autobiography which made me feel that the people I dealt with werent so bad after all. My tennis gear was lying in a corner where Id dropped it after my last game with Terry. I went to sleep thinking about her long brown thighs.
3
I never took to jogging, and riding a bicycle around Sydney these days is no fun, what with the foul air and the traffic. Like a lot of other people Ive found that walking is the best exercise. You dont jar things, tend not to step in potholes and dog shit and you can think while youre doing it. I do a few kilometres in Glebe most mornings unless its pissing down rain or I have to be somewhere early, and I try not to let that happen. It was March and cooler than it should have been after a summer that hadnt been up to much. I walked briskly through the park along with joggers, power-walkers, dog-walkers and others just walking.
When I moved to Glebe in the early seventies, you couldnt get down to the water below Jubilee Park. There were rows of old tin and fibro buildings in the waya ships chandler, a timber yard, an auto-electrician. That all got cleared away and the park was extended to the waterline with more trees and a paved walkway running all the way around to the canal. It was a 100 per cent improvement, and the upgrade is still going on to the west towards Johnston Street. More buildings have been cleared and the land detoxified. The plan is to let a section of it revert back to the wetland it once was. Good news for the birds. Normally, I go up the Crescent past the Lew Hoad Reserve to Bridge Road and make my way home that way, but since the work started on the Harold Park Paceway Ive changed my route. Theyre extending the car park and building a stand out over Johnstons Creek. I dont approve. You used to be able to walk alongside the creek. It wasnt the flashest walk in the world, but at least it was public space. I wandered into the football ground and sat in the stands for a think.
A lot of birds sat there with me as if waiting for the wetlands to arrive. I was unsettled by some of the changes going on around herethe flight path, the Paceway, the development in Ross Street where a hectare or so of warehouses had come down, the Glebe Island Bridge for gods sake. Id attended a meeting protesting the plan to build a marina on Blackwattle Bay and that was about as environmentally active as Id been. I wondered, not for the first time, if I shouldnt think about moving. I didnt need a three-bedroom house with planes flying overhead, but I couldnt think of anywhere else Id like to be except Bondi, and they were sure to start changing that soon.
I threaded my way through the streets and lanes that lead back to Bridge Road and the familiar sights and smells drove thoughts of moving out of my head. And no planes went over. I went home, showered and shaved and rang Frank Parker, who I knew would be at his desk at ten past nine. Frank and I go back a long way. He married Hilde Stoner who was a tenant in this selfsame house once, and they called their son after me. Franks been pretty much put out to graze in administration, but every now and then he gets his hands dirty. We exchanged the usual male bullshit and I asked him what he knew about Barry White.
A pity, that, he said.
How so?
He was the right sort of bloke for the job, or seemed to be. But the bastards at the Loo corrupted him. Youd have had to be a saint to resist some of the stuff that was on offer around there back then. Can I ask why youre interested?
Id have to give Frank some of the story to get what I wanted, but I wanted to intrigue him first. Frank Parker was a man with great curiosity. A job. Hes got some information that could lead somewhere.
Oh, very helpful. Just ask me anything, Ill tell you everything I know.
Hang on a bit, Frank. Was he ever inside?
Let me think. Yeah, he did a very short stretch for conspiracy. I forget the details.
Leo Grogan?
Jesus, youre dipping deep in the bucket now. What is this, Cliffa rollcall of crooked cops?
Was Grogan crooked?
You bloodhound, you. Not especially, as I remember. I worked with him for a while, if you could call what he did working. The man was drunk from morning to night. Just could not stand to have a dry throat. Come on, Cliff. I cant see the connection.
The connection is Ramona Beckett and a reward for information leading to blah, blah. Can you find out who was on the investigating team?
Sure.
Id like to talk to him.
Its twenty years ago. He could be dead or in Noosa.
Seventeen years. Ill go to Noosa if I have to. If number ones dead Ill settle for number two or three. Its important, Frank.
Look, Cliff, weve taken on a sort of consultant to look into old unsolved cases when anything comes up. Names Max Savage, good bloke.
Oh, yeah.
If I help you with this, can you bring him in?
Id have to think about that.
He wouldnt want a bite of your reward. Hes OK for money.
I dont know
Sorry, Cliff. Thems the terms. Ill get you all the dope I can, if youll play. But Max can get you more, much more. Added to that, I think youd like him.
I said nothing, intending the silence to be discouraging.
Tell you what. See how you go for a day or two. Ill brief Max and hell scratch around. If you decide to call him in Ill set up a meeting and Ill advise him from my high position in the force to give you every possible assistance.
Youre a manipulative bastard.
He laughed. You just got out manipulated for once, thats all.
The Cleveland is a boxing pub. The walls carry photos of old-time fighters and some not so old. Les Darcy and Jimmy Carruthers hold pride of place above the bar; Griffos up there with Dave Sands and Vic Patrick and Tommy Burns and Jack Carroll. A couple of non-Australians get a grudging spotArchie Moore, Freddie Dawson, Emile Griffith. The shrinking band of former fighters gathers there for reunions from time to time and they drink there regularlynot at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday though. There are two pool tables and couple of pinball machines but the pugs have been known to take steps if the players get too noisy when theyre doing serious things like discussing whether Jack Carroll couldve taken Benny Leonard or how Fenech wouldve gone against Famechon.
Its not what youd call a dressy establishment. I wore drill trousers, a dark blue shirt and a cream linen jacket that has seen much better days. Id eaten a ham sandwich and a couple of cold boiled potatoes before leaving home as blotter for the beer Id be drinking. Its a trade thats hard on the liver. I spotted Barry White in a miasma of tobacco smoke at the end of the L-shaped bar. Just above where he sat, Ron Richards, who could beat anybody on his night, was glowering behind his gloves. White raised his hand to me and then signalled the barman. Fuck me, I thought, hes going to buy me a drink. Then I remembered that it was my money. The middy was on the bar, sitting on a much-used coaster, when I got there.
Light? That right? White said. He was on a stool with two others drawn up near it.
I sat. Thats right. Thanks. Cheers.
Yeah. Whyd you drink that piss?
I took a long pull at the beer. Have you tasted it lately? Its improved.
He sighed. I suppose Ill be on it, or worse, if I get on this health kick.
Dont worry, Barry. Theres a way to go before you reach that point.
True. Leos late.
First hurdle.
He drained his glass and pointed to it for the barmans benefit. Dont say that and dont worryfirst drink of the day. He stirred the pile of change and the couple of five dollar notes on the bar in front of him. See, I didnt drink the lot.
