He pushed a cardboard coaster across the counter towards me. I gave him the right money for the coffee and added the dull dollar. On the coaster I wrote: ‘Enjoyed our meeting in the car park, Carl. We must do it again sometime.’ I added my name and the office phone number. The counter man craned forward to read it. I pushed it across.
‘Give it to him, will you? And buy him a coffee.’
He looked out into the cigarette fug; the air was as blue as in William street and we had the noise of the mechanical and electronic machines instead of the cars. ‘Could be in later,’ he said.
‘I’m busy. It’s not important.’ I finished the short black in a gulp and walked out. The florist was just closing; I stood on the pavement and watched him pull the street displays in and tidy the shop. He was a tall, thin, middle- aged man wearing a dust coat and a bow tie. He whistled while he worked. I remembered that it was one of the many complaints of Cyn, my ex-wife, that I never bought her flowers. It was true, I hadn’t. I tried to a couple of times after she first mentioned it, but I could never feel right about doing it. I wondered what Dr Holmes would make of that.
I’d given Erica Fong a key to my place before sending her off to stay at Bill Mountain’s house with Max. I was glad that she’d used it and glad she was asleep on my couch. I was in the lonely mood my work sometimes brings, a feeling that other people are only contacts, sources of information or problems, and I needed to talk to someone who was more than that.
She was sleeping quietly with her straight hair all spikey and her head resting on a pillow she’d made of an expensive-looking leather coat. One hand, the nicotine-stained one, was under her head and the other was curled in a tight fist as if she was ready to throw a punch the instant she woke up.
Two bottles of duty-free Scotch poked out of the big overnight bag by the couch. I guessed that at least one of the bottles was for me so I took it out to the kitchen, got rid of all the cardboard and wrapping and poured a hefty slug of it over Australian ice. I had a mouthful to make sure the stuff had travelled okay, and then took the bottle, some ice and another glass back to the front room.
She didn’t look travel-stained and I suppose that’s one of the advantages of being small. An airline seat, especially a first class one, would allow enough room for reading, eating and drinking, and isometric exercises. A brush of the teeth, nothing to shave, and you’re right. Erica was wearing fashionably baggy pants and a loose cotton top. Her espadrilles were on the floor and I noticed that she had the shapely feet only small women have. There was a carton of Benson amp; Hedges cigarettes in the bag and another open on the arm of the couch. I had to conclude that either she wasn’t a woman of her word or she hadn’t brought Bill Mountain back with her.
She stirred briefly and came awake quickly. She sat up, stretched and reached for the cigarettes. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I just got in. I dropped off.’
‘You’re entitled, flying however many miles it is in however few hours.’ I held up the Scotch and she nodded. I made her a drink while she inhaled and exhaled as if that’s what life was all about. When she had tried her drink she looked at me gravely.
‘I didn’t find him.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I spent Dad’s money like a lunatic just getting around. Everything costs the earth…’ She broke off the travel chat for more alcohol and nicotine and when she spoke again the worry line was like a small fold on her forehead. ‘It looks bad, Cliff. I don’t suppose you…?’
I shook my head.
‘I bought a bottle of Scotch for you and one for him, just in case.’
‘He’s stopped drinking.’
‘He’s what? How d’you know?’
‘I saw his sister in Melbourne.’
‘I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s doing some crazy things.’
‘Like?’
She finished her cigarette and lost interest in her drink. She tucked her legs up under her and folded her arms and looked like a sad Oriental statue. ‘It’s weird, let me tell you,’ she said. ‘I went to Nice, flew there with just one change. I can’t speak any bloody French but I showed the taxi driver the postcard and he took me to the hotel. It’s inn by this amazing woman with long black hair and diamond rings. She speaks good English and she’s got a big dog, a Doberman. We big-dog people get along. Well, I had a photo of Bill and I showed it to her and she said he’d stayed there for a couple of days. He’d arrived from Marseilles.’
‘What was he doing in Marseilles?’
‘I think he was buying heroin.’
‘Jesus. Why d’you think that?’
‘Madame at the hotel-she said she saw Bill down at the beach sitting in a chair talking to a bloke. She says this bloke is a well-known Marseilles heroin dealer. They set the deal up in Marseilles and deliver in Nice. Don’t ask me why. They have all these chairs lined up on this concrete promenade…’
‘I’ve seen it in the movies.’
‘It’s lovely, and you could talk privately there. I mean, not be overheard. Oh God, Cliff, he’s never had anything to do with hard drugs. I’m sure of that.’
‘I don’t think he’d be in it to play around with the stuff himself. Go on, what else did you find out?’
‘He talked to Madame a bit, in French. He speaks good French- she said it was good, and they don’t go in for that sort of praise much, the French. I said sil voo play and got laughed at. Anyway, he went to Antibes and a place called Cap Ferrat. Want to know why?’
I thought about it while I worked on my whisky. I was getting ready to take over her abandoned one too. Cap Ferrat-easy-Somerset Maugham lived there for years. Antibes-something to do with Picasso? Then I remembered the paperbacks in Mountain’s study-the foot or so of orange-covered Penguin editions of Graham Greene. Graham Greene lived in Antibes.
‘Somerset Maugham and Graham Greene,’ I said. ‘He went to look at their houses.’
She almost dropped the new cigarette she was fiddling with. ‘That’s right! That’s right!’ She lit the cigarette and didn’t protest when I took over her whisky. ‘How did you know that?’
I waved her smoke away airily. ‘Nothing to it; you say Aries you mean Van Gogh, you say La Jolla you mean Raymond Chandler.’
She looked at me through the haze. ‘You are like him, that’s the sort of trick he could do.’
‘Go on. He went to look at a couple of writers’ houses. Then what?’
‘Then nothing. He told Madame that’s what he was doing. He watched TV with her and he fucked her.’
‘She said so?’
‘No, but I could tell, just from the way she looked, the way she said things. I could tell. That’s my trick.’
‘Useful too. Does that change anything for you?’
‘No.’
‘Pity.’
‘Why?’
‘I told you he went to see his sister. She’s a pretty hopeless sort of case. Scared of everything. He certainly didn’t give her any comfort.’
‘He’s not the sort of man who gives comfort, he gives energy and interest. Bit like you again.’
I coughed. ‘Thanks.’
She got up off the couch and crossed to my chair. I could see her small breasts moving under the loose shirt and I wanted to touch them. She crouched in front of me.
‘Touch.’
I touched. She took my hands away, lifted her shirt and spread my fingers and palms over her naked breasts. She was warm and when I bent down to kiss her she opened her mouth and locked on to me fiercely.
In bed she was enthusiastic and experienced. She slithered around, changing positions and exciting me with her small, hard body. She came in harsh, gasping spasms and I was only a moment behind her. I propped up and looked down at her creamy oval face with the perfect cheekbones and brown smiling lips.
‘Good?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
