Peter Corris - The Reward

You dont think its worthwhile looking in on Leo Grogan?

I was thinking ahead, selfishly. Thinking about an afternoon with Claudia before a flight to the Gold Coast. Everything heals up faster in a warm climate. I dont, and the chances are that whoever tried to kill him would be looking out for us. Why make it easy?

Max nodded. A beer and a ploughmans lunchd go down well.

Half an hour later we were sitting in an Oxford Street pub with two middies and plates of cheese, bread and pickled onions. I had three Panadols inside me and was feeling less pain. Id rung Qantas and booked us on a 6.30 p.m. flight to Coolangatta, loading up the American Express card. Max waited until the video clip on the giant TV at the end of the bar finished blasting and hed swallowed a lump of bread and cheese before speaking.

My guess is that its Sligo. Hes got someone down here checking on things that might jump up and grab him. When I got appointed hed have heard of it and taken steps. He was as crooked as they come, and the Beckett thing was probably only one of his earners.

I drank some beer and nibbled on the cheese. Opening my mouth wide enough to get my teeth into the bread hurt. Could be. Trouble is, if hes monitoring the whole thing he mightve done something about Peggy Hawkins.

Max crunched a pickled onion enthusiastically. Presumably he didnt have to worry about the state of his breath through the afternoon. From what Ive heard of Peggy, he said, shed make dirty old Colin look like a boy scout.

We agreed to meet at the Qantas terminal at five-thirty.

I phoned Claudia and got her answering machine. Somehow Id expected her to be there but there was no reason she should be. It looked as if my chances of a soothing afternoon were slim. Disappointed, I drove back to Glebe. I decided that Bob Lowenstein was the man to help me on the Gold Coast, but my mind kept flicking back to Claudia. I turned into my street and saw the green Laser parked outside the house. I could feel the smile forming on my face as I pulled up behind it. She was at the front door, just straightening up. Theres something very pleasing about the shape of a womans behind in that position, especially when its enclosed in a tight skirt.

I got out of the car quietly and stood at the front gate. She straightened up, turned around and saw me.

Wanna buy a house, lady? I said.

Oh god, Ive just written you a note.

I flipped open the letterbox. Good, theres nothing here worth reading.

She came down the path. Youll think Im pushy.

Push all you like. I phoned, you went one better.

I opened the gate and reached for her. She put her arms around me and the pain made me gasp, drop my keys and clutch at the fence.

Cliff, whats the matter? Whats happened to you?

Tell you inside. Will you pick up the keys, please. I cant bend.

She pampered me, made me coffee, gave me a sponge bath and packed my overnight bag for me. I told her where I was going and, in a general way, why. She said I should be careful and that she wished she could go with me and I said next time for sure. Ian Sangster was right, the missionary position wasnt on, but there are other ways.

Bob Lowenstein runs a private detective agency in Broadbeach, close to Surfers Paradise. He used to work in Sydney until an arthritic hip got so bad he had to move to a warmer climate. I advised him to have a hip replacement and stay in civilisation, but he was a Christian Scientist of sorts and didnt believe in arthritis or surgery. He went north, tried natural remedies and hydrotherapy and the hip got a bit better, thus proving, to him, that modern medicine was all gimcrackery and that Mary Baker Eddy had it right all along. Despite this, he was an intelligent and amusing guy who had taken to the computer like a plumber to PVC. He made a good living running credit checks on people for the hotels and the casino, locating missing kids courtesy of the CES computer and checking insurance claims. Lots of dodgy insurance claims on the Gold Coast. Bob was one of the very few people I corresponded with. His letters came to me immaculately from the word processor and I scrawled a few lines on postcards in reply. Hed bought a small apartment block and had often invited me to come and stay. I rang him from the airport while Max arranged the car hire.

Bob, Cliff Hardy, hows the other hip?

Both hips doing fine, no thanks to you. Where are you?

Almost on your doorstep. Can you put me and a mate up for a few days? We sort of dont need to sign hotel registers or use credit cards. Might need a bit of help from your computer as well. You can bill me.

Sure, got a flat vacant. Be glad to see you, Cliff. Bill your client, dont you mean?

Thereby hangs a tale. Well be along soon, Bob. And thanks.

The air carried just a touch of that tropical tang as we walked through the car park to pick up the Laser Max had hired while I was talking to Bob. Good choice, I thought. I wore my old linen. jacket, a denim shirt and newish jeans. Max was in the mood with cotton slacks and a Hawaiian shirt.

Its a funny thing, he said as we got into the car. But the traffic authority doesnt seem to think hearing is relevant to driving. No endorsement on the licence. I nearly had a half a dozen prangs before I got used to looking hard and really reading the traffic

Im glad of that, I said. Because this is a manual with a floor shift and driving it would be tricky for me with these ribs. Youre in charge, mate. Were going to the Florida Apartments in Broadbeach.

Max reached into the glove compartment, consulted the local street directory briefly and started the car. Normally, Im a nervous passenger, but he drove extremely well, decisively with good judgment. I relaxed and told him a bit about Bob Lowenstein as I looked out on the sun-faded strip development of used-car lots and fast-food joints with the Surfers Paradise high-rise in the distance.

Sounds like a good man. A Christian Scientist, eh? They must be a dying breed. Whatre you, Cliff?

A pagan.

Max overtook a Kombi van with a roof-rack that held at least three surfboards and cruised up behind a white BMW. He shot a quick glance sideways to get my reply. Me, too, he said. Me, too.

The Florida Apartments was a white stucco block comprising four self-contained flats just back from the highway. No view of the water, good view of the casino. Bob Lowenstein had lost hair and gained weight since shifting to Queensland, but I have to admit that he was moving better. He shook our hands, admired Maxs shirt, settled us into the vacant flat, phoned for a pizza and opened two bottles of red wine.

Tell me, tell me, he said. Im fucking dying to hear what you big-city detectives are up to these days.

We were sitting in Bobs downstairs flat, the biggest of the four. Ours was directly above. Bobs housekeeping was basic; we ate the pizza straight from the box and he produced a toilet roll for us to wipe our hands on. The wine we drank from the kind of glasses you can bounce on a cement slab. It was good wine, though. I gave him the gist over a couple of glasses and answered his questions in between slices of pizza. Bob had grown a thick moustache to compensate for the loss on top and this made it difficult for Max to lip-read him. I could feel his irritation and didnt blame him for getting stuck solidly into the red.

I wouldnt give shit for your chances, Bob said when I wound up.

Thanks, Bob. Wouldnt you say a million bucks is worth playing a long shot?

Bob shook his head. The bloody lawyerll chisel you out of it somehow even if you do get a sniff. Sounds to me like the lawyer put the heavies onto you.

I recalled Cavendish on the mobile as I left the Beckett house. Maybe. I turned to face Max who was pouring himself another glass. Bob does this, knocks everything on the head then hops in and shows you how it should be done.