Pam had told me I’d find Keith Newman at a pub in Darlinghurst called The Cloverleaf. He held court there.
I Googled him on my iPhone. Over the years, Newman had worked for half a dozen prominent Sydney underworld figures. He was a good lawyer, saved the bacon of some key crime figures in the late seventies. Made a fortune in the eighties … sources unknown. He then invested it with some former clients whose business activities were what might be called “nebulous”.
Newman’s investments had paid off – he’d turned his nest egg into a golden hen and retired to a mansion on Chinamans Beach on the Lower North Shore, a place known to Sydneysiders as Ka-ching-mans Beach.
The Cloverleaf was exactly the sort of dump a wealthy businessman with a yen for the “dark side” might frequent. It stank of beer, lighting low, lots of slot machines.
I strode in and immediately spotted Keith sitting at the bar. It was still only five o’clock, early for most of the pub’s clientele by the look of it. There were half a dozen guys in the room.
“Mr. Newman?” I said, pulling up a stool and glancing at the bartender. “Fosters please.”
“And you are?”
“Sorry, Craig Gisto.” I extended a hand. Newman ignored it. “I’m actually looking for Geoff Hewes.” I withdraw my hand. “Heard he likes this pub.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Yeah, Craig. Why do you wanna see Mr. Hewes?”
“I’m a journalist. I wanted to get his take on the new lending tax the government’s slapping on the industry.”
Newman’s jaw tightened. “I saw him yesterday. Should be in later.”
I nodded.
“So which paper did you say you worked for?” Newman added, studying my face.
“I didn’t …. But it’s the Sydney Morning Herald.”
A song came on the jukebox. The Moody Blues, Nights in White Satin. I’ve always hated it.
“So you must know Larry pretty well? Larry Pinnard?”
I smiled. “We don’t work in the same department. I’m ‘Features’.”
“Sammy, then? Sammy Taylor? He interviewed me a couple of months back.”
I beamed. “Indispensable. Sam the Man!”
Keith lowered himself from the stool. He was much shorter than I’d guessed. He flicked a glance at the bartender who’d been listening as he poured the beer.
A guy appeared at the end of the bar. I couldn’t quite work out where he’d sprung from … and he wasn’t easy to hide. Six-five, six-six, shoulders like a bull, a face like a sow in labor, shock of jet black hair.
“Patrick,” Keith said, quietly. “Could you escort this gentleman from the premises please?”
The goon rolled over, grabbed my arm.
“Did I offend you in some way?” I asked.
“Yeah, buddy, you did,” Keith Newman snapped. “Sammy Taylor died a year ago, God rest his soul. I hate liars and I hate nosy parkers. So piss off …” He nodded to Patrick. I was yanked from my seat and dragged across the stinking, beer-sodden carpet.
“I wouldn’t bother putting up a fight,” Newman announced. “We call my big friend here ‘Borg’… ‘Resistance is futile’!”
Chapter 55
BUT I DID resist, couldn’t help myself. And in return, I got a smack to my right ear that made me feel as though my brain was shaking in my cranium. Maybe it was.