Peter Corris - Man In The Shadows

‘That’s a blessing. Why’d you use me? Why not one of your men, as you call them?’

‘They’ve got no finesse. I wanted it to look genuine. You did a great job, Hardy. Thanks.’

I hung up on him which felt good but didn’t help. Buck changed Tommy’s nappy and Shelley put him down for a sleep. We drank more coffee while the little flat got hotter. After my anger at being used by Quinn had receded I began thinking again.

‘We have to get something on him,’ I said. ‘Shelley, can you remember anything he was sensitive about. D’you know anything about his business dealings?’

She shook her head. ‘No, nothing. Sensitive? Him? You’re kidding. All that Norman Mailer crap, the photograph… Hold on, there was something. He got angry when I looked at this old picture I found.’

‘What picture?’

‘It was real old. It looked like a newspaper picture but it was, you know, glossy. It was a boxing picture. Two guys in the ring and a lot of people crowding around. I know Henry was a boxer.’

‘Was he in the picture?’

‘Hard to say. It was old. If it was him he had a lot more hair and no gut. I don’t know. Anyway, he hit me.’

‘Jesus.’ Peter Buck cracked his knuckles.

‘Can you remember anything else about the picture?’

‘Nuh. Yes, there was a woman in it. A blonde. She was yelling. That’s all.’

I felt a twinge of hope. ‘How’re you for money?’

‘Low,’ Buck said.

I put three hundred dollars on the table and took out one of my cards. ‘I might have a way. What you have to do is get together a few blokes to keep an eye on Shelley and Tommy. Round the clock. Can you do it?’

‘Sure.’

‘Don’t look for trouble. Just make sure those characters outside never get close. Ring me if you have a problem.’

‘Why’re you doing this?’ Shelley said.

‘I don’t like feeling dumb. I’m sorry about your knee.’

Buck grinned. ‘You’ll have me in tears. Work something out pretty quick or I’ll handle it my way.’

I waited at the flat until two men arrived- another Maori and a pakeha, both tattooed, both big. The Maori was carrying a big bottle of lemonade, a bucket of fried chicken and a towel. He flicked the towel at Buck. ‘Let’s go to the beach.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ I said.

I took a look at the men in the green car before I got into the Falcon-average-looking thugs, not very bright. They stayed put and I drove to the Public Library. The public records are hell when you don’t know what you’re looking for, heaven when you do. It didn’t take me long; on November 29, 1956, the Melbourne Sun News-Pictorial had published an Olympic Games photograph in its sports section. The picture showed the scene after US light heavyweight Hank Quinn had been disqualified for eye gouging in his bout with Australian Ian Madison. A younger, fitter Quinn stood defiant in centre ring while Madison held both gloves across his face. A blonde woman shrieked at the referee from ringside. The brief account of the fight was highly critical of Quinn and mentioned that his wife, Billie, had attempted to assault the referee after the disqualification was announced. I took a copy of the microfilm frames.

It was four o’clock when I got home to Glebe. I was hungry and thirsty but optimistic. I drank two glasses of wine and ate a slice of fairly old pizza. Then I phoned my lawyer, Cy Sackville.

‘You’re lucky to catch me,’ Cy said. ‘I’m going to Byron Bay for Christmas.’

‘Good on you. Would you have a contact in New York who’d be able to look up marriage records in New Jersey and locate a certain party?’

‘Of course.’

‘And you’d have a fax machine there in the office, wouldn’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘What about US Treasury records, tax assessments and so on?’

‘Harder but possible. You thinking of moving offshore, Cliff? Thought you were more patriotic than that.’

I laughed dutifully and told him what I wanted. He said ‘Urn’ and ‘Yes’ and told me there’d be someone in his office to handle whatever came in.

‘What’ll it cost?’ I asked.

‘It’s Christmas.’

After that it was a matter of waiting. I went out to Manly the next couple of days and we had some fun on the beach-Shelley, Peter Buck, Tommy, Eddie Tongarira and a Manly reserve grade front rower named Steve. The men up under the pines who watched us looked hot and bothered.

The information from the States came through on Christmas Eve; first I phoned Shelley, then Quinn.

‘Quinn? This is Hardy. We’d like to come to the party tomorrow. Is it still on?’

‘Who’s we?’ Quinn sounded suspicious and a bit drunk.

‘Shelley, Peter Buck, me and Tommy. You should have the thousand you owe me ready.’

His laugh was a raucous, tipsy bellow. ‘That right? You seein’ sense? You’re not such a… what is it? Not such a mug as I took you for. Make it early. Ten o’clock. You say the kid’ll be along? I’ll get a tree.’

I got to the Manly flat a bit before eight. The green car was outside. Everybody had been awake for three hours and the place was a sea of wrapping paper and cardboard boxes. I had a can with Peter and Shelley and the minders and then we set off for Cronulla with the green car following. One of the watchers joined us in the lift and he and Peter Buck eyed each other off as we rode up to Quinn’s penthouse.

Quinn was wearing a pink shirt and white trousers. He’d shaved extra close and done something to his hair. He looked even more like the photograph of Mailer than before.

‘Shelley,’ he boomed. ‘So good to see ya, honey. An’ this must be the boy. How ya doin’, sonny?’ He attempted to kiss Tommy’s cheek but Tommy belched.

‘Cute,’ Quinn said. ‘C’mon in. You can go, Lenny.’ The watcher withdrew and we went into the room that seemed to be half-filled with sun and sea and sky. Pine needles from a huge Christmas tree by the window lay all over the carpet. At least ten wrapped presents were piled up under the tree. Shelley, Peter Buck and Tommy sat on the leather couch. Quinn pulled a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket and clawed off the foil wrapping. His hands were shaking.

‘Let’s have a drink.’

‘Let’s see the money,’ I said.

‘Oh, sure, sure. He reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a wad of notes. ‘Two grand. Bonus. You can’t say Henry Quinn’s cheap.’

I took the money and handed it to Shelley. Neither she nor Buck had said a word. Tommy was sleeping in Peter’s arms.

‘What is this?’ Quinn said.

I took the bottle from him, popped the cork and poured the champagne into four long glasses. I pushed Quinn down into a chair, gave him a glass and carried two to the couch. I took a sip of mine and reached into my pocket. Quinn clutched his glass and stared at me. I spread out the documents on the arm of his chair.

‘This is a photograph of you losing in Melbourne in ‘56. Your wife Billie isn’t happy but you lost just the same. This is a photostat of your marriage certificate. Henry Quinn bachelor, blah, blah, Billie Teresa D’Angelo, spinster, blah, blah, Atlantic

City, New Jersey, May 8, 1955. No divorce ever registered. Billie Quinn, welfare recipient, Century Hotel, Atlantic City, deposes December 23, 1986, that no divorce ever took place on account of both parties were of the Catholic faith. Here is a US Treasury memo to the effect that Henry Xavier Quinn is liable for US taxes of more than one million dollars but, ah, I’m quoting, “action is forestalled due to Quinn’s status as an Australian resident alien”.’ I looked across at the couch. Shelley and Peter Buck touched glasses and drank.

‘Shit,’ Quinn said.

I sipped some of the champagne. ‘Your status here depends on your marriage to Dawn Leonie Simkin in 1958, but that marriage was bigamous which means that you ain’t got no status at all.’