The Washington Club (23 page)

‘The fuck I'm not. A faggot and a junkie pimp, how long can they last?'

He was talking, enjoying the sound of his voice, but also expanding time. I knew why—not many people can kill with ease. I let my eyes wander around the room and my voice shake a little. ‘What about Todd?'

‘Todd's solid. You're right to look around. This is the last fucking room you're going to see.'

‘You won't shoot me here.'

‘No?'

I looked to my left and saw Rattray fitting a silencer to his pistol. He fumbled. It was the only chance I was ever going to get. I leaned away, brought the revolver around my body and fired three times at Rattray. I got him in the stomach with the first shot and in the chest with the second. The third might have missed but I didn't care. He got off one popping round before he went down but it went nowhere near me. I jumped forward and to the
right as Katz shouted and fired. The bullet pinged off the metal locker and shattered tiles. I fired wildly. The shots and ricochets echoed and shrieked in the confined space. Tile fragments hit both of us in the face and Katz fell, dropping his gun.

I was breathing heavily, crouched, only two metres from him as he writhed on the floor, scrabbling for his gun. Blood was dripping from his cheek but it was running from his forehead into his eyes and he was effectively blind. He couldn't locate the gun and he crawled away towards the wall, holding up his hands like a beggar. He wore a blue blazer and cream silk shirt. The pockets of the shirt had his initials on them, white-embossed. His Washington Club tie was loosened at the neck and askew. I seemed to relive the whole thing as he crawled away and reached the wall, propped himself up against it, tried to wipe the blood from his eyes.

Fleischman, the Rosens, Claudia, murderous Haitch Henderson, nasty Noel, perverted Van Kep, macho Rattray. And Cy, my dear, dear friend.

He wiped blood away, saw me. ‘Hardy, like you said, we can talk. I've got more money than you ever heard of.'

He was three metres away now. I straightened up and moved a little closer. Not too close.

‘I wouldn't have done anything to Claudia,
I promise you. Nothing! Nothing, Hardy! Please, please.'

I didn't hear what he was saying, not really. I heard the earlier words.
The legal system in this country's fucked.
And the laugh.

I was exhausted, physically, mentally and morally spent. I raised the gun, sighted carefully, and shot him just below the pocket, on the left side, through the heart.

The noise of the shots was still bouncing off the tiled walls as I shoved Klaus Rosen's journal inside my tennis racquet cover and zipped it shut. As the reverberations died I heard shouts in the corridor, then fists banging on the door. I pulled it open and stood there with blood dripping from my face and a pistol in my hand. A swimmer, a squash player and Mrs Kent stood gaping at me.

‘Anyone got a mobile phone?' I said.

The shit that hit the fan that day dripped for months and is still dripping. The uniformed cops arrived, then the ambulances and then the detectives. I told them as much as I needed to and they took me away to have some stitches put in my cheek and then to Darlinghurst to tell them a whole lot more. I gave it almost all to them—Fleischman, Katz, Rattray, Van Kep. And I told them how and why I'd killed Haitch Henderson. I kept Frank Parker out of it and I didn't say anything about the Rosen journal. Nobody bothered to look
inside my tennis racquet cover. Why should they? They had the revolver, two other pistols and a rifle, plus ammunition—who needed a notebook written in Yiddish?

They found no fingerprints on the rifle itself but they did find a couple of Henderson's latents on a spare magazine and a silencer. The rifle and the bullets that killed Fleischman and Cy Sackville matched up, so my story got a certain amount of confirmation. I handed over the blast grenade bits and pieces, which convinced them it was Haitch who'd tried to blow my legs off. I showed them where I'd dropped the Colt in the Cooks River. They dragged for it, didn't find it. Still, and despite Frank Parker's best efforts, this cooperation wasn't enough to prevent me from being charged with a range of crimes—manslaughter of Haitch Henderson, abduction of his son, withholding and destruction of evidence. The more gung-ho cops wanted to charge me for Rattray and Katz but the ballistic evidence was all against them.

I got a solicitor—Viv Garner who'd done his articles under Neville Wran. I thought he'd know a few tricks and he did. He had an office in Balmain near the London Hotel and we had quite a few sessions there on the balcony along with Senor Corona, Herr Heineken and Mr Guinness. The upshot was that I lost my PEA licence—no surprise. The manslaughter charge was dropped and I was convicted for illegal restraint and on the charges relating to
destroying evidence of crimes. I was sentenced to a fine of five thousand dollars and three months'
 gaol. Viv wanted to appeal but I talked him out of it. Frank had guaranteed me minimum security in Berrima where there was a tennis court and a decent library.

‘Three months tennis with no grog,' Frank said after they'd taken me down and given him a few private moments with an old mate. ‘Make a new man of you.'

It was somewhere between easy time and hard time, more hard than easy. In good weather I was on garden duty, cutting grass with an ancient mower and weeding without gloves or a hat. The food was boring and the company was mostly the same, relieved by an occasional obsessive—a computer nut, a flat-earther. I missed my daily alcohol ration but I lost weight. That was the only benefit. When it rained I did some interior stripping and painting and suffered allergic reactions so that they took me off it. There was too much cell time, too many inspections, too many minor assaults on your dignity. I tried to cope by reading. I got halfway through
Poor
Fellow
My Country,
further than ever before, until I surrendered.

Viv Garner's visits helped to break the monotony and kept me in touch with the loose strings. The auditors got to work on the Fleischman finance records but they ran into brick walls at every turn. Katz had spirited the assets away somewhere and creditors were
hurting, but the funds had disappeared like Lord Lucan.

Van Kep admitted his perjury and went to prison for it. He was glad to be out from under the Henderson threat and to keep his secret safe from his old mum. As a result, the charges against Claudia were dropped and she stood to inherit a chunk of whatever of her husband's assets remained visible and protected from the corporate failure. Not much. Judith Daniels' share wouldn't keep her in gin for long. The lawyers paid me a handsome fee, a lot of which went in the fine. It caused me pain that Cy's name, but not his signature, was on the cheque.

I spent some time with Claudia before going to Berrima but the relationship had no future. She had fallen under the influence of Ruth Goldman and was taking religious instruction from her rabbi with a view to playing an active part in Jewish community affairs. The last time we met we almost literally could not think of anything to say to each other. I felt angry and ill-used but I still burned her father's journal.

After I got out I made enquiries about the restitution of my PEA licence. I was told it was possible but there were many hurdles to jump and hoops to go through. I put Viv Garner on the case and so far progress is slow. I spent some of what remained of the fee on repairs to the house but when one thing led inevitably to another and then on to yet more scraping
and restoring, I called a halt. Most of the walls stayed dry through a March wet spell—a big improvement. I collected the NRMA insurance money and one of my major concerns right now is finding another Falcon.