Port Vila Blues

Thirty

After his run of piss-poor luck, things were beginning to look up, Baker could feel it. Things were beginning to fall into place.

He’d seen the Goldman bitch before lunch the previous day, and this time he’d quizzed her about De Lisle. Just casual, not making a big thing of it, just stuff like: was De Lisle Australian? Did he have a wife and kids? Did he live in a wealthy suburb? Was it true they called him the ‘hanging judge’? Why ‘hanging judge’ when hanging wasn’t allowed any more? Did he always have a go at people in court, their surnames and stuff, making them feel small? Maybe he lived on the North Shore? When was he next headed for the Pacific? Stuff like that.

Goldman had acted busy and abstracted again in her little partitioned office. A whole mob of ethnics going yap yap yap outside, waiting to see a duty lawyer, keyboards tapping in the background, printers whining, high heels up and down the corridors, phones ringing, clerks yelling out names and docket numbers and what court to go to. Plenty to distract the bitch but she went cagey on him and wouldn’t give him a straight answer. Just, the surname was French but as far as she knew he was born in Australia; she didn’t know about his private life; yes, he had a reputation for sternness; ‘hanging judge’ was just an expression; she was sorry, but she had no intention of discussing De Lisle’s movements or where he lived.

She gave him a hard, level look. ‘Terry, I hope you’re not thinking of doing something stupid.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like having a go at him.’

‘Give us a break,’ he’d told her. ‘What do you take me for?’

‘A man with a grievance,’ she said, ‘just because another man called him a loafer. A man who was supposed to seek professional attention for a drug and alcohol problem but didn’t.’

‘Yeah, rub it in,’ he said sourly. Then he brightened. ‘Besides-’ smirking, ‘-I can’t find him in the phone book.’

She smirked back. There wasn’t much humour in it.

Okay, if she wouldn’t tell him where De Lisle lived, he’d follow the bastard. Baker walked right back down the corridor to the notice board, found the day’s listings, saw which court De Lisle was in, and took a seat in the back corner where he couldn’t be seen clearly.

He watched through the long afternoon. De Lisle seemed to be in a hurry, rushing through the hearings. He’d been in the sun, Baker guessed, taking in the man’s mottled skin-unless it was due to his shitty personality. Entirely possible, Baker decided, watching De Lisle lean forward at one point, practically spitting in some poor bastard’s face: ‘Mr Patakis, why are you dressed like that?’

The Patakis geezer was about twenty, small, agile-looking, a gold stud in each ear, long black hair, a lot of hair on his bare arms, legs and chest. Probably what was getting to De Lisle were the loose gold satin shorts, the perforated powder-blue workout singlet, the sockless high-top Nikes.

Patakis looked down at himself, briefly brushing one hand down the black hairs on his legs. He looked genuinely puzzled. ‘This is top gear, judge. Three-fifty, four hundred bucks worth.’ His mouth hung open. Baker knew he was handing De Lisle a line.

So did De Lisle. He snarled, ‘It’s an insult to come into my court dressed like that.’

Patakis took a different tack. ‘I was in court six yesterday, judge-’

‘Your worship, thank you.’

‘-worship, and my best strides got too creased to wear today. They’re at the cleaners.’

‘Couldn’t you have borrowed some clothes? Spent your ill-gotten gains on a decent wardrobe?’

Patakis’ defence lawyer had been watching De Lisle and his client tiredly, amusedly, but in good conscience he couldn’t let this go by unchallenged. Baker watched, grinning despite himself, as the lawyer bobbed up from his seat. ‘Your worship, I really must-’

De Lisle waved a hand irritably over the courtroom. ‘All right, all right. Mr Patakis, you are charged with…’

Baker had tuned the bastard out, thinking about how he’d fix him. An hour later he’d tailed De Lisle to Woollahra. De Lisle didn’t stay long. He came out wearing a change of clothes and was in his car and gone before Baker could get the Holden started.

Frustrated, Baker had another look at De Lisle’s apartment block. The place looked impenetrable: ground floor apartment, lock-up garage under the building, inside elevator, swipe-card access to the lobby. He tried something that he’d seen work on TV, pushed all ten intercom buttons, but no one buzzed him in and when a woman said ‘Yes?’, all clipped and hoity-toity, Baker had gone tongue-tied and backed off.

The next day he’d gone back after breakfast, wearing overalls and carrying a bucket and a squeegee. He waited until a suit in a BMW drove out of the underground carpark, slipped inside the building before the door had closed, and made his way to De Lisle’s patio. He knocked. No answer. Cunt, Baker thought. He’s gone for the day already.

He lifted the sliding glass door experimentally. Piece of shit: it rose three centimetres out of the track and he had no trouble levering the bottom away and stacking the whole door against the wall.

De Lisle’s apartment had the cool, restful air of a place that has been switched off while its owner is away. Baker roamed through the darkened rooms, pocketing a silver ashtray, a Walkman, a gold pen. The broad quilt in the main bedroom bore the impression of a suitcase and one or two shirts and items of underwear had been left behind.

Baker found De Lisle’s study, got out the Yellow Pages and began to ring around the airlines, giving the name De Lisle, saying he was confirming his flight details.

He hit paydirt at Ansett.

‘I don’t understand, Mr De Lisle. We had you on our eight-thirty to Coffs Harbour this morning. That flight has already left.’

‘My mistake,’ Baker said hurriedly, breaking the connection.

Coffs?

He pressed the redial button, prepared to disguise his voice, but he was connected to a different booking clerk this time. ‘You got any spare seats to Coffs today?’

‘Let me check that for you.’

He could hear her tapping away. ‘Nothing until tomorrow lunchtime, I’m afraid. Shall I confirm that for you?’

It would have to do. Baker told her yes, then asked how much.

‘Return?’

‘Yes.’

She told him and he wondered if his good luck was running out before it had begun. No way could he afford it. ‘When do I have to pay?’

‘When you collect the ticket, sir, an hour before departure if possible, otherwise the seat may be allocated to someone else.’

So Baker went to the Cross after dark to earn himself an airfare.

There was a back street where young blokes about thirteen or fourteen would hang out, hopping into the Jags, Mercs, Saabs that cruised by. A few quick blowjobs and they’d have enough to score themselves a virusy needle. But it wasn’t the kids Baker was interested in, it was the perverts driving the expensive cars. Unlike normal blokes, who bought their fucks off women inside four walls, the blokes who cruised for kids were usually very rich, usually puny, usually feeling dirty and guilty after.

At least they were easy to roll. Baker simply waited until they were finished and the kid was getting out of the car, then shoved the kid aside, dived in, punched the guy in the guts. The first one he rolled thought Baker was a cop, actually offered two hundred bucks to keep it quiet. Baker accepted. He topped the two hundred up with a cash advance of four hundred from a hole in the wall using another guy’s PIN number. The third one had a gold band on his ring finger so Baker threatened to tell the man’s wife if he didn’t pay up. Another four hundred from the automatic teller machine.

It was hard work and it was tricky and he had to deal with the dregs of humanity in the process. All in a good cause, but he’d hate to make a living out of it, not when there were easier ways to score some cash. Not this much cash though, or so quickly.

Baker went home to bed, feeling dirty, and had a shower. He woke Carol up, really wanting to wipe the evening from his mind. Apart from a bit of soppiness after, it was pretty good.

He got up early on Thursday morning, showered, shaved, told Carol he was going for a job interview, took the bus up to Shopping Town. He had a short back amp; sides at Hair Today, bought a sports coat, strides, sunnies and an overnight bag from Target, joking ‘Tarzhay’ with the girl on the cash register, who looked at him with deep boredom. Then he went to the Edinburgh Castle to score some speed, and finally took a taxi to the airport, where he slapped cash on the counter at the Ansett desk and said, ‘I believe you’re holding a ticket in the name of Baker?’

He’d always wanted to say that.