Free Comeback by Peter Corris

financing deal that would have netted him a massive commission. Costello had a reputation as a vicious and vindictive operator who’d been mentioned in several ICAC inquiries although no action had ever been taken against him.
     
    The shares in Costello’s holding company had suddenly gone down, I was told by Tony Hunt, a blogger who specialised in inside information on the big players. That information cost Ray Frost some of his money.
     
    ‘Why?’ I asked.
     
    ‘Silly question,’ Tony said.
     
    ‘Doesn’t there have to be a reason?’
     
    ‘Not really. The whole thing is a pack of cards house built on sand, to mix metaphors. A fantasy. That’s what makes it so enjoyable to watch.’
     
    ‘Could it be that ICAC is closing in on him?’
     
    ‘You’re no fun, Hardy. I like to think of it all as beyond reason and rationality.’
     
    ‘That’s not what you say when it comes down to paying you for information.’
     
    ‘Sad, but true. You want me to find out what’s scaring the market about Ben? It’ll cost you.’
     
    ‘Do it. Please.’
     
    It sounded promising but it fizzled.
     
    ‘Sorry,’ Tony said when he rang back two days later.
     
    ‘About what?’
     
    ‘That I couldn’t bleed you for more money. The cat’s out of the bag.’
     
    ‘I don’t like paying for metaphors.’
     
    ‘Like I said, you’re no fun. Ben’s got leukemia and is on the way out. It was supposed to be a secret while he shifted the money around but it leaked out. Would you mind telling me why you’re interested, Hardy? Information is a two-way street, you know.’
     
    I declined.
     
    I met Dominic O’Grady at the Botte D’oro restaurant in Leichhardt. O’Grady was a former private inquiry agent who’d turned to journalism. He’d worked for Sterling Security Inc and now wrote for the online investigative newsletter The Sentinel , run by my old friend Harry Tickener. O’Grady was a gourmand who’d undoubtedly order a massive and expensive lunch. I put in a long workout session at the gym in preparation for the meal and the wine that were bound to tempt me.
     
    O’Grady was there before me, sitting massively in his chair by the window. He’d taken his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves, preparing for some serious eating. His belly kept him back from the table a fair way, but he was a big man with long arms. He was working his way through a bowl of olives and one of nuts. There was a bottle of white wine in the ice bucket and his glass was half full. The table napkin was tucked into his shirt below the first button and spread down towards, but not quite reaching, his gut. He looked up from the menu he was studying with the intensity of a stamp collector inspecting a penny black.
     
    ‘Hardy, you bastard,’ he rumbled. ‘Good to see you. You did say you were paying, didn’t you?’
     
    ‘Gidday, Dom. My client is.’
     
    We shook hands and I sat. He poured me a glass. I almost winced when I saw the bottle—French, of course.
     
    ‘Ah, they were the days. Expense account lunches, padded out to buggery.’
     
    ‘You don’t look as though you’re wasting away.’
     
    He patted his stomach affectionately.
     
    ‘Now, why I wanted to see you—’
     
    ‘No, no, you philistine. First things first.’ He smiled at the waitress who approached with another menu. She was dark and attractive, spike heels, tight skirt, lacy top. O’Grady emptied his glass. The waitress filled it and the bottle was empty.
     
    ‘Antipasto, large,’ O’Grady said. ‘I think then the swordfish. I’ll cogitate on the dessert.’
     
    ‘Chips and salad or vegetables, Dominic?’
     
    ‘The former and another bottle of course. Hardy?’
     
    ‘Swordfish good here, is it?’
     
    ‘Everything is good, but the swordfish is superb.’
     
    I ordered the swordfish with vegetables. The wine was cold, dry and fresh tasting—about as much appraisal as I can give the stuff.
     
    ‘I understood Bobby Forrest was