Peter Corris - Casino

‘I sure would!’

The emphatic words seemed to jerk her from the trance. She laughed nervously, drew on the cigarette and missed the ashtray as she tried to flick off the inch of ash. ‘How about that? Vita the woman of mystery-I actually hypnotised myself. First time. You’re a restful man, Cliff, in your uptight way.’

‘When was this, Vita?’

‘It was just two nights before he died.’

It was too much to expect that Vita Drewe would be able to give me a description of the man she saw in Scott Galvani’s car. Nothing about her could be that uncomplicated.

‘Not like that,’ she said. ‘I’d know him if I saw him again, but like tell you his height and weight- hey, why aren’t they pronounced the same? Never mind. I mean, a clinical type description? No way. My memory doesn’t work like that.’

I hoped it was her memory that was at issue, not her imagination. We left it there. I paid for the coffee and we walked together back to the office, not saying much. I pointed to my car and she said automobiles were the curse of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. We shook hands.

‘My address and number are on the card,’ she said. ‘Don’t be a stranger. So what’s your next move?’

‘Talk to the cops.’

She shrugged and swung her bag on its long strap. I realised how fluidly she moved and how completely unselfconscious she was-probably necessary for white-water rafting and deer-shooting. ‘You’ll be wasting your time.’ There’s a lot of that in this business.’ ‘I noticed.’ She walked away, waving her fingers back at me like Liza Minelli in Cabaret. Very like.

I used my recently acquired, low-budget mobile phone to call the police centre, and was put through to Peter Carboni. From Vita’s account he didn’t sound like one of the ‘best people’ Frank Parker had referred to. It was a good chance to check out the reliability of Vita’s impressions.

‘Carboni.’

‘My name’s Hardy, Sergeant. I’m…’

‘Frank Parker told me about your interest, Mr Hardy. What can I do for you?’

Good strong voice, no bullshit. Vita wasn’t scoring so well. I told him I’d searched Scott’s office and couldn’t locate his working notebook and wondered if it had been found on him or turned up anywhere.

‘Don’t think so. Hang on while I check the file. You’re right, that could be important.’

I was still to get the hang of talking on the phone while driving in solid traffic. I turned off Lilyfield Road and headed towards the pub across the road from Eastern Park for the drink I’d needed for an hour or more. Carboni came back on line just as I got the pub in sight.

‘No sign of the notebook. Any ideas? I think we should have a meeting. We’re getting nowhere fast with this one.’

Nothing in his voice or manner seemed to tally with Vita’s description. I grunted something noncommittal and asked him if he’d been present at the search of Galvani’s office.

‘Not me. That was… well, another officer. He’s been taken off the case. I understand you’re working for the wife? Has she given you anything to go on?’

Different guy. Vita vindicated. ‘I’ve got a few things to check. Nothing much. If I come up with anything solid I’ll be in touch. What do you know about the casino operation?’

‘Not on your life, Hardy. That’s asking too much. Play it your way for a while if you want, but the offer to talk’s open.’

The world is changing fast. Ten, even five years ago, a cop in Carboni’s position would have pulled me in for a chat on threat of giving me trouble with my licence or the roadworthiness of my car. Now there was a civilised request for cooperation. I wasn’t yet completely comfortable with the new style, but I managed to say something polite to him before he hung up. I’d pulled up in Burt Street by this time and parked under one of the old plane trees that would give good shade as well as sappy, duco-damaging leaves and bird shit. From years of this sort of treatment the Falcon has a weathered, stippled look that I rather like.

I shoved the phone in my jacket pocket and got out of the car. A slight breeze was blowing, stirring the leaves and moving the discarded soft drink cans, empty chip packets and other rubbish around on the ground. Some kind of school sports meeting must have been held there earlier and the patrons had left their mark in the usual way.

I stared out across the grass towards a part of Sydney that was changing already and will be totally changed in a few years.

The oval was well-grassed and the fence was more or less intact. It was possible to imagine cricket matches of an earlier era-when the working-class teams played off for the sub-district championship, and living east or west of Victoria Road really meant something. There was still a whiff of that spirit in sporting competitions in Sydney when I was young, but it was swept away, so I’ve read, by the affordable family car and the larger requirements of television. It had gone the way of local beers and suburban picture theatres.

I went across to the pub and bought a middy of the mass-produced beer which still tasted pretty good. I took it outside and sat on a bench overlooking the sportsground. A couple of joggers had decided the sun was low enough and were circling the ground slowly, moving in and out of the shadows cast by the trees. A man and a woman-sharing something good. A dog ran around behind, through and ahead of them, darting off to chase birds and bits of paper. It was a nice, restful picture and helped me to relax and order my thoughts on the day’s work. Not a lot to assemble-the Cornwall and Roberts files still active when Scott had taken up the job with the casino; unusual behaviour and an unknown companion a couple of nights before he was killed. A missing notebook. And no necessary connection between any of the above.

I finished the beer and reluctantly decided against another. The lunch had been light and a fair while ago, and two middies could put me over the limit for driving. I sauntered back towards the car, decided I wanted the drink anyway and went back and had it. The joggers and their four-legged companion had gone and I took their place, walking briskly around the oval several times with my jacket slung over my shoulder, breathing deeply and telling myself that this was bound to metabolise the alcohol. It was pleasant, too, as the sun dipped down and the shadows spread out across the grass. I drew a few curious looks from strollers and dog-walkers but I didn’t care. Suddenly, I realised that I was thinking of Vita Drewe, of the way her hair was arranged, wondering how long it was and how it would look on her shoulders instead of strained back and tied up. I remembered her long legs and slender, graceful body and I was aroused. I had her address in my pocket and her half-invitation, half-challenge: ‘Don’t be a stranger.’ Bloody Yanks. What did that really mean? Glen was hundreds of kilometres away and hadn’t phoned for two nights. Our last words had been close to angry. There’d never really been any commitment between us, and in my experience commitment was living death anyway. Why not? Why the hell not?

I decided I was sober, stopped walking and vaulted the fence, clearing it easily. Life in the old dog yet. I scooped up a Coke can and threw it angrily into a rubbish bin, not sure of the source of the anger. The calm and peace had evaporated. I felt edgy and emotionally undernourished. I strode towards the car, feeling the phone bump against my back and angry about that as well. Stupid modern gadgets. A sign of the breakdown of public amenities

I was about fifty metres from the car when I saw the two of them. One man was standing, looking in the direction of the oval and seeming to strain his eyes. The other was sitting on the driver’s seat with his feet on the ground and the door open. Of my car! I shouted, dropped my coat and broke into a run. Bad move. The one keeping a lookout saw me and shouted something himself and started to run. The other man jumped up and took off, sprinting but looking awkward. Anger fuelled me and over the first few metres I gained steadily on them. We were running on the grass, heading towards the tangle of small streets that made up this part of Rozelle. One of the men fell and the other stopped to help him.