THURSDAY'S ORCHID (4 page)

I awoke exhausted the next day, trying to be cheerful, trying to cheer him up
. It was Thursday, Peggy’s day.

We left the apartment just after ten o’clock on our weekly pilgrimage to Peggy’s grave, the only time he seemed to show any sign of
an interest outside the apartment, the only day of the week he would bother to shower and shave. I locked the front door and, as I turned and jerked the key from the lock, my elbow caught George in the back. He stumbled forward towards the stair rail, hands caught deep in his trouser pockets. His waist hit the rail and, as if in slow motion, he tilted over the painted steel bar, shoes starting to slide up off the concrete.

I watched as he rocked forward, his face staring towards the hard concrete basement lying four stories below, balancing on the top of the rail, arching his back as his hands
started to fight their way out of his pockets, his head turning, giving one questioning glance as I stood unmoving, undecided, and yet knowing that if I stepped forward and reached out and grabbed him by the jacket I could probably pull him back. But in that one split second my subconscious mind had made its decision.

He never made a sound the whole way down. I listened, counting the seconds as he fell, and waiting for the cry that never came.

I don’t think he felt any pain as he hit the bottom. A four-storey drop to solid concrete is sudden. The brain has no time to register the nerve end’s piercing scream.

There was no inquest. I told the police how I had seen him
go out the door with tears in his eyes, and how I had heard his scream of
Peggy!
as he went over the rail.

The neighbours had noticed his deterioration and how withdrawn he had become. They were all very sorry. He had been popular, they said, always friendly. He had even told one of the
m that he was getting his affairs in order, preparing to square things for Peggy.

The tapes were easy to erase, but even so I still burnt them along with his papers and notes. They had made interesting reading. He had got up to some odd stunts in the old days.

The authorities were convinced he had taken the so-called
easy way out
. Or, to put it another way, they didn’t really care and were probably only too pleased to close the file they must have had on him.

George had made a will, mainly in favour of Peggy, with a proviso for me to take if she should predecease him. There weren’t many assets
actually in his name, but it still took the lawyers over a year to sort the whole thing out and to have those assets transferred to me.

The rest of it was in assumed names, in accounts for which we could both sign. There were deposits of cash, diamonds
, and a small amount of bullion – all in various safety-deposit boxes spread around the world. And our Swiss account was still in a healthy position.

There was no need to get embroiled in the sorts of deals we had been accustomed to. I intended to indulge myself for a while. I remembered what George had said about all that money not being sufficient to buy Peggy’s health. The time to spend was whilst I was still young enough to enjoy it.

I lived the carefree life of a playboy for the next two years, with plenty of fast cars and even faster women. There were chartered yachts, deluxe suites, fine wines, and jewellery for my ladies – the best of everything. I went skiing in Switzerland during the season, and cruising on the Mediterranean. The casinos in Monte Carlo and Macau received more than they gave, but what the hell.

It’s amazing how much money you can burn trying to keep up with the jet-set. I don’t know how much I spent. I didn’t really want to know, for I knew it would frighten me. But none of it was wasted – an investment in the good life. At the end of those two years I was no longer rich. I wasn’t exactly broke; there was still about three hundred thousand locked away in various accounts, together with the bullion. But the bullion was my escape money, untraceable and convertible in any country in the world. I didn’t want to have to dip into that.

And then I met Nick again.

Nick.

I hadn’t given him a conscious thought for two or three years, and he had no bearing on my leaving Europe. Maybe fate had a hand, maybe not. I have never been certain whether there is a preordained destiny for us all.

It was just that it was time to return to Australia and get the feel of a regular life once more, time to seek out old friends and acquaintances, time to find out what was happening, what deals were being set up. It was time to get amongst the action again, time to stir up the brain cells. I had grown fat and lazy, and bored.

Given time I might have thought of Nick, but he happened anyway.

For some obscure reason I chose to make Adelaide my point of entry
into Australia. I could keep a low profile in South Australia, and quietly settle myself back into the routine of things. It would give me a chance to keep away from the rich living I would fall into if I went back to Queensland.

I had always been one for the races, at l
east ever since George introduced me to the horses, so what more natural thing for me to do on my first day in the city of gardens, a city nestled between the hills and the sea, than to attend a race meeting.

Adelaide’s Victoria Park track is nowhere near as famous as Melbourne’s Flemington, or Sydney’s Randwick; but on a crisp sunny Saturday afternoon – with the bunting flying, the ladies decked out in their finery and the crowds straining on their toes as the horses surge to the post – fame is of little consequence. The excitement at Victoria Park is just the same, the roar of the crowd just as loud, and the smiles of the bookies probably even wider.

An Australian race-track has no comparison anywhere. It’s friendly. There’s not the sophistication that exists at the English courses. But there’s more greenery and more fashionable women than you will find on any track in America. And as for the Continent, well I’ll say no more.

I was enjoying myself. It was good to be back.

The meeting was all but concluded, with only one more race to be run. I had backed one winner and several losers, which was about my usual pattern. Professional punters study the horses, jockeys, form and courses. Me, I just pick whatever takes my fancy. I always felt that studying the whole thing makes it far too serious and takes all the fun out of winning; even though it might cut down on some of the losses. But it’s the feeling of not being sure, the surge of hope and excitement as the horses burst out of the starting gate and head for the first turn that is the thrill of racing; not the balance sheet at the end of the day.

I had been standing by the rail at the mounting paddock for no more than two minutes, waiting for the horses to prance in, heads tossing as each tried to drag the reins from the handler’s grip, when suddenly I had the feeling that someone was looking at me. It’s that sensation you get between the shoulder blades, high up in the small of your back. They say that’s it’s something
we inherited from our prehistoric ancestors. Maybe it is, and then again, maybe not. But it always worries me.

I searched for those staring eyes for twenty long seconds. And then I found them high up in the Member’s stand. Nick.

Tony Nikolides – known to his friends as
Nick
– a second-generation Greek. Nick ran a number of restaurants, some specialty boutiques, and a couple of fruit and vegetable shops, originally started by his father – one of the early market gardeners in South Australia.

As far as the public was concerned it was the various businesses that made Nick’s money. Very few people knew that he was one of the more accomplished drug-dealers in South Australia, if not the whole country. The businesses were
now only a front, an explanation for his wealth. The proceeds of some of his drug deals were laundered through the businesses, but only as much as was needed to support his way of life. I didn’t know where the rest of it went, maybe the Bahamas, or Austria. I wasn’t really interested.

But he wasn’t into the heavy drugs, such as heroin, or crack; his dealings were mainly with cannabis, or
marijuana
as it’s commonly called. Those in the trade refer to it as
grass
.

Nick was cautious – maybe too cautious.
He kept a small, tight operation; making enough money to keep himself and his family in the manner that he considered a man of his breeding should enjoy; and proud of his Greek heritage. Being satisfied to just make enough, he let others handle the heavier side of the industry, letting them take the risks, and the condemnation.

But that’s not to say he was soft. Far from it. I had heard more than enough to know that I should treat Nick with respect.

And there he stood, decked out in a three-piece suit, club tie, binoculars strung around his neck and what I took to be one of his daughters clutching his left arm. She had to be his daughter, for he wasn’t the sort to be caught in public with someone other than his wife.

I hadn’t seen him for perhaps
four years, but he hadn’t changed much: maybe a bit thicker about the cheeks, and with some grey creeping into his sideburns. The smile built up across his face when he saw I had picked him out, and then he beckoned me up; giving the nod to the gate-attendant as I approached. The greeting was effusive and genuine, his handshake firm.

I complimented him on his daughter and how it was lucky she took after his wife, and not the other side of the family. She was a pretty girl: long black hair, now piled atop her head: dark eyelashes and blazing eyes. Nick was going to have trouble with that one – but not from me. I knew the power behind that deceptive face, the protection he gave to his own.

Four years had put a little weight about his middle, but some tailor had worked wonders. I put his age in the mid to late fifties, a few years younger than George had been. But a different person to George; friendly, but not effusive; and fonder of quiet dinners than cocktail parties.

We had originally met over a deal involving a shipment of marijuana that an east coast buyer had engaged George and I to obtain for him on a commission basis. The buyer had a quantity of counterfeit notes – good quality; and had suggested that maybe we could palm some off on to Nick, for a percentage of the profit of course. George and I both knew what would happen if we got caught out on the deal.
Not only would we be in fear of our lives for a good time to come, but our bona-fides would be shot to ribbons.

We had agreed to the scheme and then gone straight to Nick with it, only to discover that he already knew about the ring-in. I still don’t know how he found out. Nick dealt with the matter
as we expected he would, but let the buyer off lightly to my way of thinking. He took the funny-money, raised the price by one hundred percent and then calmly told the buyer that in future he would be eating spaghetti with his left hand. And that’s exactly how it turned out. It utterly destroyed the guy. He became an alcoholic and died a couple of years later. It was a good lesson to the few who thought they could put one over on Nick, and it taught me a thing or two.

“Well, Jeff,” he said, letting go of my hand. “It’s been a long time.”

“Yes,” I replied. “It’s been quite a while. It seems even longer with George gone.”

The smile left his face. “I was sorry to hear about George,” he said quietly. “We all miss him.”

“Not as much as I miss him,” I answered. “George was more than a partner to me: he was a friend, the father I never really knew. Still, I think in a way it was best it happened when it did. He was going downhill fast. If he hadn’t jumped, he probably would’ve died of a broken heart.” I lowered my eyes to the ground, hoping he wouldn’t see the hypocrisy. “Yes, it was best it happened when it did.”

Best for me, that is.

He stood and looked suitably sorrowful for a minute or so. His daughter smiled politely, not really following the conversation, her eyes shifting from me to the horses and then back again. He introduced us and she held on to my hand for a fraction longer than she should have.

Sophie. It was a name that suited her. Soft and European; sophistication and yet a hint of something hidden; a fire that might burst forth.

Nick and I chatted on about old times, people we knew and what they were up to, the races, and nothing in particular. He had acquired several more blocks of apartments since we had last met and seemed to be doing well. Sophie half listened for a while then smiled and moved off down towards the crowd by the rail. Once she had left, Nick dropped a couple of hints suggesting he was thinking of moving into the international side of the business. His words caught me by surprise. It wasn’t just the fact that he was thinking about expanding into the overseas market – he had always been low-key and local – but the fact that he was talking to me about it. He was usually close-mouthed about everything.

I mentioned that I thought he was set for life and didn’t need any more problems.

“Well, yes,” he replied, running fingers up and down the strap of the binoculars’ case. “I’ve got enough here in Adelaide. There’s the house, five blocks of apartments, the boat, and the farm up in the hills. All strictly legitimate.” The word brought a smile to his lips. “There’s also the restaurants and the retail outlets, but without being fed they’d lose money.”