Free Make Me Rich by Peter Corris Page A

came up with my usual result: two of the four profile shots were blurred, the others were okay. Only one of the almost full-face shots was worth looking at but it was pretty good. You wouldn’t have called “the cop” photogenic, but the camera had caught the full venality of him, the forcefulness of the fleshy face and malevolence of his down-turned mouth. The face stood out clearly against the indistinct background—if you knew him in life you’d know him from this picture.
    I ran off a few copies, cleaned up my own mess the way my mother taught me, thanked Primo and went off to phone Frank Parker. He was at home, doing nothing, and invited me over to see him.
    â€œBullet-proof vests?” I said.
    â€œTennis gear, we’ll have a game.”
    Frank’s place was in Harbord and the suburb looked particularly well on the clear, bright day. The street was middle-income, middle-mortgage territory. Frank’s house was one of the smallest; he must have been one of the few residents without children. Signs of them were everywhere around the other places—bikes, toys, and icy pole wrappers trapped at the feet of gate posts.
    Frank was already in his tennis clothes; I went inside and changed into the down-market tennis gear I keep in the car—and we walked a couple of blocks to the local courts.Parker’s house had a strange, alien air to it and he seemed glad to be out on the street. He was nervous though, and he bounced the balls continually on the walk.
    The three cement courts had good surfaces and clear markings. Parker spoke briefly to the manager, who lived in a house beside the courts in what looked like happy semi-retirement. The nets were in a big box; Parker dug one out and we got set up. There was no one else around to play and it occurred to me that Parker was a sitting duck if someone wanted to take him out now. I mentioned this while we were measuring the net.
    He whacked the top vigorously. “Anyone thinks I’m going to sit around going crazy, they can think again. I’m not sure those go’s at me have been fair dinkum anyway.” We satisfied ourselves about the net height and Parker nudged his racquet cover with his foot—the shape of his pistol was clear under the vinyl.
    It became obvious almost from the hit-up that Frank was about a 10 per cent better tennis player than me. His backhand was confident, mine isn’t. He’d even learned how to impart some topspin to it, a thing unimaginable in the days when I learned to play. Against that, he had a tendency to hit his serve too hard which made him liable to double fault. He had quickness and range at the net, but lobbing was my forte.
    It was a beautiful day, and Liam Catchpole and murderous Mazdas and police corruption seemed far distant things as we played. We both had authoritative forehands, and some of our best rallies were of that standard that lifts you out of yourself and gives you a glimpse of what real sporting excellence might be like.
    Frank won the first set 6-3; I pegged him back in the second when the double faults began to creep in and I got a good percentage of my lobs over his head and in. At 6-all we decided to play a lingering death tie-breaker, which I won 9-7.
    It was good to be walking back with a sweat up, despite the beginnings of a blister on my hand. Frank had stopped bouncing the balls.
    â€œKenny Rosewall grew up around here,” he said. “Played on those courts.”
    â€œYeah? I wonder where he is now?”
    â€œDallas, Miami, one of those places.”
    â€œEver see him?”.
    â€œBloody oath. I saw him beat Hoad for the Australian title in 1955. Straight sets.”
    â€œRemember the score, Frank?”
    â€œNever forget it: 9-7, 6-4, 6-4. Amazing man.”
    â€œThat’s right. What d’you think of Cash?”
    We talked tennis until we got back to his empty house. I showered and changed, and joined him in the kitchen.
    â€œI