The Greenwich Apartments (7 page)

I put a card on a table by the door. ‘Ring me if you
think of anything. Wait a minute. You said she moved lightly, like a dancer?'

‘ 's right.'

‘What about the bag? It must have been heavy.'

‘Bag? What bag? She didn't have a bag.'

I drove past the Champagne Cabaret on the way home but I didn't stop. You don't go into those sorts of places at six in the evening looking for the boss. You go in at midnight and you make sure you're sober because the odds are nobody else around will be, and that gives you an edge. You take a gun with you too, if you have one, and some backup, also sober if possible.

I got home about an hour after I said I would. Helen was sitting in a chair reading
Democracy
by Joan Didion and drinking whisky by Johnny Walker.

‘Hi,' she said. She held up her glass. ‘Join me?'

I stood behind her chair and looked at the book. It was creased and battered as if it had been in and out of her bag or pocket many times. I judged that she'd put in a day of sitting around and waiting. I touched the top of her head, smoothed down her hair. ‘No, think I'll have some wine.'

‘Ah, you're going out again later.'

‘I'm supposed to be the detective.' I went through to the kitchen and got the drink. I still had the cassette and the envelope in my hand. Helen pointed.

‘Are we watching a movie tonight?'

‘This was made by the girl who got killed. I want to see it. Tell me about the flat-hunting.' I sat down opposite her and pulled the chair closer so that our knees touched.

‘Crummy dumps,' she said. ‘One good one but it costs the earth.'

‘D'you have to do it?'

‘Of course I do. Look, you're going to watch a dead woman's film and then go out to get yourself beaten up or have some depressing conversation. What am I supposed to do?'

I drank some wine and didn't speak.

‘You hardly worked at all the last time I was here.'

‘That's the way it happens sometimes.'

‘How long will this job last?'

I shrugged. ‘A week. A month.'

Helen drank some whisky. She sighed, looked at her book and then threw it on the floor. ‘I just don't want to be a pain,' she said. We reached out for each other and hugged awkardly, sitting in our separate chairs. We held the hug for quite a while until it turned into something else which we finished off in bed.

I made sandwiches and took them and some wine upstairs and we ate in bed. Helen told me about the fifteen real estate agents she'd visited and the dozen or so houses and flats. Then she fell asleep.

It was after nine but still way too early to go to the Champagne Cabaret. I made coffee and put the cassette in the VCR.

The screen filled with an expanse of water; still, silver water that was suddenly broken by the leaping, cavorting bodies of what looked like thousands of dolphins. They jumped and flapped and the sound of their squeaking, barking calls filled the room. I turned the sound down. The word ‘Bermagui' came up in deep blue over the fractured silver of the dolphins at play, and some music, mostly strings and drums, accompanied the credits. The film was written, edited, produced and directed by Carmel Wise.

I'm no movie buff; I'd see about six or seven new films a year and catch another dozen or so on TV
and video. I like them fast and funny—Woody Allen, anything with Jack Nicholson, that sort of thing. Carmel Wise's picture was nothing like Woody Allen, and her hero, a thin, toothy character, was more like Donald Sutherland than Nicholson. But it was a marvellous film. I forgot I was watching for professional reasons: the simple story of a schoolteacher in love with one of his students against the background of a quiet town, caught in the annual tourist rush and under pressure from the moneyed people of Canberra who were buying up the beach, grabbed me and swept me along.

The acting was fine—underplayed, done without the usual clangers and dead lines that disfigure films made by inexperienced people. The supporting cast were virtually silent which was another plus; they rapped out dramatic interjections while the main players wove the story. Most of all, the filming was terrific: Carmel Wise had resisted the clichéd shots and had got the hard ones—the old house, crumbling and wisteria-covered, but still looking strong and appropriate; the beach party, slowly getting out of hand as the booze flummoxed and confused the kids, turning them from sharp and funny to slow and dull.

The 90 minutes passed quickly. I felt like applauding when the film finished and I ran the tape back to watch bits again to make sure I hadn't imagined it. But it was all there—the sure touch, the wit in the use of the camera, the low-key emotion and the economy of the whole thing. As the final credits rolled again—brief, with a lot of the same people doubling up on the jobs, I reflected that Carmel Wise was a real loss to the city, to the nation. I was also sure that she wouldn't have been interested in pornography. What else? I tried to grab the impressions quickly: strong social conscience, political radical with a sense of humour, more
humanist than feminist, scourge of the rich … the name Jan de Vries came up on the screen—‘thanks to Jan de Vries for criticism and coffee'.

After eleven, time to go. I got my Smith & Wesson. 38 Police Special from the kitchen drawer and checked it for load and action. A quick wash, a fresh shirt, holster harness on, gun away and I was ready. Images from the film floated in my mind as I drove through the quiet streets. A long shot of the beach at night, two cigarettes glowing in the dark, occupied me along Glebe Point Road and I thought about the love-making between the teacher and the student as I drove up William Street. Then I thought about Helen in my bed and her flat and other beds. As I looked for a parking place I wrenched my mind back to the job. It shouldn't be too hard. Chat to one nightclub owner about some old pals. He'd probably be only too pleased to help, probably give me a free drink and introduce me to some nice girls.

The streetwalkers were at their posts on Darlinghurst Road, behaving themselves as the cops walked past, and then laughing and giving their blue-shirted backs the finger. The eating and drinking and game-playing places were open and doing business. The Champagne Cabaret was a few doors from Woolworths which was closed. There were people squatting in the long, deep recess in front of the store—some jewellery sellers, a pavement artist and a man just standing there, doing nothing.

The man outside the joint was working hard. ‘Come on gents,' he called, ‘come on ladies, come on all you folks in between. Something for everyone at the Champagne Cabaret. They sing, they dance, they make romance. Come in, sir. Hey, sailor!' He was about 21 in the body and twice that in the face. He wore a draped jacket with shoulder pads and
skin-tight pants, something like the outfit I used to wear myself in Maroubra around 1956. I stopped to look at the photographs mounted in glass cases beside the narrow doorway. Sequinned women clutched microphones suggestively; too-sleek men clutched sequinned women.

He waved his cigarette in my face. ‘Come right in, sir. Ten dollars an' you're through the door an' in another world. You look like a good sport. Do yourself a good turn.'

‘I want to talk to the boss,' I said. ‘Big blonde guy, isn't he? Darcy, is that right?'

He kept waving the cigarette and spoke to the passers-by. ‘Come right in, ten dollars to make your dreams come true.'

‘No trouble,' I said. ‘Just a talk.'

He looked directly at me for a split second. ‘Twenty dollars to make your dreams come true.'

‘You said ten before.'

‘That was then, this is now.'

‘I could walk right through you.'

‘Into a locked door,' he said. ‘Come on, gents, come on, girls …'

I gave him the twenty and he almost made a bow. ‘Pay at the door,' he said.

Past the photographs, with my foot on the first step, I spun around. ‘What?'

‘Pay at the door, arsehole. Ten dollars to make your dreams come true.'

Smoke and noise drifted towards me as I went down the stairs. There was hardly room to stand between the bottom stair and the door and a man was already standing there. I gave him ten dollars and he pushed the door open. The Champagne Cabaret had taken its decor ideas from a variety of sources; there were Arabian and Chinese touches in the lighting and the wall paintings, a Broadway effect to the stage which was decorated in black and
white like a piano keyboard and even a Hollywood western look to the bar and tables. I saw this through the smoky gloom as I pushed towards the bar. Pushed, because the joint was full; people were dancing on a small floor in the middle of the room, spilling over into the area occupied by tables and even putting the people standing at the bar under pressure.

I eased out of the way of a tightly embraced couple and managed to get to the bar. The music, which had been a sort of pseudo-Glenn Miller swing, petered out. The dancing stopped; a drum rolled and a man in a white dinner jacket came out onto the stage.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the Champagne Cabaret is delighted to present—Ricky Gay!'

A tall person with cleavage and curves and a blonde wig wriggled onto the stage, adjusted a silver lamé shoulder-strap and began to sing ‘Big Spender'. About half the people were interested in the singer, the other half were interested in each other and the booze. Three topless waitresses and the drinkers at the bar kept two barmen in red waistcoats busy. The place was hot and the barmen were sweating; I waited until I caught one of them taking a break to mop his face.

‘I'd like to see Mr Darcy,' I said. ‘Is he here?'

‘I serve drinks,' he said.

‘Then I'll take a Scotch and ice and could you tell me where to find Darcy?'

He put away the handkerchief and made the drink. His hands were fast and if they were sweaty it didn't seem to inconvenience him. He put the drink in front of me. His red face glowed under the light coming from behind the bar where there was also a long mirror edged with silver dollars.

‘Here's your drink.'

I gave him five dollars. ‘Darcy?'

He gave me two dollars change and served someone else.

Ricky Gay finished singing ‘Big Spender' and started to tell jokes. Another 10 per cent of the audience transferred their interest to companions and drinks. There was no music now but a few couples were dancing anyway. If the customer was always right the music would be starting up again pretty soon. I sipped the drink and considered my options: the barman I'd spoken to hadn't stopped working since. He hadn't winked or nodded at anyone to let them know about the snooper. He just wasn't interested. The other barmen and the waitresses looked the same—too busy to care one way or the other. Somehow, I didn't think I'd get much cooperation from Ricky Gay.

A sign under a pair of buffalo horns over a doorway said ‘Toilet'. I went through into a passageway that led to a door with a top-hatted silhouette on it at one end and to well-lit, imitation marble stairway at the other. I walked to the stairs; I still had the drink in my hand and when the man sitting at the top of the first flight stood up I raised my glass.

‘Cheers,' I said.

He was a thickset character wearing a black T-shirt, jeans with a wide belt and basketball boots. He had a big bunch of keys swinging from the belt, too big to be anyone's actual set of keys.

‘Other way, chum.' The voice was thick North Country British.

I leaned against the wall. ‘What? What?'

‘The pisser's at the other end of the passage. This's private up here.'

I swung around unsteadily, blinking. ‘Doesn't say so.'

He came down the stairs confidently, unfastening the keys which were on a snap lock. The bunch was on several rings and looked as if it could be easily
converted into a knuckle-duster or a mini-battleaxe. He was only about 30; too much fat bulged out above the belt, but he moved all right. He swung the keys lazily just below my nose. ‘Piss off, chum.'

‘Darcy here?' I spoke sharply and soberly and he was taken by surprise. He should have loaded his fist with the metal and punched but he went for another swing, intending to cut, and was too slow. I dropped the glass, whipped out the .38 and dug it into the midriff bulge. ‘Drop the keys!' I dug hard as I spoke and he let the keys fall.

‘A shooter. Come on …' He was going to get brave any minute. I brought my knee up hard and slammed it into his crotch. He groaned and sagged; I pushed with the gun and he sank down onto the stairs. He sat on broken glass and swore. He tried to move but I pinned him by putting the gun under his nose.

‘Now look what you've done,' I said. ‘You've cut yourself. You're going to have to be more careful. Darcy—where is he?'

His pudgy face was pale and it looked as if he'd bit his lip to add to his problems. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Up there.'

I gestured with the gun. ‘Let's go.'

He eased himself up carefully, wincing and reaching behind him to pull the glass out. ‘You're not a cop.'

‘No. And you're not a nightwatchman. Take me up to Darcy.'

‘He'll sort you.'

‘We'll see. Your jeans are in a dreadful state.'

He went gingerly up the stairs; I followed two steps below and off to one side in case he had some idea of evening the score. He didn't. He went meek as a lamb along a carpeted corridor to the second of three doors, all of which had ‘Private' written on them. He knocked.

‘Who the hell is it?' The voice was rough, muffled and annoyed.

‘Connelly.'

‘Well?'

I showed Connelly my finger held to my lips. He opened his mouth and I dug him in the ribs with the gun.

‘Connelly?' Less muffled now, closer to the door, but more annoyed. The door opened and the man in the photograph stood there; he'd put on weight and lost hair but he was unmistakably the same man. His white shirt was open to the waist showing a fleshy, hairy chest, tanned like his face and arms. I held the gun low and Darcy looked from Connelly to me, puzzled.