THURSDAY'S ORCHID (6 page)

He had something on his mind, but I couldn’t tell what it was. And
, as he had said, the decision would be up to me. What could I lose? At least he had agreed to the increase to fifteen percent. Maybe I should have tried for twenty, but that might have been pushing my luck too far.

“Well,” I said. “That settles that. But I can tell you right here and now that you’ll be hard pressed to convince me to get too close to the shipment. But, as you say, let’s leave that for later and worry about how we’re going to get this show on the road.”

He smiled, satisfied. I could see that he was relieved to have me with him. He refilled both glasses and we raised them in another toast. Much more of the heavy Greek liqueur and I would be fast asleep in no time at all.

The waterfall playe
d gentle music on the rocks below. The breeze stirred the bamboo clustered at the pool’s edge, rustling the dry leaves. It was an atmosphere of peace and calm, and yet here we were, discussing the biggest shipment of marijuana that I had ever heard of.

Nick glanced up at the sky. “So how are we going to do it?” he said, sipping his drink, rolling the thick liquid around in his mouth. “Just how are we going to conceal fifty tonnes of grass so that it will pass the scrutiny of the customs department?”

I had been thinking about it for the last ten minutes or so, but hadn’t come up with anything constructive. George and I had handled crates of munitions, labeled as
Engineering Supplies
, without any problems. There had been the odd shipload of trucks; but nobody really wants to hijack that sort of shipment, so we hadn’t been concerned about the rest of the bad lads finding out about it. We weren’t too worried about a crew talking, as long as they didn’t talk to the authorities. It had been easy to land on a quiet beach in the middle of the night and then sneak off again.

But you can’t do that with fifty tonnes of grass. You don’t charter a vessel for that sort of cargo. The word would be out before you could finish loading. We couldn’t persuade a legitimate captain to put his boat ashore on some remote coast in the middle of the night. This had to go by the normal sea route, in the normal course of trade.

“Nick, old mate. As I said before, I really don’t know. I’ll have to think on it for a day or so.” He grunted, but said nothing.

It could take a few weeks to puzzle this one out, but I wasn’t going to let him know that. He was anxious
enough as it was. So much for his big-risk big-profit boast. He was worried; there was no doubt about that.

“Anyway,” I asked. “How much time do we have? Is the deal open-ended? Do we have dea
dlines, or what?” Given enough time, research, and cash, just about anything could be achieved.

“They haven’t set any specific dates, but they want delivery in about three months. It should give us plenty of time to work with
.”

That’s what he thought.

“Nick, do you know how long it takes a normal cargo ship to sail from Adelaide to Singapore?” I did a quick calculation in my head. “About three weeks.” He sat up. I thought it would surprise him. “Yes, you had better see about getting an extension on the delivery date. It’s probably going to take you two months just to get the grass together.”

He started to scratch his chin. It was clear that he hadn’t thought it through at all. I should have hit him for that extra five percent. I was going to be worth it.

“Hmm,” he replied. “You could be right. I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime I’ll start giving instructions to my people to buy in as much grass as they can locally without starting a run on the market. Once the growers realise there’s a big buy going on, the prices will start to rise like hell.”

This was where Nick was at his vest. He knew how to deal with the growers and the middle-men. They were in awe of him and respected his word, and once they had committed a crop to him there would be no backing out.

“Can you get it all together in that period of time?” I asked. “Two months?”

He thought for a few seconds before replying. “I could if I knew we had the scheme all worked out. It would make things a whole lot easier
. But I don’t want to fully commit myself to the New Guinea people until I know we can handle it.”

He was trying to push me again.

“Point taken, Nick. I’ll see what I can do. But in the meantime, try and get Singapore to agree to an extension of at least a month. Tell them it’s not really the right time to harvest the stuff, or some such crap.” I stood up. We had gone as far as we could for the moment. I stretched, yawned, and turned to him. “Let’s leave it for now. We’ll get together in a couple of days and see how much further we can take it. I should have some of the details worked out by then, and you should have an answer back from Singapore.”

We arranged to meet at Nick’s for dinner on the following Tuesday night, unless I came up with something definite in the meantime; which I doubted. I was beginning to wish that George was still with us.
He had been better at this than me.

Twenty-four hours previously I had been wondering how I was going to get back into the business. It’s strange how things turn out.

Nick and I had an agreement that was going to make me a great deal of money. I prefer doing things outside the law. There are no contracts to be drawn up, and no lawyers going over the fine print, arguing back and forth for weeks on end. As far as I’m concerned, a handshake or a nod of the head is more than sufficient; and a lot less expensive.

So I was no longer a rich, indolent playboy. I was gainfully employed again. Well, in a manner of speaking that is. At least I had my teeth into something, something that was going to keep me busy. I felt happier than I had for a long time. There was a sense of satisfaction in knowing I could still be useful.

It was still early
in the afternoon. I had time for a few hours’ sleep and then a visit to one or two of the nightclubs in the city. There were a couple where you could have a few laughs, and, after all, I did have something to celebrate; even if I couldn’t let the whole world know about it.

I had been to this one particular club once before, but quite a few years previously. The service had been on the slow side as far as I could recall, but the drinks had been first class; and the band quiet and easy to listen to. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s blaring music that takes over the whole place, killing conversation and destroying what should be a relaxed atmosphere.

It was a place frequented by divorcees; and by the wives of men in the forces and of businessmen too busy to come home; and by the higher echelon of secretaries. There was also a fair sprinkling of business women – those devourers of men and power.

The divorcees and the businesswomen were the ones to steer well clear of. The first only wanted a shoulder to cry upon and tell you how badly they had been treated; the second were ball-tearers.

The club was not as busy as the last time I had been there. Maybe I had been better pr
imed then. We had been with a crowd, a rowdy mob; which had probably made a difference.

I found a quiet booth, not too far from the bar and with a good view of the dance floor. The service hadn’t improved over the years, but a good tip on the first drink soon cured that. The ligh
ting was dim, like most of such places the world over, but it was more of a help than a hindrance. At least you could search out the talent without appearing too obvious.

I tried my line with a couple of y
oung secretaries, and didn’t do any good. I sat and nursed another two vodkas and stared around the room. It was beginning to look as though I might be in for a long night.

And then I spotted her: blond, small, a pleasant face with a cute pointed nose – and even pointier breasts. I watched her dance with different partners a couple of times, swinging her long hair to the sound of the music, swaying her body in a secretive, provocative way.

It was time for the champagne.

She was sharing the table with a girlfriend, a brunette, head and shoulders taller; definitely not my type. I prefer my women small and cuddly
. Some other guy was trying to get off with the friend and having a reasonable amount of success. It was up to me to cut down the crowd for him.

I ordered a bottle of the best champagne I could find on the wine list, and two glasses; and had the waiter deliver it to their table with my business-card, together with an invitation for the blond to join me. It works every time. Well, nearly every time. But it usually does when the card is engraved and simply states my occupation as
Banker
, with a Swiss address.

She left the girlfriend with her new-found companion and walked slowly across, the opened bottle in one hand and the two glasses in the other.

Gerry Brady was on the loose and married, which was a decided advantage as far as I was concerned. The married ones usually go back to their husbands and don’t keep bugging you about broken promises. Gerry’s husband was away on another of his regular business trips. She was certain that he had taken his secretary with him again, and if it was good enough for husband Rob, then it was good enough for her.

We got back to the hotel just after midnight. Gerry was going to teach her husband a thing or two
; intent on enjoying herself even if she hated herself in the morning. She cuddled up to me the whole way back in the cab, not saying much. Come to think of it, I had done most of the talking. Even at the club she hadn’t had much to say – quiet, demure. I didn’t think she had done this sort of thing before. The schoolgirl blush creeping over her face as I threw back the bed-covers was not totally unexpected. She reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t think who it was.

When you get most women this far they’re usually no problem at all. But not so with Gerry. She had to be petted and stroked and coaxed, and convinced that she was doing the right thing as far as she was concerned. But once the clothes had been reluctantly removed and the blankets were over us, it was a different Gerry entirely. She was ravenous, a firebrand – as hot as they come, demanding, tireless, insatiable. No wonder her husband had taken off for a break.

Who the hell did she remind me of? It was there at the back of my mind, teasingly close. That blush and then the frantic effort. I tried to go back over the girls I had known during the past few years, but it wasn’t easy to concentrate with sharp nails digging into my back.

There had been many women over the years. I’ve usually got a good memory for faces; but
I couldn’t pick it. I shook my head and got on with the business in hand. And that’s where my business was at the moment: clasped in her soft hand. But it did worry me. Not the urgent squeezing, but the memory of times gone by trying to edge around into my thoughts.

By now we had got into the rhythm of things
. She might have been petite, but there was power in those thighs, and their gyroscopic action was closing in on me.

My mind drifted back to the old days. Not to the days with George
; nor to the days on the island resort where I had been pinning the tourist tail. I had drifted much further back; back to the days of my first real burst of good, solid sex; of sex without recrimination, without pretended shame; back to the days in the bush, back to my days as a rouseabout on a sheep station, fifty kilometres out of Swan Hill – in the dry northern part of Victoria.

And then I had it. Susie! Sweet Susie Stephens: the cutest, coyest nymphomaniac you could ever hope to meet. Gerry was the spitting – probably
biting
would be more appropriate – image of sweet Susie. She was maybe a few centimetres taller, but the rest matched up fairly well.

God, but we’d had fun with Susie! Always willing, and she loved every minute of it. Dave Stephens, her father, was the owner of the sheep station. Dave was a real rough diamond, but religiously straight-laced. She was his golden-haired little girl, and it wasn’t until he found her in bed with the one of the shearers and the cook – both at the same time – that he had any idea of what his angel had been up to. The pair left the place so fast their legs didn’t touch the ground. Susie was sent off to convent boarding-school the next day. I never saw her again, but I had thought about her for years afterwards.

The last time I had bounced around with Susie had been on that previous afternoon, just before Dave had caught her with the lads. I shook for weeks afterwards, for it could have been me that was given the bullet. As it was, most of the men had their faces to the ground every time they passed poor Dave. There was no sniggering behind his back though. He was bigger than any two of them put together.

Susie had been good fun. I could see her as though it were yesterday. We had just finished baling the
last of the day’s wool-clip. She was hiding behind a mound of bales, trying to entice me to give up the baling and get down to the balling. She was giving me the come-on; dress hitched high showing the frilly knickers, and shirt buttons undone to the waist; two tiny red nipples hiding tantalizingly behind the edge of rough material.

I lay on the bed, hearing the hum of the hotel air-conditioner in the distance, my head nest
led into the pillow, Gerry’s long hair tickling my nose, and couldn’t help the smile creeping across my face at the thought of Susie, at the memory of that hollow feeling growing deep in the pit of my stomach as she gave me that coy smile, jerking her head towards the empty space behind the stack of bales.