Torn Apart by Peter Corris Read Free Book Online Page A

said.
    â€˜Cooking?’
    â€˜I wish. We’ve got pizza coming. I thought you were it.’
    â€˜Sorry.’
    She smiled again, her lip ring glinting in the light, and lifted the beer. ‘You’re welcome.’
    I followed her down the passage past a couple of rooms, one with a whiff of marijuana leaking out. The kitchen was galley-style, made spacious by a wall being knocked out and an archway constructed. There was a big pine table in the centre and an even bigger antique oak butcher’s bench along one wall. Speakers hung at various points around the room and most of the surfaces were covered with magazines, books, newspapers and CDs.
    â€˜Your visitor, James,’ the woman said, ‘bearing gifts.’
    O’Day was in his early forties, middle-sized and lean. His Aboriginal ancestry was becoming more pronounced with the passing years. He seemed darker and heavier around the brows than when I’d last seen him. He wore a few marks of other men’s fists on his face, but not many. He was sitting at the table tapping on the keyboard of a notebook computer.
    â€˜Cliff, good to see you, brother. Saw you at the Moody fight. Still interested in the sweet science, eh? This is Vicki.’
    â€˜Now and then, Jimmy. Hello, Vicki.’
    She’d taken the tops off three of the stubbies in a matter of seconds. She handed me one. ‘Hi, Cliff,’ she said. ‘Is this going to be, like, secret men’s business?’
    O’Day looked up from the screen, accepted the stubby and shook his head. ‘Don’t reckon. Hey, Cliff, what’s a good rhyme for silver?’
    I sat and drank. ‘There isn’t one.’
    â€˜No shit?’ Vicki said. ‘Bet there is. I’ll Google it.’
    O’Day laughed as she left the room. He logged off and took a swig. ‘Good chick, Vic. Shit, I’ve got rhymes on the bloody brain. What’s the reason for the very welcome visit, man?’
    â€˜D’you remember a gig you did a few years back at some pub in Hamilton? There was a fight and a fire.’
    â€˜Yeah, at the Miner’s Arms. That was a bad scene. A woman died, I heard. We got out okay, in fact we helped a few people get out.’
    â€˜Who was the owner, or the licensee?’
    â€˜One and the same—bloke named Reg Geary.’
    â€˜You had dealings with him, did you? What was he like?’
    â€˜He was a prick—very tight with a buck. We didn’t get paid for the gig. That was natural, I suppose, under the circumstances. We worked there again later, but not for him.’
    â€˜How was that?’
    â€˜We did a benefit to help them raise money to rebuild the pub. Glad to do it. We had a big following there.’ He took another pull on the stubby. ‘Why the questions?’
    â€˜I was wondering whether he could’ve been responsible for something that happened here a few days ago. A mate of mine got shot.’
    â€˜In Glebe. Yeah, I read about that and saw it on the news. Didn’t connect it with you, but. That’s rough. Sorry. As I said, Reg was a real bastard and I know he was bitter about what happened. Not just about his wife. I heard that he’d fucked up the insurance somehow and blamed everyone but himself. He lost the pub. He might’ve been crazy enough to do something like that, I suppose.’
    â€˜So he’s not in Hamilton anymore?’
    â€˜No, he came to Sydney. Tried to get into promotion. Hang on.’
    He found his mobile under a CD and punched in some numbers. ‘Calling my agent. Hello, Gordon, James. Yeah, look, d’you know how to get in touch with Reg Geary? What? Of course I’m not wanting to work for him. Mate of mine wants to see him about something. Yeah, yeah, that right? Okay. Thanks, Gordie. See you Saturday.’
    He rang off, drained his can and scribbled on the back of a magazine. ‘Gordie says Geary’s in a psychiatric unit in