Peter Corris - Matrimonial Causes

I was left standing there, waiting for sensation to return to the pinched nerves of my upper arms and feeling like an idiot. Teacher was somewhere behind me with a gun; Gallagher was in front of me, also armed, like the dark-haired man still sitting at the table, not paying us a lot of attention. Wilton and I were the only ones without weapons, which put us on a level, in a way. I stepped to my left and went forward, brushing past Gallagher, until I could get my backside lowered onto the low wall of the patio. I took out the makings and rolled a cigarette with cramped, but steady, fingers. I lit it and looked at Wilton. ‘You’re a shameful disgrace to our profession, Wilton,’ I said. ‘I think Wilson should have a word with you.’

Give him his due, he laughed. ‘There isn’t any Wilson. Hasn’t been for a long time. As for the profession, it’s not a bad game, if you know how to go about it the right way, which you clearly don’t.’

I blew some smoke and moved my shoulders slightly. Felt all right, ‘Tell me,’ I said.

Gallagher put his pistol away and took off his jacket, trying to join the administrative rather than the executive branch. ‘I don’t think there’s any need to tell him things, Henry,’ he said. ‘I think this is his first fucking case.’

But Henry Wilton’s weakness was showing; he liked to talk, especially about himself, and maybe he didn’t get too many safe opportunities to do that. He settled back into the shade of the umbrella. ‘I can’t see the harm, Ian, old son,’ he said. ‘Seeing that it’s possibly his last fucking case.’

The effort never had much chance, but I made it anyway. I flicked the cigarette butt at Gallagher and scored a hit somewhere on his face. I launched myself from the wall and made a clawing grab at the gun sitting in the armpit of the dark man who was yet to say a word. My reactions were way too slow and my target was much too fast. He clamped his arm over the gun and hit me with a short elbow jolt. Then Teacher stepped in and thumped me in the ribs. I stumbled and sagged back against the wall. Wilton hadn’t moved. The only satisfaction I got was Ian Gallagher rubbing at his eyes and swearing when he saw how the cigarette ash had dirtied his shirt.

‘Game enough,’ Wilton said. ‘It’s a pity you’re not smart. You had a warning.’

‘I don’t like warnings, or being shot at.’ I looked at Gallagher, still brushing at his shirt. ‘Or being bullshitted.’

‘I have to admit you’ve had your share. There’s still a chance for you, Hardy. I hope you realise that’

I recognised the line for what it was-a piece of hope with a barbed hook inside-and I didn’t respond.

‘We’d like to know who put you on to Chalky,’ Wilton said. ‘Tell us that, and maybe we can work something out’

‘What’s the point?’ Gallagher said. ‘It’s contained. Let’s get it over with.’

‘Don’t be so hasty, Ian. Chalky’d like to know, wouldn’t you?’

‘That’s right,’ Teacher growled. ‘But there’s no need to ask him nicely.’

‘There’ll be none of that here,’ Wilton snapped. ‘How about it, Hardy? Want to chat?’

‘I might,’ I said. ‘But I’d need to get something in return. I’m having trouble believing this is about divorces and knighthoods.’

‘I feel like a drink,’ Wilton said, ‘especially if we’re going to be talking.’ He nudged the man who’d put his elbow into my face. ‘Slip inside, Mario, and get out a few bottles and glasses.’

Mario moved to obey.

‘Henry,’ Gallagher said. ‘Stop pissing around.’

Wilton said, ‘Contained, wasn’t that your word? No-one’s expecting him or you, are they?’

‘No.’

‘Relax, then. Have a drink. You’ve done a good job. You deserve it.’

Like a lot of people, so I understand, I’ve dreamed that I was about to be executed. This was something like those dreams-slow moving, terrifying, but with a kind of civilised veneer and with a feeling that the moment would be long delayed and maybe never reached- Teacher kept a very close eye on me and my. 38 rested very comfortably in his capable right hand. His boxing career didn’t seem to have done him any harm. He might have moved up a weight division, but he still looked very fit. His eyes were steady like the rest of him-neat, economical movements, no tics. No bravado either. Wilton was clearly the boss, but I had a sense that Teacher would go freelance if it suited him.

Mario arrived with several chilled bottles of Reschs Pilsener, a collection of frosted glasses and one paper cup on a tray which he put down on the table. A tall tree growing near the patio was casting some welcome shade by this time, I was sweating. I didn’t sweat in my execution dream as far as I could remember. This was fear. Gallagher looked anxious. Wilton was relaxed until he took stock of the drinks. ‘What’re you doing, Mario?’ he said. ‘Go and get a bitter lemon for Chalky. Right, Chalky?’

Teacher nodded. A man of action, Chalky, like Mario. Neither of them entirely happy with things, like Gallagher, but I couldn’t see myself recruiting them as allies. The only happy member of the party, now that he was about to get a drink in his hand and everyone was doing his bidding, was Henry Wilton. Mario poured the drinks. I accepted my paper cup and sipped cautiously. It would have been easy for Mario to have slipped something into the cup and icy cold beer will conceal most tastes. But why should they bother? I never heard of truth serum in tablet form and if they wanted to subdue me they had Chalky, willing and able.

Wilton drained his glass and signalled for Mario to refill it. Gallagher smoked moodily and drank slowly. Teacher took his soft drink straight from the bottle. A tough guy’s tough guy. Mario poured half a glass for himself, took a sip and lost interest. It was hard to guess what Mario would really be interested in-maybe a Gucci shotgun.

‘Well, now,’ Wilton said. ‘Ian here says he thinks you’re pretty smart, Hardy. Are you smart enough to talk yourself out of trouble?’

‘I don’t feel very smart just now,’ I said. ‘But you’re a good talker and I’m a good listener.’

Wilton worked on his second beer for a while. He traced patterns on the table top with the moisture from his glass and appeared to be trying to make a decision. Eventually he erased the doodling. ‘OK. You might even be useful. The gongs are important. These silvertails want them more than they want to fuck and if the state and federal governments change, that’ll be the end of the game around here. The price has never been higher and there’s a lot of characters getting in for their chop. Redding’s not the only politician and there’s a judge who’d eat his wig to be a sir.’

‘I can’t see that a few divorces would matter much,’ I said. I shot a look at Gallagher, who was half turned away, staring towards the visible sliver of ocean. ‘But I suppose there’s time and money involved, and when someone pulls out, like Meadowbank did…’

‘That’s right. And the blokes panting for the nod get impatient. And Bob Askin and his mates can up the ante. Sorry, didn’t mean to mention any names.’

‘Shit, Henry,’ Gallagher said.

Wilton wiped foam from his mouth. ‘Shut your face. We want something from this man.’

‘You won’t get it,’ Gallagher said.

‘We’ll see.’

Mario yawned and Wilton gave him a dirty look. ‘You know what discretion statements are, don’t you, Hardy?’

I did, courtesy of my one, less than wholly successful, year of law studies-statements lodged with the court by divorce petitioners, suing on the grounds of their partners’ transgressions, giving details of their own misdoings. It was a requirement of the crazy, out-dated divorce law, particularly if the ‘innocent’ party was seeking custody of children. Mostly, these statements went unread by anyone, but sometimes a judge who smelled a rat or disliked one of the parties would take a discretion statement into consideration. ‘I know about them,’ I said.