Saving Billie (3 page)

‘Ever hear of Eddie Flannery?'

‘Of course. Private investigator, or was until he got delicensed.'

‘Right. He worked for Clement as a bagman, fixer, minder. Got himself killed a few months back. Took a tumble down the McElhone steps at the Cross. I reckon Clement had it done because Flannery was blackmailing him.'

‘Any proof?'

‘I had it, sort of, but I lost it. I got on to Flannery's de facto wife, Billie Marchant. She told me she knew about some of the things Eddie had done for Clement and that she had proof Clement had Eddie killed. She was going to tell me more but she got scared and took off. That's where you come in, Mr Hardy.'

‘Cliff.'

She nodded. ‘I want you to find Billie Marchant so I can talk to her again. I
need
to know that inside stuff about Clement's business.'

I sat back and thought it over. I'd known Eddie slightly back in the days when there were more independent PEAs than now. Most work for corporations these days and spend their time on keyboards. Like me, Eddie was ex-army and one of the old school, from the time when surveillance was done personally rather than by programmed cameras, people carried cash that needed protecting, and car insurance scams were all the go. Unlike me, he was as crooked as they come, and after several warnings he lost his licence. I hadn't heard anything of him recently and didn't know that he was dead.

‘If Clement's as ruthless as you say, he might've got to Billie as well.'

‘I don't think so. When I talked to her she implied there was someone else inside Clement's organisation that had it in for him and was tipping her off. I think that person told her to lay low.'

‘Any idea who that could be?'

‘No. I'm working on it.'

‘She could be anywhere—England, the US, South Africa, the Philippines . . .'

Lou dug in her bag and came up with a packet of Nicorettes. She released one and popped it in. ‘I quit when I started on this book. Knew if I didn't, I'd smoke myself to death in the process.'

‘Good move.'

She got the gum going. ‘No, Billie wouldn't leave Sydney. Couldn't. Born and bred here and she's done everything low-life Sydney you can think of—stripped, whored, used and sold drugs, done time, informed—you name it. And I know something about her no one else much knows.'

‘Which is?'

‘Are you willing to take it on?'

‘It's expensive, Lou, and there's no guarantee of success.'

‘Look—' she leaned forward—‘I know that. I got a decent advance for this book and I can afford to pay you. At least for a while.'

‘What if you have to cough up to Billie?'

She knew she had me and she smiled. ‘I'd negotiate with the publisher. C'mon, Cliff. Like you said, you haven't got anything much else going on. I don't hear feet on the stairs. The phone hasn't rung. I bet you haven't got a whole bunch of exciting emails to answer.'

I got a contract form out of a desk drawer and slid it across. ‘I'm in.'

‘Good. You'll be deductible, too.'

‘How's that?'

‘Everything a writer does is deductible. If you play golf and write about it, you can deduct your membership fees.'

‘What if you play poker, bet on the horses and write about that. Can you deduct your losses?'

‘That might be iffy. Where do I sign?'

I had her work and mobile phone numbers and email address on her card. I gave her my card with the same information and my address in Glebe. She gave me her street address and wrote me a cheque. I took notes on her investigation so far—Billie's last known address, her car registration, description when last seen and habits. Billie smoked as though the world was about to be hit by a tobacco famine, drank as if prohibition was coming back, and was known to take every mind-altering drug in the pharmacopoeia.

‘Given that,' I said, ‘she could be dead.'

‘No way. Tough as an old boot. Forty if she's a day and, like I said, doesn't look anything like it with a bit of makeup and the light in the right place. And, to repeat myself now that you're really listening, there's something else I know about her that I suspect not many do and you should.'

‘She bungy jumps?'

‘I hope you're taking this seriously, Cliff.'

‘My way of taking things seriously is not to take them too seriously until I have to.'

She thought that over, chewing hard, and nodded. ‘Okay. Billie's got a child. A son.'

‘Eddie's?'

‘I doubt it. From what I hear and from photos, Eddie resembled a chook.'

That was true. Eddie was sharp-featured with a noticeably small head.

‘This child—teenager by now, I guess—was on the way to being well built and good looking.'

‘Billie's genes.'

‘And black.'

Lou told me she'd got into a drinking session with Billie and that Billie had passed out. Lou snooped and found the photo—taped to the back of the middle drawer in a dresser—of the child standing beside Billie. The photo was faded and had been much handled. The boy appeared to be somewhere in the eight to ten age range and from Billie's clothes she guessed the picture to be a few years old.

‘You pulled out all the dresser drawers?'

‘Bugger you. This one was loose—it came free.'

‘Have you got the photo?'

‘No, it . . . it seemed so personal. I re-stuck it.'

‘Background?'

She shrugged. ‘Nothing identifiable to me.'

‘Nothing scrawled on the back? Like, “Me and Jason, Bondi, 1998”?'

She looked at me as though she'd like to tear up the cheque. ‘You don't believe me?'

‘I'm wondering how you out-drank a hard doer the way you say Billie is.'

‘Let me tell you something about myself, Mr Hardy.

I've knocked around small time and country newspapers for twenty years. I'm thirty-eight with two failed marriages. I've survived cervical cancer and I've got a mortgage I struggle to pay. This is my shot and I'm giving it everything I've got. I out-drank Billie Marchant because I had to.'

‘Okay. Sorry.'

‘For your information, there was something on the back of the photo. It was scribble, but it looked like B and S.'

‘Eddie's middle name was Stanley.'

‘I didn't know that.'

‘There you go. We're a team. Neither of us knows everything.'

She stopped chewing long enough to smile and the rough moment passed. We talked it over for a while. She was going to carry on her research in the financial Sargasso Sea of Clement's business dealings and I'd tap some sources in the PEA game, the cops, the crims, the prison system, hunting for Billie.

‘I wonder who she was hiding the photo of the boy from?' I said.

‘Maybe Eddie. Maybe Clement. But it means he was important to her, that's for sure. Billie doesn't take any trouble over routine things. Find him and you might find her. From the look on her face in the photo she wouldn't want to let him go, so I don't think she's in Manila.'

‘Where did you meet her?'

‘A flat in Liston, out past Campbelltown in case you don't know. The address I gave you. It wasn't hers. I went back and asked about her but the people there were new and not welcoming.'

‘The photo could still be there. For safekeeping.'

Lou shrugged. ‘More likely she took it. But you could try.'

We shook hands and left it at that. Looking for people is more interesting than serving summonses, repossessing cars and bodyguarding suits. I was glad I'd saved Lou Kramer from the clutches of Rhys Thomas.

Financially, my head was above water but not by much. The rates, phone and power bills, and insurance costs came in regularly and my income was sporadic. Still, I was a volunteer. I'd had plenty of opportunities to work for the big investigative agencies, mostly American based, and always turned them down. It wasn't the suit-wearing and the possibility that they'd be tied in to Hallburton or the FBI, although those things counted, it was the freedom to say no that I valued most. No to the political apparatchiks sniffing for dirt, no to the welfare zealots looking to entrap their ‘clients'.

3

B
ack when I was giving lectures at Petersham TAFE in the PEA course, I told the students my first rule was: check out your client. Although I was impressed by Lou Kramer and believed her, I still followed the rule. Harry Tickener, who worked on and edited and was fired from a variety of newspapers, now runs a web-based newsletter entitled Searchlight Dot Com. His office is in Leichhardt near the Redgum Gym where I go for workouts most days. I rang Harry and told him I'd be visiting.

I went to the gym and put in a solid treadmill, free weights and machine session. The Redgum is a serious place. As Wesley Scott, the proprietor and chief trainer once said, ‘This isn't a lycra gym.' Many of the members are athletes— swimmers, footballers, cricketers and basketball players—and some of us older types are ex-cops, ex-army, ex-something or other, trying to stave off the effects of age and stay flexible and strong. It works, according to the amount of time you spend at it. I'm somewhere in the middle range—the despair of the true believers who go there five or six times a week and really sweat, respected by the slackers, who attend irregularly and struggle to lift what they lifted last week.

I turned up at Harry's door a little after eleven with two large takeaway flat whites from the Bar Napoli.

Harry has stripped staff back to himself and two others and he was alone in the office when I arrived. Bald as an egg, homely and cheerful, Harry wears sneakers even with suits because he has foot trouble. Today he was in jeans and a T-shirt with his Nikes on the desk in front of him.

He mimed lifting a weight, ridiculous with his pipestem arms. ‘Good gym?'

I clenched a fist. ‘Bracing. You should try it.'

‘My dad lifted a coal pick about half a million times before silicosis got him. I'm against physical work. Who was it said the best thing about being working class is that it gives you something to get out of?'

‘I think it might've been Neville Wran, but your father was a funeral director.'

‘So, he lifted coffins. Same thing applies. Let's have that coffee. No cake? Oh, no, you're too figure conscious these days.'

I took the lids off the coffees and handed him his, several packets of sugar and a plastic stirrer. ‘I don't eat anything until the evening meal most days and then as little as I can. Gym in the morning; long walk in the afternoon or evening. Lost ten kilos. I break out from time to time, but that's the routine.'

Harry shuddered. ‘Spare me. What about the grog?'

‘Don't want to waste away. I take in a few calories there. Of course, as we now know, red wine's good for everything that ails you.'

I perched on the edge of his big desk; Harry poured three packets of sugar into his coffee, stirred vigorously and took an appreciative sip.

‘I've got three names, Harry. Be grateful for your input on all or any.'

‘What's in it for me?'

‘A subscription to your newsletter.'

‘You already subscribe.'

‘A renewal—three year.'

‘Shoot.'

‘Louise Kramer. Jonas Clement. Rhys Thomas.'

‘The first is doing a book on the second who employs the third.'

‘Shit, Harry, I know that. I mean—'

‘I know what you mean. Okay, Clement's a bit of a mystery man. Came from nowhere. I've got a suspicion it's not his original name, shall we say. At a guess, I'd bet on him being a South African or from somewhere close, like Zimbabwe.'

‘Thought I twigged to an accent.'

‘Right. I don't really know much about him. Bloody rich, political connections. Conservative of course.'

‘Reactionary, I'd say.'

Harry grunted. ‘Kramer's a bit of a handful. She wrote for me when I was running
The Clarion
and she still does bits and pieces for me. She's been around. She can research and write but tends to piss people off. Word is she got a big advance for the book. There's a story in Clement if she can suss it out. She's your client, right?'

‘Yes.'

‘You're doing what?'

‘Looking into things for her.'

‘C'mon.'

‘Harry, you know I can't tell you, especially as she's writing a book. Tell you what, if she gets it done I'll try to persuade her to let you run extracts for free.'

‘Her publishers'd have something to say about that, but I take the point. Now Thomas is a bad bastard. He's been banned from the racing industry for life, not allowed to look at a horse. Tough nut, but he isn't dumb.'

‘I've already run up against him. He had a grip on Kramer that was likely to bruise the bone. I had to . . . cause him to stop.'

‘Bad enemy to make. When was this?'

‘Last night, at a Clement fund-raising party.'

‘Oh, yeah, I heard about it. Absolutely no press present, meaning lots of publicity because the press speculates about who was there and who wasn't. Clement knows how to play it. Doesn't sound like your sort of gig, though.'

‘I was filling in for someone.'

‘How'd Lou get in?'

I shrugged.

‘She's a tricky one, Cliff. Watch yourself.'

‘Meaning?'

‘I dunno. Her stuff was always good but I wasn't completely sure she got her info . . . ethically. Sailed close to the wind with her a few times—quotes ever so slightly doctored, questions about what was on and off the record. That kind of thing.'

We finished the coffee and the cups went into the bin. I asked Harry about Billie Marchant, mentioning that she'd been interviewed by Lou Kramer in Liston, and Eddie. He'd never heard of her and all he knew about Eddie was that he'd cashed in. ‘No great loss,' he said. ‘What d'you know about Liston, Cliff?'