Smoke and noise drifted towards me as I went down the stairs. There was hardly room to stand between the bottom stair and the door and a man was already standing there. I gave him ten dollars and he pushed the door open. The Champagne Cabaret had taken its decor ideas from a variety of sources; there were Arabian and Chinese touches in the lighting and the wall paintings, a Broadway effect to the stage which was decorated in black and white like a piano keyboard and even a Hollywood western look to the bar and tables. I saw this through the smoky gloom as I pushed towards the bar. Pushed, because the joint was full; people were dancing on a small floor in the middle of the room, spilling over into the area occupied by tables and even putting the people standing at the bar under pressure.
I eased out of the way of a tightly embraced couple and managed to get to the bar. The music, which had been a sort of pseudo-Glenn Miller swing, petered out. The dancing stopped; a drum rolled and a man in a white dinner jacket came out onto the stage.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, the Champagne Cabaret is delighted to present-Ricky Gay!’
A tall person with cleavage and curves and a blonde wig wriggled onto the stage, adjusted a silver lame shoulder-strap and began to sing ‘Big Spender’. About half the people were interested in the singer, the other half were interested in each other and the booze. Three topless waitresses and the drinkers at the bar kept two barmen in red waistcoats busy. The place was hot and the barmen were sweating; I waited until I caught one of them taking a break to mop his face.
‘I’d like to see Mr Darcy,’ I said. ‘Is he here?”
‘I serve drinks,’ he said.
‘Then I’ll take a Scotch and ice and could you tell me where to find Darcy?’
He put away the handkerchief and made the drink. His hands were fast and if they were sweaty it didn’t seem to inconvenience him. He put the drink in front of me. His red face glowed under the light coming from behind the bar where there was also a long mirror edged with silver dollars.
‘Here’s your drink.’
I gave him five dollars. ‘Darcy?’
He gave me two dollars change and served someone else.
Ricky Gay finished singing ‘Big Spender’ and started to tell jokes. Another 10 per cent of the audience transferred their interest to companions and drinks. There was no music now but a few couples were dancing anyway. If the customer was always right the music would be starting up again pretty soon. I sipped the drink and considered my options: the barman I’d spoken to hadn’t stopped working since. He hadn’t winked or nodded at anyone to let them know about the snooper. He just wasn’t interested. The other barmen and the waitresses looked the same-too busy to care one way or the other. Somehow, I didn’t think I’d get much cooperation from Ricky Gay.
A sign under a pair of buffalo horns over a doorway said ‘Toilet’. I went through into a passageway that led to a door with a top-hatted silhouette on it at one end and to well-lit, imitation marble stairway at the other. I walked to the stairs; I still had the drink in my hand and when the man sitting at the top of the first flight stood up I raised my glass.
‘Cheers,’ I said.
He was a thickset character wearing a black T-shirt, jeans with a wide belt and basketball boots. He had a big bunch of keys swinging from the belt, too big to be anyone’s actual set of keys.
‘Other way, chum.’ The voice was thick North Country British.
I leaned against the wall. ‘What? What?’
‘The pisser’s at the other end of the passage. This’s private up here.’
I swung around unsteadily, blinking. ‘Doesn’t say so.’
He came down the stairs confidently, unfastening the keys which were on a snap lock. The bunch was on several rings and looked as if it could be easily converted into a knuckle-duster or a mini-battleaxe. He was only about 30; too much fat bulged out above the belt, but he moved all right. He swung the keys lazily just below my nose. ‘Piss off, chum.’
‘Darcy here?’ I spoke sharply and soberly and he was taken by surprise. He should have loaded his fist with the metal and punched but he went for another swing, intending to cut, and was too slow. I dropped the glass, whipped out the. 38 and dug it into the midriff bulge. ‘Drop the keys!’ I dug hard as I spoke and he let the keys fall.
‘A shooter. Come on…’ He was going to get brave any minute. I brought my knee up hard and slammed it into his crotch. He groaned and sagged; I pushed with the gun and he sank down onto the stairs. He sat on broken glass and swore. He tried to move but I pinned him by putting the gun under his nose.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ I said. ‘You’ve cut yourself. You’re going to have to be more careful. Darcy-where is he?’
His pudgy face was pale and it looked as if he’d bit his lip to add to his problems. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Up there.’
I gestured with the gun. ‘Let’s go.’
He eased himself up carefully, wincing and reaching behind him to pull the glass out. ‘You’re not a cop.’
‘No. And you’re not a nightwatchman. Take me up to Darcy.’
‘He’ll sort you.’
‘We’ll see. Your jeans are in a dreadful state.’
He went gingerly up the stairs; I followed two steps below and off to one side in case he had some idea of evening the score. He didn’t. He went meek as a lamb along a carpeted corridor to the second of three doors, all of which had ‘Private’ written on them. He knocked.
‘Who the hell is it?’ The voice was rough, muffled and annoyed.
‘Connelly.’
‘Well?’
I showed Connelly my finger held to my lips. He opened his mouth and I dug him in the ribs with the gun.
‘Connelly?’ Less muffled now, closer to the door, but more annoyed. The door opened and the man in the photograph stood there; he’d put on weight and lost hair but he was unmistakably the same man. His white shirt was open to the waist showing a fleshy, hairy chest, tanned like his face and arms. I held the gun low and Darcy looked from Connelly to me, puzzled.
‘Couldn’t you handle it?’
‘He’s got a shooter,’ Connelly said.
‘And this.’ I held up my licence. ‘And this.’ I put the licence away and pulled out the photographs. ‘Tell Connelly here to go and find his keys and clean up the broken glass on the stairs. We have to talk.’
A woman appeared in the doorway behind Darcy. She was buttoning her blouse and straightening her tight skirt. Darcy saw my eyes flick to her but he could also see the gun now.
‘Go on, Kenny; I’ll deal with it.’ Connelly turned and limped away; there was blood all over the seat of his trousers. Darcy looked amused.
‘Sorry if I caught you at a bad time,’ I said.
‘Hardy, eh? I’ve heard of you.’ He ran his hand over his thinning blonde hair, did up a button on his shirt and then patted his crotch. ‘My fly’s still done up, isn’t it? Could’ve been worse. Come in, Hardy. Come in.’
9
I didn’t exactly back Darcy into his own residence at the point of a gun, but I didn’t treat him like my long lost brother either. What we were doing reminded me of an army training exercise-semi-serious. He retreated along the passage and I advanced. The woman circled around in the room we were headed for.
‘The gun’s a bit over the top,’ Darcy said. ‘You just had to ask.’
‘I asked downstairs. Your staff’s too busy serving watered drinks to be helpful.’
He smiled at that; he seemed to like smiling. ‘What’s this about?’
We were in a big living room now-white carpet, black leather armchairs and couch, glass and chrome bar and other fittings suggestive of the good, idle life. Outside the window the lights of Kings Cross became the lights of Elizabeth Bay and then became the lights of the yacht club and the marina and the boats at anchor. Darcy had done up a couple more buttons on his shirt, had pulled his stomach in and was over at the bar now making drinks. The woman stood beside him; she was tall and thin like a fashion model and with an appropriate lack of expression on her face. She’d got her blouse and skirt straight: she had short, bobbed blonde hair that hadn’t become disturbed by whatever it was I’d interrupted. So she looked fine and that seemed to give her nothing else to do.