Peter Corris: Man In The Shadows

‘I’m sorry. Nothing. Tell me about what happened between you.’

‘Usual thing. Lots of grass, lots of wine, lots of fucking and late night TV. That’s how I came to mention you. We’d been watching some private eye movie and I told him about the time you… handled that narc and the others at Palm Beach. He was interested in that.’

‘Have, you ever been in Southwood Hospital, Annie?’

‘Yeah, for a while.’

‘He told me that’s where he met you.’

‘Bloody liar. He’d lie about anything. It was after that, a good while after.’

‘What was Southwood like?’

‘Bloody awful. Scary.’

‘In what way?’

‘Every way. You should’ve seen some of the kids there. They picked them up in the streets. Real horror cases. I don’t want to talk about it. Shit!’

‘What?’

‘I left my stuff with those creeps. Shit!’

‘Maybe we can do something about that. Tell me about what happened with you and Greenway.’

‘He was living in this place at the Cross. One day he was there and the next day he wasn’t. Nobody knew where he’d gone. I went down hard. I broke my own rules-hit up every day. Then I went on the methadone.’

‘What about those characters that chased you in here?’

‘I was scoring in the flats down the end of your street, by the water.’

‘Are you going to try maintaining again?’

‘I don’t know. Shit, I believed him, you know? We had a great time and I thought he was for real. Fuck it. Who cares? I’d better go.’

It was after ten o’clock by then, late enough. I made us a couple of white wines and sodas and we sat in the backyard with the drinks and the cat. I explained to her why I needed to find Greenway and she seemed to understand, although she wouldn’t talk about the hospital. I asked her where she was living and it sounded like a series of couches and floors and sleeping bags.

‘Did you score in the flats?’

She shook her head.

The sun and the wine relaxed her. Her hands stopped shaking. She told me a bit about her time in England. She laughed, remembering good times and perhaps not giving up hope for more. I asked her to stay for a few days and she accepted. Might need your help to find Greenway, I thought, but I knew I needed the company more. So now I had a junkie in the house. I also had the cat around a lot more, seeing as how it likes the smell of cigarette smoke.

I was shaving when I realised why I’d reacted so strongly to what Annie had said. He acted like one. Greenway had told me he was an actor. It was a lead of sorts. I finished shaving and went out to ask Annie some more questions. I found her on the bed in the spare room, curled up under a blanket. Her jacket was on a chair and I went through the pockets. She had about twelve dollars and some change; a driver’s licence, Medicare card, cigarettes, make-up, aspirin, tissues. No key. No syringe, no heroin.

I left her a note telling her how the shower worked, how to bolt the rickety back door and where the outside key was hidden. I told her not to worry about the gas smell which has been around for years without doing any harm. I told her to make herself at home and that I’d be back later. I was trusting her with a TV, a VCR and an old stereo unit which were all insured. I took the gun with me.

I used my spare car key, promising myself to get a copy cut, and drove around the block. No sign of the red Mazda which didn’t mean a thing but made me feel better. The morning was cool and clear with a promise of heat in the middle of the day. I drove to Darlinghurst where Curtain Call Casting has an office in one of those streets that has been half- blocked, declared one-way and sprouted wattle trees.

Rose Moore was at her desk poring over correspondence and sets of photographs. I let my shadow fall across the desk. Rose looked up and smiled.

‘Hey, that’s better. Now I can’t see her double chin.’

‘You’re in a cruel game, Rose. Dealing in people’s imperfections.’

‘So are you. If you’ve come to hire an actor for one of your dodges again you can forget it. I nearly got the sack over that.’

She was referring to a little operation I’d mounted to discourage a standover man who was making things difficult for some reasonably respectable poker players. When he encountered me and the stuntman I’d hired through Rose the next time he dropped in, he lost interest in cards. But the stuntman’s agent had heard about it and Rose had been roasted. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I neglected the worker’s compensation angle. Life’s got to be so complicated.’

Rose looked something like a gypsy with wild dark hair and big liquid eyes. She accentuated the look with eye make-up, earrings and low necked blouses. Now she lifted the neckline and looked prim. ‘Not if you do your job and don’t cut corners.’

I laughed. ‘My job is cutting corners, you know that. But today all I want is a look at that casting book-the mug shots.’

‘Male or female or in between?’

‘Male, definitely.’

She reached behind her to a bookshelf and took down the thick volume. I perched on the edge of her desk beside a stack of glossies of a young woman with hair like Tina Turner, a mouth like Joni Mitchell and eyes like Anne Bancroft.

‘What does she do?’ I said.

Rose lit a cigarette and blew smoke at me. ‘Anything, darling. Anything at all.’

I found him on page 139-Gareth Morgan Greenway. Born London 12/2/59; arrived Australia 1971; educ. Sydney High School, NIDA; 184 cm, 75 kilos, quick change artist and magician; swims, dances, sings; plays piano and guitar.

A gaunt, dark face with hooded eyes brooded from the page. Greenway had appeared in some plays I’d never heard of, a couple of low budget films and in television shows I’d never seen. His agent was Hilary Fanshawe, 111 Roscommon Street, Woolloomooloo-a walk away.

I thanked Rose and left the office. The legitimate parking place I’d found was too good to surrender-there probably wasn’t another like it in a four-kilometre radius. I walked over William Street and down the hill into the ‘Loo. Jimmy Carruthers grew up there and used to eat ice cream outside the pubs while his mates were boozing. Jimmy was on his way to a world boxing title-a real one.

Then it was all narrow houses and stunted factories-blank faced buildings, mean, aggressive streets. But government money has been well spent for once; the houses have been scraped back to the sandstock bricks, the wrought iron has been restored, the tin roofs are painted. The factories have been torn down, leaving more open corners to the streets, or converted into Housing Commission flats that don’t clash with the original feel of the place. Rehabilitation only goes so far; there are still winos in the park which the concrete railway bridge keeps constantly in half-shadow.

Hilary Fanshawe’s office was in a narrow terrace house. The door was barely a metre from the street; there was no knocker or bell but a polished hunting horn was mounted on the wall beside the number. I pressed a button on the horn and heard a trumpeting blare inside. It was the sort of sound you didn’t want to hear more than once. The door gave a click and a pleasant voice came through the horn.

‘It’s open. Second on the left.’

I went into a narrow passage; five long strides would have taken me to the stairs, three took me to the second door which was open. The woman who sat at the desk facing the door was huge. She wore a black T-shirt; her jowls and chins settled down near its neckband. All this flesh was pale; she had green eyes and dark auburn hair.

‘Yes?’ It was the same voice I’d heard through the horn but sweeter and more musical. The Garbo of voices. I felt like looking around for the speaker but the fat woman’s mouth was moving. ‘What can I do for you?’