Peter Corris: The Reward

White looked increasingly unhappy as Grogans story unfolded. When it was finished he loosened his tie and slid the knot down. Johnno Hawkins is dead, White said. Had a heart attack out fishing a year or so ago.

Grogan took up his glass and raised it like a toast. Thats right. But Peggys still alive and fucking, last I heard.

Where? I said. Still on the Gold Coast?

Yeah. Shell either be doing it for money or getting the money off the girls whore doing it for her.

White smiled again and looked first at Grogan, then at me. Were away, he said, as if he knew everything would come right in the end.

White pleaded with Grogan not to mention the matter to another living soul. Grogan sneered and agreed. He gave me his address and a telephone number where he could sometimes be reached, sank another schooner, and went off, not visibly excited.

Hes not a lot of laughs, is he? I said to White.

Hes a shit. He wouldnt look pleased if his prick grew longer, but hell play ball. Unlike me, hes got a pension, but he drinks most of it. Speaking of which

Whites little stash had almost gone. I didnt want another drink but I ordered a round because we needed to talk some more.

You started lying to Grogan right from the jump, I said.

Ive played straight with you, thats all you need to worry about.

Maybe. He was threatening to kneecap you if you scammed him.

Hes all piss and wind, always was. Sixty grandll keep him sweet.

I thought that was probably true, and it seemed only fair that I should come out well ahead of Grogan for all the work I seemed likely to have to do. Suddenly, I realised that I was taking the thing seriously. I tried to pull back from that, but I couldnt help having the sort of feeling I had when I occasionally bought a lottery ticketanticipation of a win is part of the pleasure and, most times, all of the pleasure. Still, I had to keep in mind that I was running a business.

If I have to fly to the Gold Coast itll cost a bit. How flush is this backer of yours?

White looked doubtful. Havent you got enough confidence in me yet to finance it yourself for a bit?

Perhaps. If Grogans story is right, the question is, who was willing to shell out to suppress the note?

White was fairly drunk, and it required an effort for him to assume a serious, investigative expression. Thats right. A family member for sure. Didnt want her found. Bigger cut of the cake for him.

Or her. Do you know anything about Ramonas family set-up?

Shit, let me think. Like I say, I wasnt doing very much in there. A sister, maybe two sisters, and a brother. Might have been some half-brothers and sisters as well. Old Beckett had been married before.

Big help. Whats in the will?

How the fuck would I know?

You know about the interest on the reward. Or is all that bullshit, too? Im not getting any happier about paying my own way to the Gold Coast.

No, no, thats kosher about the reward. I got that from this accountant.

Go on.

Well, hes bent, you know. I got in touch with him over my fucking divorce settlement. Tried to get him to cook the books a bit in my favour. He wouldve, too, but Brendas bloke was smarter. Anyway, he started talking about accountancy which I always reckoned must be the most boring fucking subject of the lot. Worse than… what was that crap I did at Uni? Torts, yeah, torts. Shit, that was dull.

Stick to the point, Barry, if you can.

He pulled himself together again and I speculated on how many times he was capable of it in a day. This bloke had worked for the firm that handled the Beckett family finances. He told me the reward money was on the books. A million plus and counting. This was just a couple of days before I ran into Leo. Seren-fuckin-dipity.

The word brought me up short. It had been one of Glen Withers favourites. It was partly the beer, partly keeping company with ex-policemen, partly who-knows-what, but I suddenly missed her terribly and the easy, comfortable time we had had together. Like some of the other women Id loved and lost, shed told me what was wrong with me when it came to the crunchtoo changeable, too moody, too easily bored. I wasnt convinced. I always thought I was too soft on people, too ready to give the benefit of the doubt. I took another hard look at Barry White and saw the devious slackness under the charm, the mental sloppiness under the educated veneer. Fuck him, I thought. If I can cut myself a bigger slice of this I will. But Barry Whites not getting the benefit of any of my many doubts.

I arranged to meet White again in two days time. I stipulated that as a kind of a test and he passed it. He wanted to ask me what Id be doing and probably suggest other things, but he managed to prevent himself.

By then I should know whether Im up to flying to the Gold Coast or whether Ill just go to Bondi instead and forget the whole thing.

That sense of humour again. OK, Hardy. Spend my time well. Ill sniff around a bit myself, but dont worry, we wont cross wires.

We skipped the handshake. I left the pub and stationed myself out of sight in a laneway. My car was a hundred metres away in a two-hour zone and the clock was ticking. About five minutes later, White emerged, brushing cigarette ash from his clothes. He cleared his throat and spat into the gutter. Then he took a comb out the top pocket of the blazer and ran it through his hair. Next came one of those pressurised gadgets that squirt breath-freshener into your mouth. He used it and spat again. He reached into his pants pocket and took out a slip of paper that could have been anythinga cheque, a dry cleaning receipt, a newspaper cutting. He looked at it and tucked it away with the comb. Then he prowled up and down the pavement impatiently, looking at his watch and staring at the nearest intersection. I headed for my car. You dont need to be Sherlock Holmes to tell when a man with a Cabcharge docket is waiting for a taxi.

I felt like a true professional jotting down the number of the cab as I waited behind it, two cars back, at the Abercrombie Street lights. Cabcharge dockets carry the name of the account on them and are carefully computer-processed. With a bit of luck, I should be able to find out who was paying for Barrys ride. We went up Cleveland Street and swung left beside the railway line. The taxi driver was fast and good, exploiting every gap he found, and it was tricky staying with him unobtrusively. Up Elizabeth Street past the golf shop, where at night the neon golfer hits neon balls into a neon hole, and a turn to the right up Wentworth Avenue. The taxi stopped beside the Connaught building and I caused irritation behind me by pulling in and waiting while Barry did his paperwork. He left the cab and I kerb-crawled after him. He was trying to fasten his jacket, forgetting that he was lacking the crucial button, as he went up the ramp, punched in a number on a keypad and entered the building. Interesting.

Harry Tickener runs his independent newspaper, The Challenger, out of an office in Surry Hills. The place smells of nothing but the very best coffee since Harry gave up chain-smoking Camels and drinking bourbon. Concerned about his figure, Harry replaced his other habits with a devotion to coffee that might ream out his stomach lining in the end but will leave him a thin corpse. I hope its a long time coming.

After the beer in the Cleveland it was good to sit over one of his massive flat whites and do exactly what Barry White had begged Leo Grogan not to dotalk openly to someone about the matter in hand. Harrys discretion is legendary; Ive never known him to betray a confidence or to back away from naming the guilty men if he could possibly do it and stay out of gaol. Weve given each other a hand in many ways over the years since he was a young, go-getting reporter and I was new in the private detective business. Once, not long after he took a golden handshake from the News Corporation and started up The Challenger, he asked me if I wanted a tag like with the assistance of Cliff Hardy to appear with the journalists by-line on a story Id helped with. I used an obscenity and told him Id sue if it happened.