Hard Landing

CHAPTER TWO

  After Gary quit the police force, he established Bloodhound Investigations in a single room above a fish-and-chip shop in Bondi. His long-term goal was to rent a two-room suite and hire a secretary to do all the admin work. Sometimes, he even fantasised about setting up branch offices and staffing them with hand-picked operatives wearing bespoke suits.

  Three years later, he was still in the same room, smelling fish-and-chips all day - he could even tell when the frying oil was changed - and doing all the admin work in a haphazard way. He had grown to hate the name of the firm - what was he thinking? - but wouldn't pay a sign-writer to peel it off the front door and put up a new one. Margins were that thin.

  The next morning, in the mailbox at the bottom of the stairs, he found a letter from his accountant. At his desk, he opened it and saw it contained a Tax Assessment for the previous year. He skipped through the mumbo jumbo about him not paying enough provision tax during the year, blah, blah, blah, and saw he had to pay the Tax Office $15,550 within two months. Jesus Christ. He only had about $1,000 in the bank.

  His accountant was a small Chinese woman called Samantha Lee who had a hole-in-the-wall office around the corner. He phoned her and asked if she had seen the assessment.

  "Yes, they sent me a copy."

  "Is it correct?"

  "Of course. I would have told you if it wasn’t. "

  "It seems a lot."

  "I claimed all the deductions I could. But you had some income. You owe the tax."

  Gary used Samantha because she seemed quite honest and straightforward, for an accountant. Now he feared she was too honest. Wasn't she supposed to make his tax liabilities disappear? Maybe he should look around for a dodgier accountant.

  He said: "I've spent all the money - or most of it."

  "You shouldn't have done that."

  "I live like a pauper. You should see the apartment I rent."

  A harsh giggle. "No thanks. Maybe you can borrow the money?"

  "You mean, go into debt to pay another debt."

  "Lots of my clients do."

  "The only people who'd give me a loan charge 20 per cent a month and smash your knee-caps if you don't repay them. Will the Tax Office take a discount?"

  An even harsher giggle. "It doesn't work like that, I'm afraid."

  "What about a deferral?"

  "You've got to have a terminal illness or something like that. Do you have one?"

  "Not yet. Shit, I can't pay $15,550 in two months' time."

  "You must have debtors you can chase. Start hassling people until you're paid. I hope you're not too proud to collect debts."

  "Of course not," he lied.

  "Good."

  "But most of my debtors don't have any money."

  "That's no way to run a business. I can give you some management advice if you want."

  "How much will that cost?"

  "Only a couple of thousand."

  "Only? Jesus. No thanks."

  "Well, if you don't pay the Tax Office, it will bankrupt you."

  "It can't do that. I'll give it every cent I've got."

  "Doesn't matter; it's absolutely heartless. But, don't worry, bankruptcy's not so bad these days: no big stigma and you can keep a big slice of your income. So little would change."

  The police force usually only cancelled a Private Inquiry License if a private detective was convicted of a mass murder. So, if he went bankrupt, he could keep working. But he held the quaint belief that a man - a real man - paid his debts, even to the Government. "Bankruptcy's not an option."

  "Really? Then you'd better find the money."

  "I will, even if I've got to rob a bank."

  "I didn't hear that."

  He hung up and spent the next hour morosely typing up letters of demand to outstanding debtors. They owed him about $10,000, but he'd be lucky to recover half that. Good grief. What a way to run a business.

  He was desperate to get out of the office. Fortunately, he had arranged to have coffee with Terry Fraser, the solicitor who hired him to serve the bankruptcy petition on Leo Parker. They often met at a local coffee shop called Angelo's to gossip and moan about their lives.

  He left his office and strolled along the pavement towards the coffee shop. A gang of Scandinavian backpackers flip-flopped past him on their way to the beach, where they would baste themselves with lotions and imitate roasting turkeys. Bondi was a natural habitat of female fashion models. A couple of particularly insectoid ones strolled past, chins up, counting looks, living in the eternal present.

  A Federal election campaign was underway and lots of election posters were affixed to windows and power-poles. The leader of the opposition Conservative Party, Angus Trewaley, represented the electorate of La Perouse, which included Bondi. His handsome visage, wearing a game-show smile, stared out of most posters, begging for votes.

  Angelo's was a black-walled café usually packed with patrons from all four corners of the world. When Gary walked in, he saw officeless professionals, jobless professionals, aspiring artists, yummie mummies, well-heeled overseas tourists and scruffy back-packers who hadn't slept for days.

  Terry had commandeered a metal table in the far corner and was jabbering into his mobile phone. Gary first met Terry when Gary worked undercover on the Drug Squad. Back then, Terry was a big swinging dick in the Armed Robbery Squad nicknamed "the Sheriff". He was famous for standing in the middle of the main street of Parramatta and trading shots with several armed robbers as they left a bank. He emptied a whole clip without hitting any robbers or innocent bystanders. But several pedestrians filmed him with their smartphones, posted the clips on You Tube and turned him into a legend. He was lucky they did. Otherwise, he would have been charged with endangering members of the public and given desk duties in Wilcannia.

  Terry loved being a cop. But as he explained to Gary: "I was risking my life for a shitty wage. I had two ex-wives and three kids to support. It was time to grow up. I knew lawyers who could barely read or write who were making a fortune; I wanted my slice of the action."

  He finished an abandoned law degree and put up his shingle in Bondi. Clients flocked to him because they loved his can-do manner, which disguised a shaky grasp of the law. He once told Gary. "I bottle confidence and sell it to my clients. They want to hear that I'll use the law to beat their enemies to death."

  "What happens when you don't do that?"

  A shrug. "I blame the judge."

  "Does that work?"

  A grin. "Like a charm."

  He was so successful that he now employed half a dozen solicitors who worked like galley slaves to make him rich. However, the faster the money came in, the faster it went out. Terry seemed hooked on debt and the stress it brought. He purchased a huge mansion in Vaucluse and a big yacht that he paid a professional skipper to drive around the harbour. His third wife had a horrific shopping addiction she refused to acknowledge. Only an SAS team could take away her credit card. Terry recently confessed to Gary: "When I was a cop, I only worried about getting shot. Now I worry about cash flow all the time. That's a hell of a lot more stressful."

  Gary sat across from Terry, who kept talking into his mobile phone. Terry was now in his mid-fifties, with silver hair and a sizeable paunch. The caller obviously wanted him to draw up a new Will for her. After two minutes, he hung up and looked at Gary. "Sorry about that. The poor woman's in a hospital, knocking on Death's door. She wants to cut her kids out of her Will and give the lot to animal charities."

  "What did the kids do wrong?"

  "She overheard them talk about how they'll spend their inheritances."

  "She shouldn't have been spying. Can she cut them out of the Will?"

  "Of course. But they'll sue her estate for support." A big smile. "And guess who'll act for the estate. Sometimes, we lawyers just can't lose."

  "I've noticed."

  Terry caught the eye of their usual waiter and held up two fingers to order their usual coffees. He turned back to Gar
y. "How'd it go with Parker?"

  "Mission accomplished. I'll send you an affidavit of service."

  "Good. Where'd you find him?"

  "In a toilet cubicle."

  "You're kidding?"

  "No."

  "How'd you end up there?"

  Gary explained how he tried the parcel delivery scam and, when that failed, found out where Parker worked.

  "How'd you find out?"

  "You don't want to know."

  A giggle. "I'm sure you're right. How did your paths cross in the cubicle?"

  Gary described how he followed Parker to the pub and showed Terry the photo he took of Parker on the toilet.

  The cowboy cop and You Tube legend still lurking inside Terry was impressed; the lawyer and pillar of the community was horrified. "Jesus, I hope he doesn't go to the police."

  "There were no witnesses."

  "Good." The waiter put their coffees in front of them. Terry took a sip. "Anyway, I've got more work for you."

  "What?"

  "I've got a client called Madeline Arnott. Her husband was a thoracic surgeon at St Vincent's. When he died last year, I helped her administer his estate. Anyway, she called me about an hour ago. Her son's missing and she wants someone to find him. I mentioned your name."

  "How old is he?"

  "Early thirties. He's an accountant, I think."

  "Maybe he's trying to avoid her for some reason."

  "She doesn't think so. Anyway, she's a wealthy woman and will pay well. Will you talk to her?"

  "Sure. When does she want to meet?"

  "I told her to be at my office at three. Can you be there then?"

  "Yep."

  "Good." Terry poured two satchels of sugar into his coffee and leaned back. "You've heard about the federal election?"

  "Of course. I don't live on Mars."

  "Who'll you vote for?"

  Terry loved politics. Indeed, he was the treasurer of the local branch of the Conservative Party and dealt regularly with Angus Trewaley. He loved boasting about the straight-talking advice he gave the opposition leader. "I tell him what he needs to hear, not what he wants to hear."

  Gary sipped his coffee. "I haven't decided yet."

  A frown. "You should vote Conservative."

  Gary paid little attention to politics, but saw no reason to back the party of the wealthy and big business. "Why? It's for rich people. I've hardly got a bean to my name."

  "Its policies will help you become rich."

  "You mean, they'll turn private eyes into millionaires?"

  "Not straight away. But they'll create a strong economy that gives everyone opportunities."

  "How?"

  "Well, for a start, cutting taxes will incentivise wealth creators."

  "Wealth creators? Who are they?"

  "People like me."

  God, Terry could spew out crap. He acted like he was a Silicon Valley entrepreneur rather than a ticket-clipping lawyer. "You're not a wealth creator."

  "Bullshit. I employ 12 people."

  "Yeah, who don't build or make a damn thing." He knew he should be nicer to Terry, because the guy was a great mate and his main source of work. But his pride wouldn't let him.

  A deep frown. "Jesus you're a pain. You mean you won't vote Conservative?"

  "Probably not."

  "Who will you vote for?"

  "I've got my eye on the Communist candidate," he said to annoy Terry and then realised he was half-serious.

  A deep frown. "A Communist is standing? I didn't know that."

  "She doesn't get much publicity, funnily enough. She handed me a leaflet in a shopping centre, a few days ago. We had a chat. She's a primary school teacher. About sixty. Very nice. Speaks well. Made a lot of sense."

  Terry looked horrified. "You're kidding, right?"

  "No, I don't like either major party."

  A scowl. "Hmmm. It won't make any difference. This is a blue-ribbon Conservative seat. Angus will romp home. Most people around here would vote for him if he was caught humping a dog."

  "It that likely?"

  A scowl. "Hah, hah. No, of course not." Terry fingered a sugar satchel. "But if you want to hear what he's got to say, he's holding a rally at the Paddington Town Hall next Thursday. Come along. I'll introduce you."

  "If he can't lose this seat, why's he campaigning here?"

  "Because he's guaranteed an enthusiastic crowd and that looks good on TV."

  Gary decided he'd annoyed Terry enough. "OK, I'll think about it."

  "Good."

  "But, out of curiosity, what's he like up close?"

  "Oh, he's a nice bloke. But, at the end of the day, he's a politician, always working the room. Unbelievably ambitious. He'd go sky-diving without a parachute if he could be the Prime Minister on the way down. But that's not a criticism. He's supposed to be ambitious. No point being a pollie if you're not." Terry drained his coffee and jumped to his feet. "Alright, see you at three."