Peter Corris - Wet Graves

“Hello, Lou,” I said. “How’s tricks?”

He turned his bleary, loser’s eyes on me. “Lousy. Who’re you?”

“You remember me, Lou. Cliff Hardy. I helped to unfix one of your fixes a few years ago.” Three years before, to be precise, when I’d been employed by a horse trainer to find out who was bribing his riders.

“Push off, prick,” Campisi said.

I showed him my stack of chips. “Lose the ones you’ve got there and then come over and see me. These could be yours.”

“I’m winning, cunt.”

“You’ll never win, Lou. You just play. Go ahead, play.”

He placed the chips on the red and lost. I’d moved back to watch him. He went through his pockets, first for chips, then for money. He came up empty. A woman at the roulette wheel gave a shriek as her ball dropped in. Campisi wet his lips and looked around for me. He saw me, hesitated, lit a cigarette and came across.

“You got some kind of a proposition, Hardy?”

I moved across to the wall furthest from Primo, and Campisi followed me. “Yes, there’s something you could help me with, if you’ve a mind to.”

Another squeal from the roulette table where a lot of people had gathered. Campisi glanced across. “Wheel’s running hot.”

“You could get in on it.” I clinked the chips together.

“What do you want?”

“Information. Solid, factual information. The kind that checks out or I come back and point out to you that you made a big mistake.”

“Sure. Sure. You’re tough. What d’you want to know?”

“Where to find Rhino Jackson. Tonight.”

Campisi wet his lips. “I don’t know. I…”

Clink. Clink. “Yes, you do.”

He was tempted but very afraid. The noise in the room had mounted, along with the level of smoke and the fumes of whisky; the women’s perfume was giving the air an extra tang. To addicts such as Lou Campisi it was like the kiss of life. He wanted to go on breathing it, suck it in deeper, but…

He shook his head. “I don’t know where he is.”

The reluctance in his voice told me that he did know and something else-he almost wanted me to force him to tell. I gripped the. 38 in my pocket and lifted it up a few inches so that Campisi could see it. “Feel like knocking this place over with me, Lou? We could do it.”

He turned pale and the hand holding the cigarette for nonchalance shook violently. “Are you crazy? Get away from me!”

I held his arm and kept him from backing off. “Listen, Rhino’s trying to put me out of business. I go up in front of a court next week and I’m history. But it’s just a misunderstanding. We can sort it out.”

He wavered. “I dunno…”

“If this thing goes through and they lift my licence I’m done for. I can’t make a living. I’d just as soon take what they’ve got in here and blow. Leave Sydney. Go north with a big piece of cash.”

“You’re crazy. This place is protected. Look at that big cunt over there. One man couldn’t handle him.”

“Two,” I said.

“No.”

I sniffed and let a wild look come into my eyes. “I’m going to do it and you’re in.”

“No, no! Shit, Hardy. Take your hand outa your pocket. All right, all right. I’ll tell you where Jackson is. Just back down, will you?”

I let him see both hands and began tossing the chips from one to the other. “Yes, Lou?”

“You won’t let on it was me told you?”

“Lou, would I?”

“An’ you’ll give me the chips?”

“You’re doing an awful lot of asking, Lou, and not giving anything.”

“He’s on a houseboat.”

“That’s nice. Where?”

“I don’t know. It moves around.”

“Come on, Lou. You’re playing games. The wheel’s going to go cold on you.”

“Look, all I know is, he’s in partnership with Reg Bailey, who’s an ex-cop, like him. They’ve got this houseboat with all the gambling gear on it-high-class stuff. It moves around. Goes from one, what d’you call it?”

“Mooring?”

“Right. From one mooring to another. What the fuck do I know? From Palm Beach to… anywhere on the fuckin’ harbour. I’ve never been on it. It’s a top-class thing-trainers, owners, politicians, doctors-big money.”

Lou’s association of certain professions with big money would have been of interest to sociologists; for me it gave his statement the ring of truth. But not the ring of helpfulness. I let the chips stay in one hand and closed my fist over them.

“Hardy,” Lou begged, “that’s all I know.”

“Boats have names, Lou. Even houseboats. Give me the name and we’re in business.”

“Fuck you.”

“They wouldn’t register that.”

“The Pavarotti.”

“What?”

“ Pavarotti, Pavarotti, like that. Bailey’s some kind of music nut, I heard. The boat’s named after an opera or somethin’. Hardy…”

I poured the chips into Campisi’s sweaty palm. “Thanks, Lou,” I said. “Big help.”

“Fuck you.”

I went back to the Crown, got hold of another glass of dollar red and the yellow pages. Ten years ago I’d have been able to telephone all the marinas on the harbour, but not now. At a rough count there were about a hundred of them. Some weren’t possibilities, of course-glorified boat-sheds where you couldn’t tie up anything much bigger than a dinghy. But there were still too many imposing-sounding ones- ‘Middle Harbour Moorings.’ ‘Peninsula Marina’, ‘Clearwater Luxury Marina’- that could, presumably, accommodate a houseboat, to make a ring-around possible.

Paul Guthrie was a client from a few years back. He’d been an Olympic sculler and later a successful businessman. A satisfied client, as it had turned out, he was quite big in boating circles and might know where you’d tie up a houseboat if you happened to have one. The trouble was I didn’t know whether he was still alive. Too often these days when I ring old clients I get recent widows. But I dredged his address up from my memory and found him still listed in the telephone book. Not proof of existence-some widows never change the listing-but encouraging.

I sat by the same phone as before, fed in the money and punched the buttons. Guthrie’s brisk no-nonsense voice sounded impatient but was just an indicator of his energy.

“Paul Guthrie.”

“Cliff Hardy, Mr Guthrie. You might remember…”

“Of course I remember, Cliff. Of course I do. How the hell are you? You said you’d drop in on us but you never did.”

He was right; I always say it and I never do. “I’m sorry. I’ve been busy, I guess. How are the boys?” I referred to his two adopted sons, both in trouble at one time.

“Just fine. Me ‘n’ Pat’re grandparents. But you don’t want to hear about that. I hope you want some help. God knows I’d like to do something for you after what you did for us.”

“I’m glad you feel that way. It’s not a big thing. I’m looking for a houseboat called the Pavarotti. I don’t suppose you know it?”

“No.” There was a lot of regret in the word. “I don’t get out on the water much these days. Getting a bit stiff for it.”

“Sorry to hear it. I wonder if you could tell me the marinas that could take such a thing? I gather it’s pretty big.”

“Sure, I’ve got a pretty good idea, and Ray’s here, he’d have an even better one. Can I call you back, Cliff?”

“No. I’m in a pub. I could call you again in what, fifteen minutes.”

“Make it ten. In a pub, eh? Still no home life? What happened to that woman you met? Hannah…?”

“Helen,” I said. “It’s a long story. Say hello to Ray for me. I’ll ring back in ten minutes.”

I still had an inch of wine left. As I drank it I tried to think about the good things, about helping Guthrie out of his trouble, trying to keep thoughts of Helen at a distance. To deal with those thoughts I’d have needed a good deal more help than an inch of cask red. When Guthrie came back on the line he sounded pleased.