Cavalier was kept in hospital overnight for observation and allowed to go home the following afternoon. The hits he had taken, and subsequent fight and struggle, had shaken him up but, two days later, he surprised Driscoll by insisting on writing a follow-up story on the gang war.
‘I want you to do the story of the assault,’ she said over the phone. ‘You’ve become the centre of it.’
‘No. The Thai cop is against it and so am I. Grant and the feds are too. A reporter should never make himself the centre of the story. We need to focus on the bigger picture.’
‘Which is?’
‘I’m working on it. But I can tell you it’s not a parochial little story about a reporter and four “heavies” being beaten up.’
‘But there’ll be a court case . . .’
‘We’ll worry about that when it happens.’
‘I really would like a story on this Thai cop. She sounds amazing!’
‘That won’t happen.’
‘C’mon, Vic. Aren’t you due to go to that silly cricket tournament in Thailand in April?’
‘I’m not going.’
Driscoll paused, awaiting further explanation. After several seconds, she asked, ‘Anything to do with the Labasta killing?’
Cavalier didn’t respond.
‘Look, I’ll pay for your airfare to Bangkok if you dig something up on her background. I want that story: “Poor Thai girl becomes super cop”.’
‘Forget it.’
Four days later, Cavalier received the results of his biopsy.
‘You have low-level cancer,’ the lanky, bespectacled young urologist told him. ‘The majority of males—admittedly, ten to twenty years older than you—have it. So, there’s no need to be concerned. But we have to monitor you. If your PSA remains steady, it’s okay. If it increases, we may have to do another biopsy, or perhaps . . .’
‘Remove the prostate?’
‘We’d have to think about further surgery.’
‘You might, but I won’t.’
‘There are options,’ the urologist said, ignoring his defiance. ‘Come and see me in six months.’
Despite this shadow, Cavalier wanted to see this result as one little win in a series of recent losses in his life.
*
His follow-up article centred on a ‘change of the fulcrum of world drug control and production (worth $1 trillion)’ from Mexico to South East Asia. ‘Drug lords are shifting headquarters because of the pressure on them on their home turf over the past five years.’
When Cavalier came into the paper, Driscoll invited him into her office, which was festooned with photos of her with famous people from Australia and elsewhere. Hugh Jackman was kissing her; Ron Barassi was handing her a football; Hilary Clinton was shaking hands. Great sportspeople and politicians, film stars and writers predominated.
She praised Cavalier for his global focus but added: ‘I still want the “Female Thai special investigator beats up four thugs” story. It would be terrific to finish your career here with that.’
‘As I told you,’ Cavalier said, ‘it’s not going to happen.’
‘So, my offer to pay for your airfare to Bangkok . . .’
‘I do need a break,’ he said, interrupting her, ‘but not there.’
‘Look, I’ll pay you extra for the article.’
Cavalier remained silent.
‘This is one freelance piece I’ll take from you.’
‘From the scrap heap?’
‘C’mon, Vic! I’ll run it in the weekend magazine, and plug it on the front page. But we have to have pictures. You said she was very attractive.’
He shook his head.
‘What would a Thai trip cost? Five thousand dollars? I’ll pay all your airfares and expenses.’
‘That’s generous,’ he replied, his eyebrows raised, ‘but no. Funny how now that I’m almost out of here, you want me more than ever!’
‘I promise that after you do this one, I’ll personally give any story you present as a freelance serious consideration.’
‘No.’
‘Ten thousand dollars!’ she said. ‘Five thousand words all up. Two thousand five hundred words for the paper and a further two and a half thousand for a spill onto the paper’s blog.’
After a few moments, in which he appeared to be considering the offer, he replied, ‘No.’
‘I don’t understand you, Vic. This is a chance to do a big story. I thought you’d jump at it. Have you lost your bottle or something?’
‘Maybe I have,’ he said, standing, ‘now I’m losing my job! Or maybe I’m just a washed-up hack, happy to sit back and count my payout.’
‘Have you had counselling about the attack?’ Driscoll inquired, sounding solicitous.
‘No.’
‘You should, after such a traumatic experience.’
‘I’ll deal with it,’ he said, opening the door, ‘my way.’