Peter Corris - Casino

I woke up at about nine and made my first mistake of the day by reaching out for Glen. Not good to come up empty on your first move. I calculated I had about seven hours of being a private eye before I had to be a security controller again. I examined my face in the mirror as I shaved. The bruises and puffiness had almost gone and the scratch was little more than a dark line. Glen was right-I was a quick healer.

Primo Tomasetti used to run a tattoo parlour in Darlinghurst near my office building. I used to rent a parking space from him before the council introduced a sticker system for residents and commercial users. AIDS had done a lot of damage to the tattoo business, what with the heightened awareness of the dangers of contaminated needles and blood, and Primo had switched horses. Unbeknown to me, he had owned the freehold on the building he’d worked out of and he sold it for big money to a developer who’d gone broke trying to turn a buck on the property. Primo, a movie buff but a practical man, had set up a small production company making promotional and instructional videos and films for corporate clients. His office was in Bondi Junction, in the shadow of the freeway. I drove out there in the Commodore with Scott’s notebook in my pocket and a hundred questions in my head. Primo’s new office was on the tenth floor in a tower block and his secretary recognised me from earlier visits and told me that he hadn’t come in yet.

I looked at my watch. ‘It’s after ten.’

She shrugged. ‘He’s the boss. He’s taken up golf…’

I groaned. I could just see Primo on a golf course, trying to get his one hundred kilos behind the ball. ‘How long?’ I said.

Another shrug. ‘Depends. Nine holes-any minute. Eighteen-midday if we’re lucky.’

Primo breezed in fifteen minutes later. He was wearing checked plus-fours, a pink Lacoste shirt, a Dunlop visor and his white buckskin golf spikes clattered on the floor. When he saw me he almost dropped the oversized bag of Ping clubs.

‘Cliff! Cliff! Hey, Cliff, you know what? I got a birdie, an honest to God birdie. You should’ve seen the drive. like an arrow. Ten centimetres from the hole and pop, in she goes, one putt, one bloody putt for my first ever birdie.’

‘I’m happy for you, Primo,’ I said. ‘Are you going to give all your slaves here the day off?’

He lowered the clubs to the floor and lovingly fingered the seven iron. ‘Slaves, what slaves? All they do around this place is eat lunch and give me the bill. Excepting Suzie. Suzie knows what a day’s work is. If I had five Suzies… ‘

‘You’d be able to play five days a week instead of two. You’ve got calls coming in, Primo. Better see what Mr Hardy wants and then get on with it.’

Primo winked at me. ‘See what I mean? A worker. An honest to God worker. OK. C’mon in, Cliff. I can give you all the time you need.’

‘As long as it’s ten minutes,’ Suzie said.

Primo opened a door and I followed him into his office-big but not flashy, good view towards the city, a few framed awards and honourable mentions on the walls. He plonked himself down in a chair and took off his spikes. He had large, powerful hands that used to draw designs and wield the tattooist’s needle with uncanny skill. It occurred to me that he might be a very good golfer. He wriggled his toes in his socks and took off his visor. There was more grey in his thick hair but he looked a lot better than when he’d worked in Darlinghurst; his body looked solid rather than fat and the tan suited him. He seemed happy and I hadn’t met a whole lot of people looking that way lately.

‘So, Cliff. How’s Glen?’

‘She’s OK. Am I right in thinking you’re literate in Italian?’

‘You wound me deeply. Of course I’m literate in Italian. How many times d’you think I had to write “I love you mother” and “Maria I adore you” on wogs?’

‘Seriously.’

‘I can read and write it. I correspond with people back there, for God’s sake. I write letters for some of the oldies who can barely spell their own names. How they got houses in Vaucluse and yachts in Rushcutters Bay I’ll never know.’

I pulled the notebook from my pocket, opened it where the Italian section began and handed it to him.

‘Can you read this and translate it?’

He frowned, got up and scrabbled on his desk for a pair of glasses. When he had them on he looked at the first page, reading for a second or two before looking up. ‘A Sicilian?’

‘Right. Is that a problem?’

‘No. I can read it.’

I took a reporter’s tape recorder from my pocket and set it up on the desk. ‘Go for your life,’ I said.

Primo read, stumbling, hesitating, correcting himself, for about fifteen minutes. When he’d finished he dropped the notebook on the desk, wound the tape back and popped the cassette. ‘I could get Suze to type this up for you if you’d like. Wouldn’t have to worry about her hearing it. She sort of goes on automatic pilot-bashes away and doesn’t take a word in.’

I was staring out the window at the city trying to digest what I’d heard. ‘That’d be great. Thanks.’

Primo buzzed Suzie in and gave her the instruction. I sensed that she was about to protest but a sideways look at me silenced her. She hurried out and the soft clack of keys started up almost immediately. Primo took a few calls and slid smoothly into his role as deal-maker, oil-pourer and standover man. I could tell that he was enjoying it, but then, he had the gift of enjoying life. He’d enjoyed conceiving the designs and decorating bodies while being a street psychologist and philosopher. I remember him telling me that he referred anyone who wanted to be marked on the face to a psychiatrist. He had only one tattoo himself-a map of the world, about ten centimetres by five, on the underside of his left forearm. ‘That’s all there is,’ he’d told me. “That’s everything.’

He finished a call and hung up. I was still looking at the city, across the leafiness of Bellevue Hill and Woollahra.

‘Hey,’ Primo said. You need any help with these people? I know a guy or two who speak the language, know the trails. Just because I don’t live in Leichhardt doesn’t mean I don’t know the scene.’

I wanted to see the words in print, couldn’t make sense of them in my head. I was jumbling them already, unsure of what I’d heard. ‘Where do you live these days, Primo?’

‘Woollahra, near the course. Was at the beach but who needs skin cancer? Say, Cliff, how’d you like to do the odd job for me? Sometimes need a frightener, you know? You’ve got the moves.’

I spun around, suddenly angry and becoming impatient. ‘Do I look as if I need work? Do I look like a bloody charity case? I’m driving a brand-new Commodore. I’m getting a grand a week… Jesus!’

Primo got up from his desk and came across the room in his stockinged feet. ‘Easy, Cliff. Easy, mate. I was just rabbiting on. No need to get upset. What’s wrong? All that stuff in the notebook meant bugger-all to me. I’m sorry if I… ‘

I shook my head, trying to dispel memories, earlier events. Not again, not this shit again, I picked up the notebook from the desk and forced a grin. ‘It’s OK, Primo. I’m a bit on edge, one thing and another. What’s the fascination of golf? I’ve never been able to understand it’

Primo played along, the king of tact. ‘Your game’s tennis, right?’

‘Darts,’ I said.

‘Funny. Ever hit a serve as good as McEnroe? Ever whack a backhand like Courier? Volley like Edberg? No? The weird thing about golf is that, just once in a while, a hacker like me can hit a shot as good as Nick Faldo. Not a drive, shit, no. But a seven iron, a pitch, maybe a putt-per-fucking-fection. That’s the thrill.’