Make Me Rich Read Free Page B

it. I want you to take this on. Find Ray, talk to him. Find out what’s going on. Get between him and that slime somehow, before he goes wrong.”
    â€œHe might have gone wrong already.’’
    â€œI know it. I’m prepared for that. But I’m sure Ray’s basically solid. There’s something … what do the kids say? … bugging him. I know it doesn’t take long to go off the tracks. All the more reason to step in. Will you do it?”
    It didn’t take much thinking about. I liked Guthrie, and the few times I’d seen Liam Catchpole up close I’d wanted to go and have a shower. Youth is worth saving. It sounded like a more worthwhile way to make money than some of the things I’d been doing lately.
    â€œI’ll try,” I said. “The money you mentioned is too much—I’ll take seven fifty for a retainer, and work for a hundred and twenty-five a day, plus expenses.”
    â€œBonus for results,” he said.
    â€œFair enough.”
    We shook hands and I felt self-conscious as some departing guests looked at us curiously. Guthrie’s hand was hard and corrugated, dry to the touch. He stepped back; he seemed almost sprightly. “Just come here to try to cheer myself up,” he said. “Pat couldn’t face it. I didn’t think I’d do anything positive about Ray.”
    â€œDon’t get your hopes too high,” I said. “You can’t make people be good, you can’t make them be grateful, you can’t make them be anything. Not really.”
    â€œWhy d’you say that? About being grateful?”
    â€œMost parents want their kids to be grateful.”
    â€œYou got any kids, Hardy?”
    I shook my head. “I’d probably want them to be grateful if I did. And they probably wouldn’t be.” I grinned at him. “Too disappointing.”
    â€œI don’t want him grateful. I just want him … safe.” He handed me a card; his colour was better already—action did him good. He checked his watch. “Ring me later today. Okay? We’ll get started.”
    It was 2 a.m. I did a last check on the people and the silverware. Nothing seemed to be missing and when I put Mr and Mrs Olsson, who seemed to have shot for the “drunkest couple” title, in their cab I was through for the night.
    Roberta was snoring gently in an armchair. One brown breast had fallen out of her dress and she had one silver shoe in her lap. I shook her gently.
    â€œRoberta. Party’s over.”
    She opened one eye theatrically. “Wasn’t it awful?” she groaned.
    â€œIt was fine—great success.”
    â€œI’ll send you a cheque. Thanks, Cliff.” She dropped the eyelid.
    I collected my jacket and took off my tie. In the kitchen I annoyed the clearing-up caterers by making myself a chicken sandwich. I took it out to the car with me, chewing slowly and wishing I had some wine to go with it. But I gave up keeping wine in the car a long time ago. As I started the engine I remembered Helen Broadway. I hadn’t seen her go and I didn’t know where she lived. I could ask Roberta—but not just now.

3
    I got home to Glebe around 2.30 a.m. I’ve given up tucking the car away in the backyard; the strain of the backing and filling is too much and the local vandals seem to have decided my car isn’t worth their attention. The street is narrow, with a dogleg; my place is just past the dogleg. I let the wheels drift up on to the kerb and slotted her in—slapdab outside.
    I glanced at a newspaper Hilde, my tenant, had left lying around while I got a few last dribbles from a wine cask. We had a commission of enquiry into the early release of prisoners scheme on the front page, and a commission of enquiry into the conduct of boxing on the back. Both dodgy was about all the reaction I could muster. I took the glass up to bed; there was light showing under