Peter Corris: The Reward

You black cunt, White said. He lurched towards the man, a stocky Maori in singlet, jeans and work boots.

What did you say? The Maori put the drinks he was carrying down and set himself.

White threw a punch that missed and tipped him off balance. The Maori had been ready to punch but Whites stumble forced him to hold back. That gave me time to move in, grab the Maoris cocked right and jam it up behind his back. I pushed him a couple of steps so that he was up against a wall and couldnt get any leverage to swing back with his left. He was strong but when youre in that position strong doesnt help, any movement hurts like hell.

Hes drunk, mate, I said in the Maoris ear. And hes a sick man. Look at him. You hit him and youre likely to kill him. Hes an ex-copper, as well. You dont need that kind of trouble.

OK, brother, OK, the Maori said. Dyou want ago?

Ive seen all the blood and broken glass I need to see for the rest of my life. Just let it be. I released him and stepped away quickly, deciding to kick at his right knee if he was still belligerent. He glared at me and maybe the broken nose and scars convinced him.

Youre lucky youve got a sharp mate, pisspot, he said to White as he wrapped his big hands around the drinks. He walked away to the other end of the bar.

White was dabbing at his damp pants with a dirty handkerchief. Good team, Hardy.

Fuck you, I said. I ought to tear that bloody contract up.

You wont.

He was right. The small confrontation with the Maori made me realise how much I was relying on old tricks like armlocks and new ones like staying sober. If I wasnt quite over the hill I was certainly nearing the top, and a six-figure score would help me to face the summit with much greater equanimity. White didnt know where Leo Grogan lived, but he knew where hed be at 10 a.m. the following dayin the bar of the Cleveland Hotel in Chippendale. White himself lived in a room in a boarding house in Rose Street and I agreed to give him a lift home. We walked to where I park the Falcon in Upper Forbes Street and White sneered as I undid the club lock.

Youre in the fucking Dark Ages, Hardy. I used to have a Commodore with one of the first automatic locking systems. He held up an imaginary remote control. Press a button. Beep, beep, and youre sweet.

I put the lock on the floor at his feet, started the motor and didnt say anything. He reached down, a bit unsteadily, picked up the device and examined it.

Piece of shit. I knew blokes who could knock the lock out of that in two seconds flat. He dropped the lock on the floor and got out his tobacco.

Not in the car, I said. Youre talking about policemen, I suppose?

Yeah, of course.

I know people who can take out any car alarm system ever made and start the motor from the pavement.

That shut him up. He slumped down in his seat and I could sense the good feeling the beer had given him already ebbing away. The question was, did he come up passive or aggressive? We drove down William Street. Daylight saving had just ended and a bit after seven oclock the light was fading and the girls were beginning to emerge. White gazed out at them, and I glanced at him to gauge his response.

Jesus, he said. Will you take a look at that.

A six-foot transvestite or transsexual stood on the kerb outside a luxury car showroom. She had long, shimmering silver-blonde hair and wore a halter top, miniskirt and thigh-high boots to match.

Her dicks probably bigger than yours.

Whats the difference? he muttered. A holes a fucking hole.

I dropped him in Rose Street opposite a three-storey terrace that would fetch a fortune when it stopped being a dosshouse. Ive seen plenty of those places in my time; the metho bottles in the backyard can outnumber the sweet sherry flagons. White had wound his window down and stuck his face out on the drive in an effort to clear his head. He climbed stiffly from the car and leaned through the open window.

Im broke, Hardy. That seven hundred was all I had. Can you lend me a few bucks?

Sure, I said. Just tell me who staked you in the first place.

Youre a bastard.

I have to be. I deal with them every day. Dont lie to me, Barry. The way things are, every word we exchange is important.

A woman. Ive made her certain promises.

Shes an idiot.

Maybe, but she doesnt think so.

Human beings are hard to understand. Ive known a few intelligent, resourceful women whove fallen for useless, violent men, some who just couldnt get interested in any other type. I took two twenties and a ten out the change from the drinks and passed them to him. Dont drink it all, Barry. You need to rinse out that shirt and you could do with a deodorant and a mouthwash. See you tomorrow.

He took the money and didnt speak. I watched him in the rear-vision mirror as I drove away. For a few seconds he wavered between turning left or crossing the street. Left took him to the corner and the pub. He squared his shoulders and crossed the street. There were signs that Barry White wasnt a completely spent force, but that didnt make me trust him one bit more.

I drove home to Glebe, stopping to buy some fish and some white wine on the way. I grew up on a diet of fried meatchops, steak, sausages, bacon. That kind of tucker, plus large dollops of frustration, blocked my fathers arteries and saw him off at a fairly early age, but I seem to have inherited my mothers constitution and temperament. She ate, drank and smoked what she liked, made it to seventy, and went complaining about her short innings. These days I exercise some dietary caution, but not with fish; the only way to cook it is the way my Uncle Jim said. He used to catch flathead, bream and tailor off Maroubra Beach after pulling up sandworms for bait with his fingers. Fry the fuckers! was Uncle Jims advice, and thats what I did.

Ive lived alone since Glen Withers married her policeman. I occasionally see a former girlfriend, Terry Kenneally, who came out of longish relationships more or less intact, like me. We have a meal together, go to a movie and sometimes to bed. Theres nothing possessive about it. Were both looking for company and sex without complications. I cant say I prefer the arrangement to a passionate, committed relationship, but its not too bad. I enjoy the gaps and solitary spells, knowing that theyre not permanent.

I was in just such a spell at the moment with Terry, who was a tennis coach, away interstate with one of her hopefuls. Over the meal I lowered the level of the wine to halfway down the label and then quit, I made coffee and sat down to think about what I could be getting into with Barry White. It was hard to be optimistic. For years stories had circulated about cops with treasure trovesbales of marijuana, talcum powder tins full of cocaine, suitcases of money. As far as I knew none of these ships had ever come in, and the old rogue cops were all doing time or paying off their lawyers bills by installment. Still, Whites story had a different ring and the man himself wasnt the standard sticky-fingered corrupt moron.

I took out a fresh notebook and started plotting my course through some of the hazards. First things first, and my priorities are not necessarily those of the person whos hired me. I had to check up on the reward. Were the terms and the accrued amount what White had stated? Along with that went a need to know more about Barry White himself. Was my suspicion right that hed done some time, and if so, for what? I needed to know the personnel of the police instigating team and, if possible, get some idea of their conclusions. Had laying charges been considered and, if so, against whom? That led to the obvious question that shapes any investigationwho benefits? White and I had talked about Ramona Becketts victims as profiting from her death, but what about othersa lover, a family member? There was going to be some leg and telephone work involved as always and some favours to be asked for and maybe nothing to show at the end of it. But just maybe thered be a good deal more to show than usual.