his bag, took out three racquets and tested them for tension.

‘Heavy atmosphere,’ he said. ‘Need the right stringing.’

Pretentious prick, I thought. I only had the one racquet and if the tension was wrong, tough shit. I wasn’t really here to play tennis. I was here to snoop, professionally, dangerously. But, despite myself, I could feel that I was getting into it-feeling the competitive urge.