birthday party a few weeks ago, that’s the son and heir, charming young man. In the recreation wing. Wing, mark you, it’s like a resort, two bars, the pool, billiard tables, gymnasium, sauna. And then there’s this games room — electronic shooting things, old pinball machines, you name it, my dear.’
‘A library would certainly complete the facilities,’ I said. ‘I look forward to receiving your invitation.’
Mrs Purbrick saw us to the side door. On the way, she ran a hand over my buttocks, no more than an appraisal, the touch a trainer might give a horse’s rump at the sales. It had been a while since anyone had done that to me.
‘You will come for drinks, won’t you, Jack?’
‘It’ll require legislation to keep me away.’
‘And make sure the darling Mr Taub comes.’
Going back across the river, the empty van bouncing and squeaking, I studied Boz’s forearms. Long, sinews showing, just a sheen of pale hair.
‘So,’ she said. ‘Hangin out with the rich and famous. I was on a film set where Sam Cundall was big-notin himself.’
‘In films too, is he?’
‘Had money in it. Just for tax. And the possibility of sex. Dud film.’
‘I haven’t been to drinks for years,’ I said. ‘I’ll have to go if the invite comes through. Charlie could use another library job.’
Boz gave me an unbelieving look. ‘What about this Cannon Ridge business?’ she said. ‘Reckon it’s bent?’
We talked about the politics of the state. She had no respect for anyone. Outside Charlie’s, she said, not looking at me, ‘That was quick. Short-time. What d’ya reckon?’
‘The deal’s the deal.’
She looked at me, left hand went over her stubble. ‘No. Make me a lesser offer.’
I thought about it. ‘You pay for a late lunch.’
Dodging drug dealers and their customers, we walked to a Lebanese place in Smith Street where they knew me.
Seated in the window, I said, ‘How’s the film business?’
Boz shook her head. ‘Shithouse. I’m thinkin of givin it away. There’s a bloke called Sewell moves a lot of art and antiques, wants to pack it in, sell the business. Problem is I can’t work out what I’d be buyin.’
‘How’s that?’
‘It’s about ninety per cent goodwill, no contracts or anythin, just customers he’s had for twenty years. They could take one look at me and say so long Maryanne.’
‘You know that number? Tell him you want to go through the books. Work out the percentage of turnover from each of the regular customers. Then go and see them and ask if they’ll carry on hiring the firm if you buy it.’
She looked at me, fork poised. ‘I could do that?’
‘If he says no, walk away. How old’s this bloke?’
Through the window, a few metres away, I could see a boy of about thirteen, a thin boy, face sharpened by the street, peachfuzz on his chin. He was someone’s child, lost into the world like a puppy into an open drain, now waiting for something, someone, agitated, scratching, licking his lips, rubbing his small nose. The person came, older, bigger, stood close to him, obscured him.
‘Fifty maybe, around there,’ said Boz.
The boy was gone. Two girls, older, late teens, dirty hair, faces pierced in three places, were on the spot, heads moving, looking in different directions. One clutched a plastic bag.
‘You’ll need a restraint of trade in the contract,’ I said.
‘Pardon?’
‘How old are you?’
‘Am I asking a stupid question?’
‘No. I’m just losing touch with ages. I need a baseline.’
‘Thirty-six. A week ago.’
‘Happy birthday.’
‘Thank you.’
Her eyes were the colour of wet slate.
‘Restraint of trade. It stops him selling you the business and then starting a new one in opposition to you. He’s young enough to try that.’
‘Jesus,’ she said, ‘I know fuck-all about business.’
‘Do the looking at the books bit,’ I said, ‘then come and see me about the contract. I’m cheap.’
‘McCoy says living opposite your office is a risk.’
She’d been told the story.
‘McCoy likes to generalise. He’s had one unfortunate experience in the street. No-one forced him to throw his chainsaw into a passing vehicle.’
She paid and we walked back to Charlie’s in halfhearted rain. I went around to the driver’s side of the van with her. Her hair held drops of water. She brushed a hand over her scalp, dispelled the moisture. ‘Got any other libraries to put in, I’m your person,’ she said, getting into the cab. ‘I like your libraries.’
‘The person of choice. You will be that person.’
She looked down at me. ‘Jack,’ she said, ‘not to fuck about, I suppose you’re taken.’
So plain a question.
‘At this moment in time,’ I said, ‘no.’
‘I’m the same. Well, give me a ring. Business or social.’ She started the engine. ‘Here’s looking down at you, kid.’
I watched her take the top-heavy old van around the tight corner, stood for a while, thinking. Boz.
No. The world was already too much with me.
13
At the office, the answering machine was signalling me.
Jack, it’s Morris. Listen, I want a letter to Krysis. The neighbour says the bastard’s storing stuff in the garage again. Tell him he’s trespassing and we’ll kick his arse. Today, Jack, do it today. Cheers.
Morris, father of Stan the publican.
Jack, Morris again. I forgot to say the prick’s pushed the offer up another thirty grand. I told him not interested. He says he wants to talk to you. Tell him your instructions are he should piss off and stop wasting my time. Okay? Cheers.
Ditto. Someone wanted to buy his two adjoining properties in Brunswick, a more than generous offer as I understood it, but Morris couldn’t contemplate life without them.
Don’t let them tell you Robbie Colburne was just a casual barman.
A woman. Them? Who would they be? Xavier Doyle and company?
Jack, the Brunswick Street one, that lease finishes next month. Bastard rang the other day, wants to talk. Don’t want to know him, he’s out.
Morris, again. His Brunswick Street tenant was indeed deserving of the slipper, an habitual nonpayer.
I sat down and gave Robbie Colburne some thought. Queensland. He’d told The Green Hill he’d worked in Queensland. I rang a man in Sydney called D.J. Olivier. He said he’d ring me back. As far as my assets went, my credibility with D.J. ranked just behind my half of the boot factory. Then I opened my mail, threw most of the contents into the bin, took that into the back room and emptied it into a green garbage bag. After that, I made a cup of tea and sat at my table to read the latest issue of the Law Institute Journal. There were many things of interest in it, even some I understood, including recent findings of the legal profession tribunal regarding professional misconduct. Accounts of the venality of some of my colleagues left me greatly distressed. Distressed but not surprised.
