Make Me Rich by Peter Corris Page B

likely to be any more pleasant.
    Then I did some thinking about Helen Broadway—time zones; were they any different?—daylight saving and a reasonable hour to call. I ate the soggy breakfast, drank the lukewarm coffee, and made the call. I tried to remember the layout of the flat. No phone by the bed, in the living room; she’d be wearing her silk gown. The phone didn’t have to ring for long.
    â€œChrist, long distance,” she said. “Where are you—New York?”
    â€œBrisbane. It’s eighty degrees already, and I’ve had a swim.”
    â€œI want to see you.”
    â€œMe too. Wish you were here.”
    â€œWhy aren’t I?”
    â€œI’m mostly to be found behind the wheel of a car going to places where no one wants to know me. I don’t know how long I’ll be here. If you left now there’s a good chance our paths would cross in mid-air, if you see what I mean.”
    â€œI think so. Is your life always so hectic?”
    â€œNo, mostly, I have lots of time for Bondi Beach, movies, cappuccino …”
    â€œThat sounds better. Well, this is costing you something.”
    â€œNot me. My client.”
    â€œSame man?”
    â€œYeah. The kid came up to look for his brother. Now we’re both looking for him.”
    â€œAre-you-in-danger? I say again: Are-you-in-danger?”
    I laughed. “Only moderately. I’ll call you soon as I get back, Helen.”
    â€œPromise?”
    I promised, and meant it. I got dressed and paid the bill.
    The manageress looked at me with disapproval; she almost looked at my credit card with disapproval. Maybe she thought I lowered the tone of the place by being in the pool in the raw.
    St. Lucia is a garden suburb and the parts that flank the river would have to be called verdant. Winding roads with smooth footpaths follow the river, and spawn joggers who seemed to outnumber the civilians this fine, crisp morning. I objected to them less now that headbands appeared to be out of fashion. The number of zebra crossings along the river road, controlled by flashing lights, suggested that the joggers had an in with the local council.
    The freight yard was a million psychological miles from the certainty and confidence of the big houses by the river and the clear signposts to the university. It was reached by a dusty road that turned off another road which had swung away from the well-heeled section of the district. The railway line here was what the Americans call a spur—an off-shoot, a by-way. There were low, broken-down fences around the goods yard and the road to an old brick office seemed to be marked by smashed wooden freight pallets. A small car park was defined by star stakes which were bent and askew and trailed their wires aimlessly.
    I arrived at around 9.30 a.m., which seemed to be too early for commercial activity or civilised communication. The bearded youth in overalls who opened the office door looked at me with loathing.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” I said.
    â€œYou’re too early. No one’s here.”
    â€œDon’t put yourself down,” I said. “You’re here.”
    He hitched at his overalls, which was unnecessary, because there was no way they could fall down. But heseemed to find it worth doing and he did it again. It dawned on me that he was stoned.
    â€œLet’s go inside and talk,” I said. He resisted—my second time at being refused entry in ten hours. “Okay, let’s stand our ground. Do you know Chris Guthrie?”
    He shook his head and hitched the overalls again. It was too much. He’s started to shake his head before I’d spoken the name. He was bigger than me and younger, and if he was stoned and I was sober at 9.30 in the morning, that was his problem. I pushed him back against the wall, not gently.
    â€œGuthrie,” I barked. “Where?”
    He pointed to the right, down the railway track. “He s …