Peter Corris - Casino

Long-legged Italy

Kicked poor Sicily

Right into the middle

Of the Mediterranean Sea

Not very helpful.

I searched through my pockets until I found Vita Drewe’s card. I laid it on the desk and looked at it for a while. I drank a half-mug of red and felt it hit my empty stomach. I was full of anger and frustration and randiness as I grabbed the phone and rang Vita’s work number.

‘This is Vita Drewe.’

‘Vi, Cliff Hardy.’

‘Hey, hello. I had a feeling you’d call.’

‘What kind of a feeling?’

‘You wouldn’t understand. How’s your shoulder?’

‘Not too bad. Remember how you said you like to put on the glad rags once in a while and throw your money away on roulette?’

‘Not my money, but sure, I remember. I look great in sequins and heels. Very Sigourney Weaver, or so I’ve been told.’

‘I’ll bet you do. How about tonight? You can play with some of my client’s money.’

‘So this is business?’

‘And pleasure. So long as you don’t ever, ever call me Cliffo.’

‘You’re on,’ she said.

If you’re going to break the rules, smash ‘em is what I say. I hadn’t worn a monkey suit for over twenty years but I went out and hired one at a William Street outfitters-double-breasted, with the shirt, tie, studs, cummerbund, black shoes and silk socks. The works. Thirty-eight long-not too bad for a man of my age carrying just a little flab. Then I went along to a barber shop and had a hair trim and a professional shave. After my restless night, the period in the chair was blissful. I nodded off and embarrassed myself by snoring loudly. Waking up with a start, I apologised to the barber who said he preferred to work on a sleeping man. I gave him a good tip for his tact. I passed a florist and did something else I hadn’t done in a very long time-bought a corsage. The florist presented the thing in a little cold pack which she told me would keep it fresh for eight hours.

I mailed Ms Cornwall’s file, drew some money from the bank and, thinking of the flab, walked briskly to Kippax Street in Surry Hills where Harry Tickener presided over the Challenger, an independent monthly that printed what the big news organisations were afraid to touch. The paper was constantly on the brink of closure as a result of libel writs, legal costs, low advertising support and all the vagaries of the recession. It survived on Harry’s energy, the dedication of his staff, and the support of unnamed benefactors. Harry had a knack for getting well-known and good writers to step outside their usual territories and write something off the wall. As a result he had months where his circulation sky-rocketed, helping to compensate for the flat ones. What with the lawyers’ writs, the politicians’ threats and the writers’ egos, he led an exciting life.

The office is on the third floor, the door is always open and the phones are always ringing. I took the stairs, wandered in and the first thing I saw, as I expected, were Harry’s feet. He had them parked on the desk in front of him while he leaned back, reading proof copy. I sat down and put my feet up so that the soles of my size eleven slip-ons almost met those of Harry’s Nikes. He’s a smallish man with feet to match. He lowered the proof sheet.

‘The shamus,’ he said in very bad Bogart. ‘Here’s trouble on wheels.’

‘Gidday, Harry. Still in business I see. Every time I come here I expect to see empty rooms and blokes with industrial vacuum cleaners sucking up the paper clips.’

Harry groaned. ‘Sometimes I almost wish it’d happen. But I just can’t disappoint my reader. What can I do for you, Cliff?’

A young woman wearing blue and white horizontally-striped tights under a long loose shirt drifted up and dropped some more copy on Harry’s desk. She had an impossible amount of blonde hair held in place by red combs.

‘How is it, Abi?’ Harry said.

Abi smiled, showing the sort of white teeth that didn’t exist in Australia until the 1960s. ‘It stinks. It’s going to need your special skills.’

‘What’s wrong with giving it your special skills?’

‘I have. Now it just stinks, before me it absolutely reeked.’

Harry sighed. ‘Leave it with me.’

Abi grinned, nodded at me in the casual way young people do nowadays, and strolled away. Her long, thin legs in the hooped tights were strangely eye-catching.

‘First class honours in Communications from the University of Technology,’ Harry said. ‘Can do everything, including make me feel like an idiot. Want to hear a joke she told me?’

‘Sure.’

“What do you get when you cross a Mafia don with a semiotician?’

‘What’s a semiotician?’

‘You’re no fun. The answer is-an offer you can’t understand. Try it on Glen, she’s smarter than you. It’s always good to see you, Cliff, and I’d love to go out for a drink if that’s what’s on your mind, but we’re snowed under. Deadline approaching and printer’s bill overdue. If you can’t edit, proofread, do computer graphics or give me cheque for ten grand I can’t use you right now. What’s wrong with your arm?’

‘Tennis elbow. Didn’t you tell me you’d recently put the whole of your rag on computer disk?’

‘That’s right. CD-ROM, to be precise about it. Preserved for all eternity, maybe.’

‘So if I want to research a certain subject I can call up everything you’ve got on it?’

‘Right again, as long as we have exclusive rights to any story that might come out of your investigations.’

‘Goes without saying. Lead me to it. Can I get print-outs?’

Harry scratched at his scalp as if counting the few hairs remaining. ‘Yes, for a moderate charge. What’s the subject? I may exercise my much-challenged editorial and tenuous proprietorial veto.’

‘The Sydney Casino.’

‘Ah, yes. Is this to do with Scott Galvani, your protege?’

I nodded. ‘Right. His widow has hired me to find out who killed him. And that is not for publication.’

‘Abi!’ Harry called.

The casino story had attracted media interest some time back and there had been various false starts as a number of players were ruled out on account of their dubious histories and connections. There had been a lot of disputation over how the establishment was to be financed, supervised and taxed. Both sides of politics had tried to claim the high moral ground and the Independents had wavered. The Challenger had dug up some dirt on a few of the rejected bidders, but the pickings were disappointingly slim on Sydney Casinos Ltd. A US and a Singaporean syndicate had entered into partnership with an Australian conglomerate to secure the licence. According to the paper’s investigator, the tangle of Australian companies was somewhat impenetrable, but all the relevant authorities had been satisfied. A board had been formed consisting of twenty people, fourteen men and six women I’d never heard of with the exception of one, Oscar Cartwright. It was nice to know that O.C. had himself a slice of the action.

I made notes on the companies the Challenger had been able to identify but they were bland- Carter Holdings, Cameron Securities, Kemp amp; Associates Pty Ltd, etc. Among the board members, there were several Asian names and a few that sounded American, like Robert E. Anderson Jnr. The Challenger had probed but had come up dry- the lease of the Darling Harbour site was legitimate, not something shonky rigged up between the government and the company. Sydney Casino Ltd’s claim that all the materials in the temporary casino were Australian-derived checked out.

I switched off and pushed my chair away from the screen.

Harry strolled across the room, his Nikes squeaking on the floor. ‘You look disappointed, mate. Didn’t even make one print. Or are you just economising?’