Peter Corris - White Meat

It was. They bundled us into police cars and took us into town. I told them about the garage and who Noni and James were. They let Noni clean herself up a bit but she needed much more than a bath, she needed a lot of expensive medical treatment. I hoped she wouldn’t talk too much but she let James protect her and she scarcely said a word. With luck, I thought, I’d be able to get her out of this and back to her father fairly clean. Maybe that wasn’t letting all the cards show but I recalled what someone had once said to some cops: “Until you guys own your own souls you don’t own mine. Until you guys can be trusted every time and always, in all times and conditions, to seek the truth and find it and let the chips fall where they may – until that time comes, I have the right to listen to my conscience, and protect my client the best way I can.”

That’s how I felt. The cops sure as hell didn’t seem too concerned about an incinerated black man and another the same colour with ho head to speak of. That’s how I thought I’d play it, but Penny threw a spanner into the works, or tried to.

They picked her up in the garage. When she came to see us in the police building she’d washed the blood off and was wearing some kind of policewoman’s smock. They’d told her about Ricky. It didn’t seem to touch her. Then she told me that she’d given the cops who came for her something to take with them and be careful of the fingerprints – a crank handle. Her eyes glittered maliciously when she told me this. Noni was within hearing but it was wasted on her. She was burying herself in James’ warm solicitude, a good beginning for the attitude she’d have to take up when all Ted’s money started working for her.

It was very complicated and I didn’t help by refusing to tell them anything until the lawyers got there. Cy Sackville came up the next day and some smoothie Ted got to handle Noni’s part in it. Sackville spoke for James, too, but he was pretty much in the clear. The cops didn’t like it one bit. There was nothing in it for them but trouble. They tried to stick me with various things from conspiracy down to dangerous driving, but their hearts weren’t in it and Sackville brushed them aside. Penny they didn’t even hold and she stayed for a few days with relations in town, then she left without contacting me.

The lawyer took Noni back to Sydney and I never saw her again. I heard later from Cy that Ted’s lawyers had headed off any charges connected with Bert’s death. The crank handle held her fingerprints alright but she claimed that Bert had tried to rape her. If his body had been in the state it was when I saw it, the coroner might have wondered how many blows with a crank handle to the head it took to prevent a rape, but the truck wheels had passed over Bert’s head, front and back, making a mess that no-one could interpret. I was pretty sure she’d been in on the kidnap idea with Ricky, but there was no way of proving it and it wasn’t in my interest anyway.

I saw a fair bit of Saul James in the few days I spent in Macleay straightening things out. After they pried him loose from Noni he seemed to have no direction, no purpose and sort of attached himself to me. I asked him about his part in the play.

“Gone,” he said wryly. “The understudy was too good, he filled in on the first rehearsal I missed and now he’s got the part.”

“Tough.”

He shrugged. “I wonder what will happen to Noni?”

“Overseas trip if I know Ted. She’s no loss to you James.”

He looked hurt.

“At least there’s one consolation. It didn’t cost you any money.”

“I thought the money was burnt?”

“It was, but I wrote down the serial numbers of your share, you’ll get it all back.”

He looked at me as if I’d betrayed him instead of saved him five thousand dollars. I’d denied him his little bit of martyrdom.

I finally got clear of the cops and of James. I flew back to Newcastle, played games with some more cops and got my car out of their clutches. Someone had washed it by mistake while it was impounded and it was with pride that I drove it back to Sydney.

That took me back to the let-down that follows cases like this one. I mooched into the office and screwed up circulars and paid a few bills in anticipation of Ted Tarelton’s cheque. I sat around at home reading novels and writing a report on the case. My. 38 came back from the Balmain police. Berrigan’s case closed. I heard from Grant Evans that the Macleay cops were glad to have the bank robbery off their books. They hadn’t revealed any of this pleasure to me.

Three days went by like this, slowly and with little ends of the Tarelton case being tied up. Ailsa’s return was imminent – there was that at least to look forward to. I was at home in the middle of the day in the middle of the week when the phone rang. I put my book down and looked at it reluctantly. I answered it reluctantly. My stomach lurched when I heard the voice on the other end. For a fraction of a second I thought it was Ricky Simmonds.

“Hardy?”

“Yes. Jimmy Sunday?”

“Right. You sorted it out – Ricky and Noni and that?”

“You could say that. It’s over anyway. Who told you?”

“Penny.”

“Oh, how’s she?”

“Alright. You see Jacko’s fight with Russo’s coming up on Friday?”

I hadn’t seen; I’d pushed the whole Aboriginal-Italian business away into a corner of my mind, a worry corner but a corner. I associated it with the Tarelton business and that was cleared up. Besides, no-one would pay me for interfering in Coluzzi’s plans. I was a mercenary wasn’t I? That reminded me, Ted Tarelton hadn’t paid my account yet.

“Umm,” I said.

“We’re ready to move.”

“What does that mean?”

“Trueman’s been at Jacko, you know, hinting he might have to take a dive. Jacko’s played it smart, let Sammy think he’ll co-operate. Probably will, not for sure, you know? He’s not stupid, Jacko.”

“I never thought he was,” I grunted. “Where does that get you?”

“Coluzzi’s got a bundle on Rosso. Too much to lay off.”

I felt relieved. Well done. “Good, you’ve got him then, provided Moody can win.”

“Oh, he’ll win. Shit, you should see him, sharp and hard, he’ll kill him. He scared me when I saw him sparring, he’s that good.”

Sunday knew what he was talking about. I respected his judgement in matters pugilistic, but he was undercutting my relief. Why was he telling me this?

“That’s great Jimmy. I’ll be there, I’ll see you. Tell Ted Williams I’ll get the tickets I promised him.”

“Hold on Hardy, we need your help. We want Coluzzi’s balls, not just his money.”

“Oh?”

“Fuckin’ right. He’s for it and you’re going to set him up for us. You can contact him can’t you?”

I said I could. I didn’t want to, but I could.

“OK. Tomorrow night at Trueman’s.”

“What do I tell him?”

“Tell him the niggers are organising and they want some of the action. Make him think he can tie up the Moody-Rosso fight. That’ll bring him.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Kick the living shit out of him.”

I suddenly felt insecure, old, in need of a rest. “Look, have you gone into this? I mean Coluzzi’s a professional, they don’t leave things to chance.”

“We’ve been tailing his heavies for days. We’ve got ‘em all pinned. Jacko’ll be safe. There’ll be a small party going on in Newtown tomorrow night too. Just a small do – a few cops might feel like coming along though.”

That was persuasive. They obviously meant business and weren’t going to let me off. “OK, I’ll contact Coluzzi and get back to you. You’ll have plenty of people along? Those Italians aren’t soft.”