Peter Corris - Casino

‘Sevens comp coming up. Brian missed the last part of the season. He needs the match practice. Shit, there he goes again.’

Roberts had the ball and was side-stepping again, fending off tacklers and swivelling on the full run, shaping to pass.

‘He looks good.’

‘He’s bloody good. Question of whether that fucking knee’s as good as the rest of him.’

‘Who’s the coach?’

‘Paddy Parkin. One of the greats.’

The training session wound down with some of the players being sent off to jog a few laps and others to do stretching exercises. Parkin walked off the field deep in conversation with Roberts who was sweating profusely but looking happy. Lenny Roberts tossed the two empty beer cans into a bin and called his brother over. Brian was a couple of years older and built along entirely different lines-wide where Lenny was narrow and a couple of inches shorter. Someone threw him a can of Diet Coke and he caught it deftly.

‘Any trouble?’ Lenny said.

Brian popped the can and guzzled half of it. ‘Naw. Sweet as a nut. She’ll be right. I was a bit slow off the mark, but. Haveta work on that.’ He glanced across to where Grady was sitting on the grass. ‘What’s the matter with Bob?’

Lenny said, ‘What was your name again, mate?’

‘Cliff. Cliff Hardy.’

‘Cliff here dropped him. Bob started throwing his weight around and he copped a few.’

Brian Roberts grinned. ‘That’s overdue. I would’ve done it meself except the cunt’d sue me if I did.’ He finished the can and crushed it in one hand, not showing off. It looked like a habit.

‘Cliff wants a word with you. I’m your new manager and I reckon he’s all right.’

Lenny sauntered off to talk to other players and Brian eyed me suspiciously as I rubbed my stiff arm. I was conscious of the bleeding knuckles and the condition of my face. ‘You look a bit of a mess, like me after a tough game. What can I do for you?’

I explained. He did a few knee bends and arm swings as he listened. I envied him the free movement. He lifted his singlet to wipe sweat from his face and I saw the thick slabs of muscle on his body. Meeting him on the run would be like being hit by a five metre wave. He rotated his head, freeing the neck muscles and making mine feel all the more stiff.

‘Yeah, that was a worry for a while but it got sorted out.’ He looked around to make sure no one was in earshot. ‘You’re not going to talk to the papers about this, right? Nothing like that. I’m up to fucking here with the papers.’

‘Nothing like that.’

‘Well, your mate found out that Allan Thurgood was trying to get me not to sign a contract. He done a deal with another club to get me for less money. Those cunts would’ve filled me full of pain-killers and let me cripple meself. He was a good bloke, Scott. I was real sorry to hear what happened to him.’

‘But it had nothing to do with your business?’

‘Can’t see how it would. He got the stuff on Thurgood and the club lawyer took it from there. I paid him.’

‘Thurgood’s supposed to be on leave.’

‘Like fucking hell he’s on leave. He’s out looking for another job. They’re just giving him a bit of time.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Thanks. Look, when did you last see Scott? Was it close to when he got killed?’

‘Brian! Keep moving! Two minutes!’ Coach Parkin shouted.

Roberts signalled with a clenched fist and did a little jog on the spot. ‘Yeah, I saw him at the gym. Musta been only a coupla nights before. He told me what he’d told the lawyer and that everything’d be sweet.’

‘How did he seem?’

‘Funny thing, that. He had a work-out, a real hard one. He was a pretty fit bloke but he really pushed himself. Did a lot of that karate shit, you know? I reckon he was expecting to have to fight someone. Jesus, I never thought about that till now.’

I stuck out my hand. ‘Thanks.’

We shook, with him using about five per cent of his strength. ‘Look, if I can help in any way, just ask. I owe that bloke me peace of mind and probably this good knee as well.’

‘I’ll let you know.’

‘What’s wrong with your arm?’

‘It’s called a frozen shoulder. Ever had that?’

He laughed as he went into another series of knee bends. ‘No, but I’ve had just about every other fucking thing. You want to come down to the club. We’ve got a real good physio. I could fix it for you.’

He jogged back onto the oval and caught the first ball thrown at him. Then he kicked it out of sight.

There was a message from Glen on the machine when I got back to Glebe-a time to ring and a number. I had an hour to fill in and I did it by having a hot shower, putting an ice pack on the shoulder, drinking whisky and thinking. The two live cases Scott had had on his books seemed unlikely to be connected to his death, but there was still the puzzle of what had happened to his notebook. He’d done some leg and phone work evidently, and he must have made records of the conversations and of his expenses. My interest was in what else he might have written down- say about the passenger in his car when he made the late call to his office or who he thought he might be coming up against that made it necessary for him to brush up his karate.

I phoned Glen and discovered that she was in an Ulladulla motel.

‘You sound funny,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong?’

Glen’s antennae for moods, resentments, misunderstandings are supernaturally sensitive. I had the counter this time though. ‘I’ve got a frozen shoulder.’

She laughed. ‘I’ve heard of the cold shoulder. What’s the frozen shoulder?’

I told her about the injury, not making it clear how it happened. She sounded unimpressed. If you’ve taken a bullet in the arm and come close to losing the use of it a frozen shoulder probably doesn’t sound like much. I mentioned football and physiotherapists.

‘Bloody physios,’ she said. ‘They all vote Liberal. How are you otherwise?’

‘OK. Got your car back. Three hundred odd bucks. I’ve been driving it because the automatic’s easier on the arm. It’s going well.’

‘Good.’

It wasn’t like her to be indifferent to the condition of the Pulsar. ‘Now it’s you who sounds funny. What’s up?’

‘Nothing. I’ll be here for a couple of days. They’ve got a few rookies in the station who don’t know breakfast from dinner. Then I’ve got a bit of time in Nowra. I’d say I’ll be back in a week. OK?’

‘Sure. Of course.’

‘What’re you working on?’

For the first time in our relationship, I didn’t want to tell her. And I didn’t know why. ‘Just the usual stuff. Bits and pieces.’

She didn’t believe me. I could tell from the pause and the tone of her voice when she spoke again. And I didn’t believe that she was just dealing with dumb rookies in Ulladulla and would need an indeterminate amount of time in Nowra. Glen was normally super-organised; she knew exactly how long she needed to spend doing what, where and with whom.

‘Well, take care,’ she said. ‘See you next week. Love you.’

‘Same here.’

‘Cliff…’

Concern in her voice. A confession coming up? An ultimatum?

‘Don’t forget to feed the cat. There’s some food in the cupboard.’

We rang off more or less simultaneously and I realised that we’d made no arrangement to speak again before she got back. She must have been aware of it too. Bad sign.

Ian Sangster had been right about the sleeping. A few pain-killers and a couple of glasses of wine got me under, but I’m a restless sleeper at the best of times and when I rolled onto the shoulder I woke up yelling. I slept in snatches, waking often. If I managed to keep pressure off the shoulder, the arm stiffened up on me. It was a bad night. When I was in the army in Malaya, the brass told us that sleep-deprivation and disruption was one of the ways the Chinese would torture us if we were captured. The other ways involved bamboo splinters and water. Losing sleep sounded like the softest option then, but after this night I wasn’t so sure.