‘You could say that. He was shot through the chest out at Rooty Hill where his son Noel keeps his spare Citroens and some of his stash. Looks as if Haitch got in the way of something.’
‘He’s no great loss. I’ve been chasing all over the countryside, Frank. I’m bushed. Gotta go-’
‘OK. We’ll get in some tennis when you recover.’
‘Right.’ I hung up. Usually Frank and I were pretty even. The way I felt now, I’d be lucky to take a game off him.
I drove on automatic pilot until I reached Glebe. Work had just about finished on the apartment block where Glebe Point Road meets Broadway. They’d torn down the old building that had elegantly wrapped itself in a curve around the corner, leaving only the facade, and had dug a deep hole and thrown up the usual concrete interior. The work had disrupted traffic and created a lot of dust and I’d been sceptical about the result, but I had to admit to being impressed. University Hall looked like a pretty good place to live, with views across Victoria Park and the amenities of Glebe Point Road right outside. That’s provided the flats were double-glazed. I wondered about the price and the wisdom of living in a flat rather than a house, especially as I didn’t have a cat anymore. Off-street parking would be a plus.
At home, I collected the newspaper from the front step and spared the front garden a glance. A disgrace. What had happened to the bob-a-job Boy Scouts who used to take care of these things for a busy man? Come to think of it, I haven’t seen a Boy Scout of any description in a long time. The bob-a-job types were probably washing windscreens at intersections.
The Nissan looked good. A little dusty which suited it. When I thought about how much it was costing me I regretted not getting some more money out of Miss Mudlark. I stripped off my clothes, showered and wandered around the house with a towel around my waist and a glass of white in my hand. I was tired but still a bit wound up from all the activity and I needed to come down before I could sleep. No messages of significance on the answering machine, nothing important in the mail. I looked at the threadbare carpet, scuffed lino tiles and battered fridge and tried to imagine Claudia here. Tried to imagine her in one of her silk blouses and slinky pants with Gucci shoes and Faberge wristwatch. Impossible. The thought depressed me and I took myself and another glass of wine up to the bedroom where the decor wasn’t any better but the room could at least be made dark. I pulled the curtains across, cunningly arranging them so a shaft of light fell at the head of the bed.
I got into bed, pulled up the sheet and selected Letters from Jack London from the pile of books. I’d bought it sight unseen from Nicholas Pounder’s catalogue because London’s White Fang and The Jacket were among my favourite books as a kid. I took a big drink in honour of Jack, who took a few big ones himself, and opened the book. Eighteen-year-old Jack’s first letter was to the editor of a magazine offering him an article he’d written on his small boat trip in the Yukon. The editor sent London’s letter back to him with the annotation: ‘Interest in Alaska has subsided to an amazing degree. Then, again, so much has been written that I do not think it would pay us to buy your story.’ I hoped he remembered that later when Jack was getting paid a dollar a word. I read a few more letters, mostly London complaining about not being understood. That matters when you’re eighteen. I finished the wine, dropped the book and the shutters came down hard.
I dreamed I had a dog named Prince, German Shepherd-Kelpie cross. I’ve never had a dog but if I did it’d be like Prince-lean and wolfish, super-fit, a go-all-day kind of dog. I was throwing sticks into the water at Maroubra and he was swimming out for them and surfing back in. Great dog. Then he disappeared under a wave and didn’t come up. I howled and rushed into the water, swam out, dived for him, still howling…
The phone woke me. I stumbled down the stairs while my spiel was playing and snatched it up when I heard Claudia’s voice.
‘I phoned earlier,’ she said. ‘You must have been out.’
The light was blinking. ‘No, I was here. Dead to the world. What time is it?’
‘Nearly five. You sound funny. Are you all right?’
‘Bad dream. How’ve things been going over there?’
‘OK. The staff weren’t nasty at all. I think they think I killed him but they don’t seem too upset about it. Julius wasn’t a good employer. I’ve actually been having some fun bundling up his clothes for the Smith Family. What d’you think I should do with his golf clubs?’
‘Good ones?’
‘The best, I should think, and scarcely touched. He hated the game, because he wasn’t good at it the way he was with most things.’
‘I’ve got a mate who plays. I’ll ask him. They could make a prize for a junior competition or something. Have you met Gatellari?’
‘Yes, he’s here. He’s very reassuring. I’m going to stay the night, Cliff. I went through a lot of bad stuff here and I want to sort of exorcise it. One night should be enough. Do you understand?’
‘Yup. Did you have the swim?’
‘Yes I did. It was terrific’ She sounded almost bubbly just for an instant there, then she sobered quickly. ‘I found the Katz books too. They’re quite dreadful but I suppose you’ll want to see them?’
I had a flash of Claudia swimming in a twenty-metre chlorinated sandstone pool, landscaped, maybe with a waterfall, and the house seemed shabbier than ever.
‘Cliff?’
‘Yeah, sorry, still waking up. Are you sure you’ll be all right there tonight? No ghosts?’ I was wondering: Where had she fucked Van Kep?
‘Yes, I’m quite sure. Mrs Lindquist is going to cook us something and I’ll be asleep by nine I think.’
Fleischman, Van Kep, Gatellari, Lindquist, the place was a bloody United Nations. Where were the Lees and the Hardys? I struggled to throw off the feelings of jealousy, envy, regret-whatever the hell they were. I had no claims on anyone and the only good thing about that was that no one had any claims on me. ‘There’s a service for Cy at the Sydney Chevra Kadisha tomorrow at ten,’ I said. ‘I’m going.’
‘I’d like to come with you.’
Just those few words dispelled almost all of the murk. ‘That’d be good,’ I said. ‘Get Gatellari to drive you. Have him earn his money.’
‘I was brought up an atheist. I’ve never been to a Jewish service of any kind. Where is it held?’
I’d been to a few Jewish funerals and I told her.
‘What do you wear?’
‘Black,’ I said.
25
At nine-fifteen the next morning, after listening anxiously to the weather report, I phoned Craig Bolton at the police palace. I told him that I was going to Cy’s funeral service and I inquired if the police had made any progress with the investigation into who had killed him. It seemed like the natural thing to do and Bolton took it that way. He said they hadn’t made any progress at all. Cy had made mincemeat of a few police witnesses and prosecutors in his time and I had to wonder how much shoulder was being put to the wheel. Still playing the part, I allowed the suggestion to enter into my comments. Bolton took offence and shut me out. I thought that Cy would have been pleased by my subtlety, but that didn’t make me feel any better about the morning or the future without him.
I went out into the back courtyard-a fancy name for the badly laid bricks and struggling plants-and sniffed the air. Radio weather forecasts have to be checked against the reality. The sky was clear and the day was certainly going to heat up fast. I had a lightweight navy blue suit, but a suit is a suit, and in Sydney the uniform of jacket, buttoned-up shirt and tie is appropriate to about six weeks of the year, not in December. I packed a change of clothes-drill trousers, short-sleeved shirt, gun-concealing poplin jacket-into one bag and my tennis gear into another. Nothing fancy-a mid-size Wilson racquet, ‘Close the 3rd Runway’ T-shirt, shorts and socks, peaked cap, well-worn Adidas cross-trainers, sunblock. Todd baby or the Washington Club could supply the balls.