thinking. I put on some music, B. B. King, got out my pen and pad and tried to arrange what I’d learned, see what directions it suggested. Nothing came, too early. All I had were male and female signs on bits of paper with names and some bits with signs but no names — like the woman who delivered the baby, if there was a baby. And a bit with a male sign on it and a question mark. I gave up on it, grilled some meat and tossed some salad. The beer and Bacardi were old memories and I poured some riesling down on top of them.
After the meal I used the telephone. All organisations present confidential fronts — especially about their personnel
— which can be cracked if you know how. It took me three calls to breach the defences of the City Cab Co. Hilda Bourke was the only woman who’d been driving for the Company two years back and she was still with them, on the road just then. I persuaded the base to get her to call at my place by promising to pay for her time — a taxi ride to nowhere.
While I was waiting I got my. 38 and ammunition out of their oilcloth wrapping and mated them. I put on a shoulder holster and tucked the gun away. A car horn sounded softly outside. I turned off the lights and went out to the cab. The driver was a stocky woman in her forties; blonde hair gleamed in the car’s interior light under her head scarf. She had a strong, tired face devoid of make-up.
‘Hilda Bourke?’ I opened the front passenger door.
‘That’s right. Mr Hardy?’ Her voice was pure Sydney, a slightly nasal drawl.
I got in. ‘I want to ask you a few questions about a fare you handled. I’ll pay you. I cleared it with your base.’
‘Stuff them, it’s a change. I might not remember anyway.’
‘You should, it was out of the ordinary — a tramp you took up to a big place in Rushcutters Bay.’
‘Jesus, you’re going back a bit.’
‘Yes, but you do recall it?’
‘Mm, pretty well. I waited for him and he gave me a tip — five bucks I think. He was pretty drunk.’ She said it apologetically, as if it was against the ethics of the job to take big tips from drunks. ‘Poor bugger,’ she went on, ‘I’ve thought about him since. I wonder what he wanted up there?’
‘I know what he wanted,’ I said. ‘What I’m interested in is where he came from.’
‘That’s easy. I took him back to where I picked him up, the Noble Briton pub.’
‘At the Cross.’
‘Right, little fare and a big tip like I said.’
‘He hailed you from the street?’
‘No I think there was a call from the pub. He looked pretty rough but had the street right. Sorry, I can’t recall it.’
‘That’s okay. Did he behave himself in the car?’
She shot me a look but she had no vanity. ‘Yeah, no chucking or burning smokes. He was a gentleman really, spoke well.’
‘He went into the pub when you dropped him?’
‘Like a shot.’
I gave her ten dollars.
‘Thanks, I hope that old codger’s not in trouble.’
‘Why d’you say that?’
‘You look like trouble to me, Mr Hardy. Hey, can I take you to the pub? You’ve paid.’
I shook my head, thanked her and got out. She u-turned and drove off. I coaxed the Falcon into life and drove off sedately towards the Cross.
They’ve gutted it of course, the Cross, stripped away nearly everything that made it a unique place. But coming up from the empty city and the quiet park, the Cross still had some glamour. It still reminded you that not everybody lived tidy and safe. There were still bodies for sale, gambling games older than civilisation, men-women and women-men, phoneys and genuine seekers after truth.
The Noble Briton is a survivor; it’s just out of range of the developer’s knife and looks defiant. A few tiles had peeled off the front, exposing the grey pitted cement beneath, but the 1930s beer advertisements were intact.
The public bar was like a thousand others. There were a few stools around the bar, a clear space near the wall-mounted TV set and some benches around the tiled walls. Two pool tables were tucked in near a dartboard. I ordered a beer from a thin, pale barmaid with an enormous, teased-up blonde hairdo. I sipped and looked the few early starting customers over. None looked like Henry Brain.
The barmaid teetered up and down behind the bar like a colt in a stall. She had on a see-through blouse, skin-tight black jeans and enormous heels. With the fairy-floss hair she must have topped six feet. I watched her with interest and she caught me watching.
‘You want something else, mister?’ Her voice was like a noise from a sheet-metal shop. I spun two fifty cent pieces on the bar.
‘Have a drink.’
‘Ta.’ She grabbed one of the coins in mid-spin and dropped it into a glass by the till. I spun the other coin and she plucked that up and dropped it into the Help the Blind tin. Charm having failed I fell back on professionalism. I showed her my licence to investigate.
‘I’m looking for a man. I understand he drinks here, or did.’
Her pencil-line eyebrows shot up. ‘Ooh, it’s like a movie, isn’t it?’
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘This is just a legal matter, nothing exciting. But I’m on expenses…’
‘What’s that mean?’ She flapped her hand impatiently at a customer at the far end of the bar who was holding up his glass.
‘Serve the man,’ I said, ‘I’ll tell you when you get back.’
I put the licence away and drank. The barmaid came back and leaned over me like a crane.
‘You was saying?’
‘I’m going to describe a man to you. See if it fits anyone you know.’
She nodded, dead keen. The hair flopped dangerously forward and I could see light through the top six inches. I put together the descriptions I’d been given and delineated Henry Brain. She let me finish, then bared her small, even teeth in a triumphant smile.
‘Got him, that’s Perry.’
‘Perry?’
‘Perry Mason, you know, the lawyer on TV? That’s what he’s called in here. He reckons he was a lawyer once and he can do the talk — gentlemen of the jury and all that. Course, the only way he’d get in court now would be to get thirty days. Yeah, Perry Mason, you remember.’
I did, on black and white television, played by Raymond Burr who bought an island in Fiji that I coveted. There was irony in it. Here, where there was a dream in every glass, Henry Brain was given high rank.
‘That’s the man,’ I said. ‘He was a lawyer. Will he be in tonight?’
‘I reckon. I’ve been here five years and he’s never missed except when he’s sick. He’ll be in around eight.’
I separated ten dollars from the thin roll and pushed it towards her. She made a pushing-back motion.
‘Keep it. Give it to Perry. He needs it more than me.’
‘I’ll have another beer then. You like him — Perry?’
She pulled the middy. ‘He’s okay. Doesn’t get stroppy and goes when it’s time. He’s okay.’
I sat over the beer and smoked a couple of cigarettes. It was just after eight when Brain came in. It was a warm evening but he was wearing the derelict’s overcoat. With some of them it’s their cupboards, their shelter, their address. The pub was half-full, with darts and one pool game going. Brain cranked himself up onto a stool and thrust an arm into his overcoat pocket. It disappeared to above the elbow. I went around and stood behind him.
‘Good evening Mr Brain. Can I buy you a drink?’
He lurched around and almost fell off the stool. I steadied him. The cloth of the coat was greasy with years of dirt, the arm felt like a broomstick wrapped in rags. I held him until he was firm on the seat.
‘Thank you sir, you are a gentleman.’ His voice was a ruin, a desecration of what had been a fine instrument. I ordered two double scotches from the barmaid. Brain raised a finger to her skinny back.
