Peter Corris: The Washington Club

In the old days, gathering background information on people like the Fleischmans and Katz and the dirt on characters like Robert Van Kep and Haitch Henderson took legwork, contacts and hard currency. You spent time in libraries, hung out in newspaper offices and bought drinks for reporters and cops. Now all it takes is a few phone calls and faxes to the right numbers, the reading off of your credit card numbers and the writing of cheques to organisations with names like Information Services Inc, and Access Database. When I left the house at a bit before ten the next morning, I was confident that my fax machine would soon be chattering and that I’d have a file half an inch thick before noon.

I took a ‘Close the Third Runway’ flyer out from under the windscreen and put it in my pocket.

‘You’ve parked me in!’ The speaker was a tall, skinny guy I’d only seen a few times before-a new arrival in the street, a stranger. He wore a cream linen suit and carried a briefcase pretty much the same colour, probably had them to match all his outfits. His vehicle was a big blue Toyota Land Cruiser that looked as if it had never been off the tarmac. It had wide wheels, a bull-bar and other chrome accessories whose functions I could only guess at. The distance between the front of my car and the back of his was about a metre. The Toyota hadn’t been there when I’d arrived home. I walked forward and saw that his bull-bar was about the same distance from the car in front-a red Commodore which also hadn’t been there when I’d parked.

I pointed at the Commodore. ‘He or she parked you in, mate, not me. Anyway, I’m off, so you’ll be all right.’

But he wanted a fight. ‘Your old heap wasn’t there when I got home last night.’

The Falcon is old by some car owners’ standards but not by mine, nor is it a heap. Everything works most of the time. I took in a deep breath. ‘You’re new around here,’ I said. ‘Parking’s a bit of a problem for all of us and we try to get along. Now I suggest you hop into your magnificent chariot and warm it up while I back up and give you all the room you’re ever going to need. OK?’

‘You think I can’t get out of there?’

I was in no mood for a mine’s bigger than yours session. ‘My friend, you said you were parked in…’

‘Stay there. I’ll show you.’

He opened the door, threw his briefcase inside, climbed in and started the engine. The 4WD gave out the sort of masculine roar he no doubt liked and I stepped across to the other side of the road to admire his technique. He turned the steering wheel hard, gunned the motor and put the Toyota into reverse. His judgment was lousy; the vehicle lurched back and the heavy rear bar thumped into the front of the Falcon. I didn’t have time to swear because the collision was followed by an explosion. The Falcon’s windshield and windows blew out; the front seat disintegrated and the roof bulged and then split with a shrieking sound that blended with the noise of the shattered glass. The Toyota driver panicked; he gunned the motor, shot forward and tore a rear panel from the Commodore as he rabbit-hopped away from the kerb. He stopped in the middle of the road and I could see his shoulders shaking as he held onto the steering wheel.

Suddenly the street was full of people, including the owner of the Commodore, who tore open the door of the Toyota, dragged the driver out and began to scream at him.

‘You fucker! Look what you’ve done to my car! You stupid cunt!’

He didn’t pay any attention to the Falcon, which looked as if all the air inside it had suddenly expanded a hundred times and burst the car at the seams. I told the people milling around to stay back in case the car caught fire, but after a few minutes it didn’t seem likely to happen. It wasn’t that kind of a device, but if I’d been behind the wheel when it went off I’d have been in several pieces on the road. A woman offered me a cigarette and I took it automatically. She lit us both up and said she’d called the police. I thanked her and smoked the cigarette. Some of the people in the street knew what I did for a living. Some were interested, some were amused, some disapproved. I could hear them muttering about ‘private eyes’ when the first of the police cars arrived. The Commodore owner had calmed down after taking in more of the scene. He and the 4WD man were apologetically exchanging information. Any minute they’d be asking me the name of my insurance company. I drew on the cigarette and wondered if I’d be able to prevent myself from punching the first one to ask.

The police performance was about average. They took down details, inspected my ID and various licences-driver’s, private enquiry agent, gun carrier. The uniformed men weren’t happy and the two detectives who arrived a bit later were even less so. Detective Senior Constable Deakin, a short, intense individual with an aggressive style, pressed me for details of the cases I was currently working on. I wasn’t forthcoming. We were over by my front fence by this time. The police had dispersed the crowd. The Toyota had driven shakily off and a tow truck was hoisting up the Commodore-the rear axle had suffered some serious damage.

‘You put these people’s life at risk,’ Deakin said, waving his arm at the houses in the street.

‘Not really,’ I said. ‘That was some sort of anti-personnel device. Very specific. Very clean.’

‘Clean!’

‘It would’ve killed me and no-one else, It was just bad luck the other cars were involved. My good luck.’

Deakin didn’t seem to like the idea of my having any kind of luck at all. He walked over and inspected the Falcon from stem to stern. ‘A write-off,’ he said. ‘This might be some kind of clever insurance stunt by you.’

I was over the shock by now although if there had been anything handy I would have broken my no grog before six rule on the spot.

Somewhere along the line I’d finished the cigarette and dropped it. Now I wanted another and the urge made me angry. This little pipsqueak was pushing too hard. I crowded him against the fence, not exactly shouldering him but almost. ‘What about you, arsehole? You’re a copper, you’ve arrested wife-beaters and nutters. What if one of them comes along and fire-bombs your joint? It happens. I’ve fuckin’ seen it. Now back off me.’

‘Easy, Cliff.’ I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to shake it off or hit its owner. Ian Sangster, the medico who’s patched and pilled me for years and whose practice was a block or so up Glebe Point Road, was smiling at me and easing me away from the detective.

‘I’m Dr Sangster, officer,’ he said to Deakin. ‘Mr Hardy is a friend and patient. Someone told me what happened and I came down just in case I was needed. The man’s in shock.’

Deakin slid around me and pulled himself up to his full height. ‘All right, doctor. I’ll leave him in your care. When he’s making sense, tell him to come to the station and make a full statement. We’ll send a technical team down here to go over the car.’

Sangster nodded and Deakin and the other detective and the uniformed men left. Sangster, an unrepentant smoker, pulled out a packet of cigarettes. I gestured for one and he obliged. We smoked for a few minutes before Ian took a close look at the car.

‘That would’ve been the end of a steady bulk bill,’ he said. ‘Let’s go inside and I’ll look you over.’

I took a draw on the cigarette, realised what I was doing and threw it away. Sangster grinned at me and I laughed. The tension I’d felt building up inside me broke. I gave the Falcon a pat and we went into the house. I heated up the breakfast coffee while Sangster tested my blood pressure.

‘Bit high.’

‘Two bloody cigarettes,’ I said. ‘I’m OK.’