Jordan Elliott started talking as soon as he sat down. ‘I want to hire you to investigate a murder.’
‘The police do that sort of thing,’ I said. ‘I find lost stuff, or look for it; do bodyguarding and money-guarding…’
‘The police say it wasn’t a murder, or if it was they don’t give a shit.’
‘That’s interesting.’
Elliott was in his late twenties or early thirties, a slim, elegant figure in designer clothes with what I took to be an expensive haircut. Ditto the wristwatch. He told me that he was gay, HIV positive but asymptomatic for more than ten years.
‘One of the lucky ones,’ he said.
I nodded. Having an office in Darlinghurst, not far from Kings Cross, I’d seen a good many of the unlucky ones.
‘My partner of nine years was named Simon Townsley. A lovely man. We… we were married in all but name, you know?’
‘Sure,’ I said.
‘Simon was a bit older than me and he contracted HIV earlier and didn’t have the test for quite a while. So he was positive and untreated for longer than he should have been.’ He spread his hands in a theatrical gesture. ‘So, AIDS of course. But he was very strong and fit…’
‘I didn’t think that mattered.’
‘They’re starting to find out that it does. Anyway, he responded very well to the drugs, the cocktail. He’d had a few infections early on but once he was on the treatment, that stopped and he put on the weight he’d lost and it looked like he was going to make it, or at least get another ten good years. He was forty-six and ten years seemed like a lifetime after what was happening all around us. We considered ourselves lucky.’
‘But,’ I said.
‘But he went away on a tour for ten weeks and when he came back he wasn’t the same. The drugs didn’t seem to be working. He got sick again, one thing after another, but he still insisted on working. Then
… there was an outdoor gig and it rained and it was freezing and he got pneumonia. He died. There was no inquest or autopsy or anything. They called it “an AIDS related illness” and that was that.’
‘Are you sure it wasn’t?’
He hammered his fist on the desk-nothing theatrical about him now. ‘I know it wasn’t. Something happened on that tour.’
‘What sort of tour?’
‘Simon was in a band, a gay band-the Stonewallers. You never heard of them?’
‘No. I left off at Dire Straits.’
‘They were big a few years ago. Their CDs sold well and they were getting good fees for gigs. They went into a bit of a slump when Simon first got sick. He is-was-the lead guitarist. The heart of the band. But they were on the way back. A new record deal was in the works. He knew I loved him and he had everything to live for, but he just seemed to give up.’
‘What did the doctors say?’
Elliott shrugged. ‘That the cocktail sometimes doesn’t work, or only works for a while.’
It didn’t sound promising. I knew virtually nothing about AIDS apart from what I read in the papers and saw on television. I’d heard of AZT but didn’t know what the letters stood for. I knew it worked for some and not for others, depending on a variety of factors. On the other hand, Elliott was an impressive type and it looked as if anger was fuelling him rather than hysteria. In my book, anger’s a valid emotion.
‘I’m not sure about this, Mr Elliott,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you could tell me a bit more about yourself
‘Well, I own some property around the city. My family was well off. I trained as a lawyer but I don’t practise. I run a small record company-Chippendale Classics. I don’t imagine you’ve heard of it.’
‘I know less about classical music than I do about contemporary stuff. Isn’t that a little unusual, a classics buff teaming up with a rocker?’
He smiled. ‘Yes, but it worked for us.’
It was impossible not to like him and to admire the way he conducted himself. Still, I played it cautious.
‘What did you have in mind for me to do?’
‘There are three other members of the band, plus the manager and a roadie. They were on the tour. They, or one of them, must know something about what happened to Simon.’
‘Have you asked them?’
‘Of course. They say they don’t know anything. But I’m not exactly forceful and I don’t have the resources to investigate them. I thought that if you looked at them thoroughly, you might come up with something and could use it to get the truth.’
‘And if I find nothing?’
‘You’ll do it then?’
I said I would and got out a contract form and started in on it. I waited for an answer to my question but it never came. He gave me the names of the Stonewallers and the manager and roadie and the addresses and phone numbers he had for them. We agreed on a retainer. I took down his details and he wrote me a cheque. Before he left he took a CD from his jacket pocket and handed it across.
‘They’re not unlike Dire Straits in certain moods.’
That night I played the CD which was entitled ‘Glad to be Gay’. The lineup was Carl Reiss on drums, Seb Jones, rhythm guitar, Craig Pappas, bass guitar and Simon Townsley, lead guitar and vocals. The tracks were a mixture of gay anthems and middle of the road rock. They had something and Elliott was right, there was a touch of Mark Knopfler in Townsley s lyrical guitar and breathy singing. I liked it.
Elliott had told me that the group’s manager was Manny Roche and the roadie for the tour had been Don Berry. I put through a call to Steve Cook, a rock journalist I sometimes drank with at the Toxteth Hotel and, more rarely, played squash with in Leichhardt. He used to be junior squash champion of South Australia and, although cigarettes have taken a toll of his wind, he could still beat me just by taking a few steps backwards, forwards and sideways.
‘Steve, I need to tap your encyclopedic knowledge of the rock scene.’
‘Shoot.’
‘The Stonewallers.’
‘Aha.’
‘Why aren’t I getting your usual bored cynicism?’
‘They’ve got a new singer and a new record deal. They’re hot. Make that warming up. Do you know something I should know?’
‘No. What can you tell me about them?’
He gave me a potted history of the band, which lasted through three of his cigarettes. According to Steve they’d been remarkable for their compatibility as a group. There’d been no bust-ups or financial or creative ructions. Simon Townsley’s death had come as a surprise because, as Elliott had said, he appeared to be winning his battle with AIDS.
‘They had a song called “T-count” all about it. Pretty good stuff. Then he was gone. What’s your interest?’
‘I can’t tell you now. If there’s anything in it for you I’ll let you know. What about the manager, this Manny Roche?’
‘No worse than the run of them.’
‘Hardly a ringing endorsement.’
‘Rock managers aren’t among the more attractive forms of life on the planet, mate. I’d rate them below private eyes and journalists. Most people would.’
‘Have you heard of a roadie named Don Berry?’
‘Do roadies have names? I didn’t know that.’
‘Who’s this new singer?’
‘Dyke called Jo-Jo Moon. She’s been around. Great singer who never found her niche.’
‘Is this it?’
‘That’s the word. They’re putting down an album and preparing to go on the road. All very hush-hush, which means everyone’s talking about it.’
He said he’d fax me what he had on the band and we agreed to meet for a drink soon.
I played the CD again and still liked it. The next day I phoned Roche Management Inc and made an appointment to see Manny Roche. My spiel to his secretary was that I was a security consultant and wanted to talk about the possibility of providing security for his artists.
The office was in Edgecliff, part of a complex just off New South Head Road. Manny was in suite 3, next to a literary agent and across the bricked courtyard from a firm representing actors and models. A couple of wraith-thin women, looking as if a stiff wind would blow them away, were smoking in the courtyard and admiring the city view. An overweight man wearing a beige safari suit with epaulettes and badges on the sleeves was pretending not to watch them.
I was ushered into Manny’s presence by a young Asian woman who looked as if she belonged with the models. He was sitting down, but at a guess Manny was about 170 centimetres and must have weighed 120 kilos. He watched the slender back of the Asian woman as she retreated across the expanse of white carpet to the door.
‘Not bad, eh?’ he said when the door was closed. Without waiting for a reply he went on, ‘I can give you a couple of minutes only. Make your pitch.’
I took my time sitting down in a chair near his desk without being invited. I looked him over before I spoke. He wore a blue shirt with a red tie and red braces. His suit jacket hung on a valet hanger behind him next to the bar fridge. His desk held a phone and a computer, no blotter, no paper. A shelf against one wall was filled with videos and CDs, no books. Here, the paperless office had arrived.
‘I’m investigating the death of Simon Townsley,’ I said.
‘I thought you…’ He half rose from his chair, but getting up for Manny would be a major operation, so he sank back down. ‘Get out of here.’
‘Not yet. Why so angry? Something to hide?’
He would have been a good-looking man before fat overwhelmed his features and his hairline retreated towards the top of his head. The fat reduced his eyes to slits and the jowls crowded his mouth. A difficult face to read. He shook his head slightly and the jowls and chins bounced. ‘What would I have to hide? It’s just that I’m a busy man.’
‘You’ve got time to perve on your receptionist. I bet you invite her in a few times just to watch.’
He let that go by him. ‘Simon died of AIDS. End of story.’
‘Some people don’t think so.’
He nodded and the flesh jiggled again. ‘Jordan Elliott. The classics freak. As crazy as he is queer.’
‘You’re not? Queer I mean? The perving could be an act.’
Roche reached for the phone. ‘I’m going to call security.’
‘Do that,’ I said. ‘Get the safari suit up here and we’ll get a little blood on your carpet. Be fun.’
‘What d’ you fuckin’ want?’
‘What happened on that tour to turn Townsley’s health around?’
‘Nothing that I know of. He just packed up.’
‘I want a list of the places they played with the dates, and current addresses for the other members of the band. And I want to know where they’re playing next.’
‘Will you piss off if I do that?’
‘Sure.’
He picked up the phone and briefly spoke into it. He hung up and swung around to look at his view. Within a couple of minutes the fax machine on the desk began to chatter. He slid the sheets across to me. I looked at them.
‘What about the new singer, Jo-Ho whatever?’
‘What about her? She wasn’t there.’
I glanced at the sheets again. ‘I want her address too, and the roadie, Don Berry.’
‘Jo-Jo’s in a flat just down the way in New McLean Street. Number 4, flat 6. Wall-to-wall dykes. I haven’t a fuckin’ clue where Berry is. Roadies come and go.’
I put the sheets away and stood. ‘Okay, one last thing. You don’t say a word about me to these people. I’ll be able to tell if you have, believe me. And I won’t be happy.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s a pity you weren’t fair dinkum about providing security. You’re arsehole enough to be good at it.’
I tried the flat in New McLean Street. No one home. I drove to the office and phoned the members of the band one by one and got a no reply, a no longer connected and two answer machines before a human response. The woman who answered Seb Jones’ phone told me that the band was rehearsing in the back room of a pub in Woolloomooloo. Steve’s fax came through and I skimmed the pages. Of greatest interest at a quick look was a photograph of the band, including the roadie, taken during the last tour.
I shoved the fax sheets in my pocket and drove to the Loo. The rehearsal was more of a jam session and run-through with a few other musicians sitting in. I thought it showed chutzpah for the Stonewallers to replace a male singer with a female but dropped the idea when I heard Jo-Jo Moon. She was tiny and dark, possibly Aboriginal, and her voice was almost identical to Simon Townsley’s.
When they finished I managed to get a few minutes with each of the men by mentioning Steve Cook’s name. He had clout. Not with Jo-Jo though, she took off on a motorbike with a woman twice her size. I told the guys who I was and what I was doing. Reiss, who was older than I’d expected and straight-acting, was dismissive, almost aggressive. Jones was so stoned he was practically incapable of speech and I wondered how he’d managed to play. Craig Pappas seemed genuinely interested but couldn’t add anything to what Manny had told me: nothing had happened on the tour to account for Townsley’s collapse.
‘Maybe Don Berry knows something,’ Pappas said. ‘Him and Simon were real close, if you know what I mean.’
‘I thought Simon and Jordan were…’
Pappas shrugged. ‘So did Jordan.’
‘Where can I find Berry? Manny didn’t seem to know.’
‘I saw him the other day. He was asking if he could get in on the tour. I told him to see Manny but I wouldn’t fancy his chances.’
‘Why not?’
He mimed tourniqueting his arm. ‘I think he said he was at the Williams.’
Jesus.
‘Yeah, a fleabag, but you know how they get.’
The Williams is a small place off Bayswater Road. It had a brief period of prosperity during the Vietnam war when it was a favourite R amp;R spot but its gone steadily downhill, so that now it’s given over to transients, junkies and prostitutes. Twenty dollars got me the number of Berry’s room from a guy on the front desk who would probably have given it to me for ten. The room was on the second floor and it was smellorama territory all the way-stale tobacco, spilt beer, takeaway food, sweat, vomit and despair.
The door was ajar. I knocked and pushed it further open. The room was dark with the only light coming in through tears in the blind. A big man got up out of a chair and lurched towards me.
‘Have you got it, man?’
‘Got what?’ I squinted, slow to adjust to the gloom from an eye injury some years ago. He got bigger still, looming up out of the darkness, and I stepped back.
‘Fuck! You’re not him.’
It was Berry but he’d aged ten years since the photograph of a year ago. His hair was lank, he was unshaven and he smelt as bad as he looked.
‘I want to talk to you,’ I said.
‘Fuck off.’ He threw a punch and from the way he did it I could tell that he once knew a bit, but his reflexes were shot and I dodged it easily. Like an old street fighter, he didn’t mind missing and he had a better follow-up that caught me on the shoulder with some force, but he was off balance by now and I kneed him in the crotch and he went down hard.
I waited while he pulled himself up against the wall. I’d had it in mind that Berry might have got Simon Townsley on smack and contributed to his decline, but looking at this wreck it was hard to imagine the elegant singer having anything to do with him. Still, it was a year ago.
Berry was in withdrawal, shaking and sweating. I squatted down near him and showed him a twenty dollar note. ‘A few questions,’ I said.
He nodded, still clasping his hands over his crotch.
‘I’m told you and Simon Townsley had a thing going on that last tour.’
Peter Corris
CH28 — Taking Care of Business
‘Me ‘n a hundred others.’
‘Townsley was like that?’
‘He’d fuck anything; young, old and in between.’
‘Others in the band?’
‘No. All except. Fucked Doc Reiss’ son but.’
‘Reiss? The drummer?’
‘Yeah. Laughed about it behind Doc’s back.’
‘Why’s he called Doc?’
‘Dunno. Mad bastard. Threatened to pull the plug unless the boys performed in that fuckin rainstorm after the temperature had dropped to nothing. Do I get the money? I need a hit bad, man.’
‘He didn’t shoot up with you? Share a needle? You look like you could have hepatitis.’
He let go all he could manage in the way of a laugh. ‘Nah, Simon didn’t use; didn’t even drink. Too fuckin’ vain. You’re right about me though. I’ve got everything that’s going. You’re lucky I didn’t bite you.’
It was all I could do to stop myself from drawing back. I dropped the note between his legs and left.
I went to the nearest pub, bought a beer and read Steve Cook’s fax sheets carefully. One story was devoted to the trials of Carl ‘Doc’ Reiss, who’d studied medicine and qualified as a pharmacist before pursuing a musical career. He was forty-two and his sixteen-year-old son, Danny, had died of AIDS the year before last. After that, it wasn’t hard to put it together.
I went back to Woolloomooloo and found Reiss on his own in the rehearsal space, drinking beer and tapping on a snare drum.
‘You know,’ he said.
I sat down out of range of his sticks. ‘I think so. Townsley infected your son and you somehow doctored his medication. Then you helped him to get pneumonia.’
‘Are you wired?’
I shook my head, stood and pulled my shirt out of my pants and rotated.
‘Drop your strides.’
I did. He tapped a few times, then laid the sticks down. ‘He knew he was positive and he didn’t give a shit. He was one of those who reckoned they’d take as many with them as they could. Well, he took my Danny and I took him.’
‘How’d you do it?’
‘Easy. Substituted placebos for some of his pills. The bastard was on thirty pills a day. Some of the stuff that went into his cocktail rotted inside him. A while without his Bactrim and he was wide open. I know about that stuff.’
‘You insisted they play in the rain.’
He nodded. ‘I fucked the air-conditioner in the van as well. What’re you going to do?’
‘Talk to Jordan Elliott.’
‘Talk all you like. Tell him his lover kept score on the back of his guitar. He must’ve rooted fifty blokes on that tour. As for me, you’ll never prove a thing. I’m in favour of cremation, aren’t you?’
I thought about it but in the end decided to tell Elliott the truth. He listened and he seemed to age in front of my eyes. He wept unashamedly. ‘I wish you hadn’t told me. You’ve destroyed a dream.’
‘I’m sorry. That happens,’ I said.