The Sydney Chevra Kadisha is an ugly, liver brick building squeezed onto a triangular block between Oxford and Wallis Streets in Woollahra. The best thing about it is Centennial Park over the road. The place was built in the 1950s when nobody seemed to have any taste, and its combination of angles and curves simply doesn’t work. Sign of the times, the high-set, long, narrow windows on the Oxford Street side are covered in wire mesh; the windows and doors on the other side are barred.
I parked in Wallis Street and walked up past the big and small houses, all of which would fetch big figures on the real estate market. There were a few people milling about, dark-suited men like me and women wearing hats. I didn’t know any of them and none of them knew me. Most of Cy’s socialising was done professionally or with members of his wife’s family. He was an only child. Fact was, Cy’s wife Naomi didn’t like me. She thought I was a bad influence on Cy because I’d once brought him home drunk. That’s another story.
Gatellari’s sober, maroon Commodore drew up and Claudia got out. She was wearing a pants suit in a deep olive green that looked almost black, with a hat the same colour and matching accessories. She managed to look suitably funereal and coolly elegant at the same time. She surprised me by leaning forward and kissing my cheek. I felt a surge of lust as I touched her arm and bent down to talk to Gatellari through the car window.
‘Anything to report, mate?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing. This is a good gig, Mr Hardy. I don’t mind staying in that house one bit.’
‘Call me Cliff. Enjoy it while you can. Mrs Fleischman might want to go back there after this. I’m not sure. Just stick with her, please.’
The mourners started to move and Claudia and I joined in the flow. There were kippahs and more beards than you’d normally expect, but otherwise it was a standard funeral crowd behaving in the standard way, stamping out cigarettes, trying not to talk too loudly, suppressing coughs, staring at the ground. I saw Leon Stratton a bit ahead of us and caught a glimpse of Miss Mudlark and another woman from Cy’s office. Stratton inclined his head to Claudia and ignored me. I had the inappropriate thought that I was going to have to look elsewhere for a new lawyer.
We trooped into the room where the ceremony was to be conducted and I closed down the way I always did. I knew the casket would be open and that people would file past it and I wanted no part of it. I’d seen him dead already with the blood on him and getting on me and I didn’t need to see him again. I registered almost nothing of the proceedings: a rabbi spoke, then several men I didn’t know. I didn’t listen. It’s always bullshit. Who can speak the truth about a man at such a time? The truth is more likely to be something about his drinking habits, or his sexual fantasies, or his sporting aspirations than any of the rubbish that comes out.
I could see Naomi, in black, rail thin, with grief expressed in every line of her body, and Cy’s son and daughter with their partners and children up near the casket. Shoulders were shaking and I wasn’t far from crying myself. I looked sideways and was amazed to see Claudia totally immersed in the whole thing. She was looking around at the trappings, staring at the people, craning forward to hear what was being said.
I let my mind wander and I found myself thinking of old Paddy White and the way he’d arranged to have himself disposed of-by cremation, and his partner Manoly Lasceris privately to scatter the ashes in Centennial Park across the way. I knew Jews didn’t cremate and that it wasn’t on, but I couldn’t help thinking that the private and personal way was more to the point than the ceremonial style. Such thoughts, of course, tend to circle back and I thought about who might do the job for me-scatter the ashes on Blackwattle Bay. Offhand, I couldn’t think of a candidate.
I was still in a kind of daze when the service ended and Claudia had to grip my arm to get my attention as we filed out.
‘What now?’ she said.
‘Now nothing.’ I realised how harsh my voice sounded and I tried to soften it. ‘They’ll be going out to Rookwood now and then to the house where they huddle for quite a while. Days. It’s not like a wake or anything. I’m not going.’
‘Why not?’
We were out on the street again and people were heading towards their cars. ‘Naomi doesn’t like me. She wouldn’t want me there. And I’ve got things to do.’
She fished for her sunglasses in her bag and put them on against the bright light. ‘That seems a bit insensitive.’
‘It isn’t.’
A woman broke from the pack and approached us. She was about Claudia’s age, a good deal heavier but handsome and forceful.
‘Claudia Rosen,’ she said. ‘I’m Ruth Simon. Goldman now. Remember, from Fort Street?’
‘God, yes. I do remember you. Hello, Ruth. I… Why are you..?’
‘Cy was my cousin. Lovely man. This is all dreadful.’ She let her handbag slip up her arm and put both hands on Claudia’s shoulders. ‘You don’t have to explain anything to me. I’m married to a lawyer. I’m sure you had nothing to do with what happened to your husband.’
‘Thank you, Ruth. This is Cliff Hardy. He was helping Mr Sackville with my defence.’
Mrs Goldman looked me over critically. She knew the suit was an off-the-peg job and that the shirt was from the bargain basement. Her smile and nod were wary. She had nothing to say to me but she gave the impression of wanting to spirit Claudia away for a month or so. It occurred to me that I hadn’t heard Claudia mention any friends apart from the woman with the house at Bluefin Bay. Suddenly, in her smart clothes and expensive sunglasses, she looked lonely. Mrs Goldman was the antidote to that.
‘You’re coming to Rookwood and to the house?’ she said.
Claudia looked at me. ‘No, I… ‘
‘You must! We’ve got so much to talk about. You should meet some of these people. They can help you.’
Claudia flared. ‘How?’
Mrs Goldman backed off a fraction but she was remorseless and a good observer. “These are your people. I’ve got a car here. If Mr. Hardy isn’t going to the cemetery you can come with me.’
‘Well…”
I could tell she wanted to go quite as much as I didn’t want to. ‘I’ll have a word to the driver, Claudia,’ I said quickly, ‘and I’ll be in touch later. Nice to have met you, Mrs Goldman.’
The hearse and two limousines with family members inside emerged from the bowels of the building and set off on Cy’s last trip. I moved away to where Gatellari was stopped with his engine running. ‘She’s going out to Rookwood with that woman she’s with now. Little drive for you, Vinnie. Then they’ll be off to Neutral Bay. Keep as close to her as you can.’
‘Right.’
I watched as Ruth Goldman steered Claudia towards a silver grey Mercedes which pulled smoothly out into the funeral procession. Gatellari let a few more cars go by before he joined in.
One of the calls I had made the day before, when Claudia and I were driving back from the peninsula, had been to Clive Borrow, a friend who was a life member of the White City tennis club. He had no trouble identifying the left-hander named Todd I’d seen at the Washington Club. Todd Rattray, several times a semi-finalist in the club championship, a former policeman, now a security consultant. I spun a tale about needing to get some practice against a double-fisted leftie for a game I had coming up involving serious money. Clive is a gambler and I knew the story would play with him. He gave me Rattray’s mobile number and I had called him, used the same story and Clive’s name, and lined up a game at the Washington Club. Easy. I called myself Warwick Lee, the oldest ploy in the book-my father’s first name and my mother’s maiden name. If he phoned Clive to check on me it wouldn’t matter-Clive knows what a slippery customer I am.