‘I can’t answer that.’
‘Why not? I thought he hounded your place to flog his stuff. It can’t be that long.’
Harry laughed and gave one of his forty-Camels-a-day dry coughs. ‘I’m joking, Cliff. It’s like Philosophy. You ever do Philosophy?’
‘No, Harry.’
‘You don’t know that thing about stepping into the same river twice?’
‘No, sounds like a dumb thing to do.’
‘Yeah, well. I can’t answer the question “when did I last see Arthur Henderson” because I’m looking at him right now. He’s here trying to interest the editor in a piece on Tim Tully. Ever heard of Tully?’
‘No.’
‘Nor has the editor. What…’
‘Harry, hold onto him. I’ve got to see him. Buy him a drink.’
‘That’s asking too much, Cliff. I’ve never heard of Tully either, and I don’t want to.’
‘Do anything you like to him, but don’t let him get away.’
‘Is it life or death or money?’
‘All of them.’
Harry laughed and coughed again. ‘Okay, Cliff. He’ll be here, but hurry.’
I slammed down the phone and rushed out of the house, still buttoning my shirt. There was a white envelope lying on the doorstep; I swooped on it and crammed it into my shirt pocket as I felt for my keys. It wasn’t until I stopped at some lights that I could open the envelope. It had my name printed in block capitals on the front and inside was a thick clump of straight, black, Oriental hair.
18
The reporters’ room at The News was busy as usual with men and women whaling away at computer keyboards, telephones ringing and filing cabinet drawers shrieking. I couldn’t see Arthur Henderson when I walked in, but Harry Tickener was there. He seemed to have shrunk over recent years, but perhaps it’s just that his desks had got bigger. The surface of the one he was at now was covered with telephones, writing pads, print-out paper and a couple of gross of pens and pencils. Harry had kept up the journo’s tradition of an up-ended typewriter on his desk, although it’s doubtful that he had much use for it anymore. He also used to have a use for the pencils-to scratch at his hair-but there wasn’t enough hair left now to scratch.
He saw me coming from across the room and made a show of grabbing up some paper and running. He stood his ground though, and lit one of his Camels. When I got close enough he blew smoke in my face.
‘Any regrets?’
I waved the smoke away. ‘None. I pull my lungs out from time to time to have a look at them. You’d need a fishnet to get yours up.’ I stabbed at his thin chest. ‘With a fine mesh!’
‘Charming. You’re probably right, but my old man’s smoked fifty a day for nearly sixty years, and there isn’t a hill in North Sydney he can’t walk up. I’m a great believer in heredity. I suppose you want to know where Artie is?’
‘Right.’
‘I’m sorry; we couldn’t keep him. The stuff he had was so bad there was nothing to say. But we did you a favour. He’s so depressed he’d have headed for the pub.’
‘Shit, Harry, there’s a lot of pubs in Sydney.’
‘Artie’s a lazy bugger, he’ll have taken the Continental across the road, nothing surer.’ He was back behind his desk before he finished talking; it’s hard to hold Harry’s attention these days unless you’ve got a leaked document or a film of the politician actually taking the money. He took a paper out from under an identical stack of other papers; the total chaos of his desk is an orderly filing system in Harry’s mind. He glanced up at me dismissively.
‘Must have a drink sometime, Cliff. Or have you given that up too?’
‘No, Harry. I haven’t given it up. I’m humbled by your help and I’d like to have a drink with you. Give me a ring when you get a quarter hour off.’
He grinned, drew defiantly on the cigarette and bent his pale pink skull over his papers.
The Continental is a typical journalists’ pub with different bars suited to different purposes. There’s one for talking or reading the papers in peace, one for eating after a fashion and another for fighting. Artie Henderson was in the fighting bar. I hoped Harry hadn’t mentioned to him that I wanted to see him, because one of Henderson’s chief characteristics is suspicion. He is suspicious of everybody and everything. Most of his published articles in recent years had been paranoid conspiracy pieces with just enough substance in them to get a run after heavy editing.
He saw me, and he had money on the counter and was heading for the door, preparing to skirt around me, before I was one step into the bar. I blocked him.
‘Artie, I’d like a word.’
He tried to step around me, but he’d had a bit too much already and his reflexes were shot; I side-stepped faster and baulked him off balance. He stumbled and lurched inwards the nearest table for support. The few other drinkers didn’t even look around; it’d take six good punches and some blood to get them interested. Artie breathed hard and pushed up from the table but I pushed him down again. He was badly out of condition and went down easier and harder than I’d expected. I helped him up onto a stool near one of the pillars that divided the room. He leaned back against the pillar, and his hand searched automatically on the shelf nearby for his drink. He was in a bad way.
‘Take it easy, Artie,’ I said. ‘Just stay right there and I’ll get you a drink.’
He nodded resignedly, but I kept my eye on him as I backed off to the bar. He lit a cigarette, coughed cataclysmically and wheezed, but he stayed where he was. When I got back with a scotch for him and some red wine for me, he was breathing better and his eyes were bright with anticipation, maybe for the whisky, maybe for calamity. He put the scotch down in one gulp, sucked on his cigarette and rubbed his back where it had hit the wall.
‘I don’t want to talk to you, Hardy. You’re trouble in large doses. Jeez, me back hurts
‘Don’t be like that, Artie. I just reacted automatically to your side-step. You’ve slowed down.’
He sighed. ‘At everything; at some things I’ve bloody stopped. All right, Hardy, get us another drink and let’s hear what’s on your excuse for a mind.’
I put five dollars down by his empty glass and his pudgy, liver-spotted hand reached for it automatically.
‘You buy the drinks, Artie. The walk’ll do you good.’
He heaved his bulky body off the stool and shuffled across to the bar. His suit bagged at all pockets with the weight of assorted articles, and his shoes hadn’t been cleaned that year. If he’d had any contact with Bill Mountain recently, it hadn’t done him any financial good unless he’d already drunk it. He came back with a double scotch and beer chaser and a packet of cigarettes, all bought from my five. He put the couple of coins in change down on the shelf and gave me one of his rare smiles.
‘There you are, Cliff. Shocking price things are today.’
I lifted what was left in my glass. ‘Cheers, Artie. Quick trip to the grave.’
‘You always were a humorist, Cliff. What’s up?’
‘When did you last see Bill Mountain?’
He sipped his whisky and tapped the side of his head where his pepper-and-salt hair stood up untidily over his ears. ‘Dreadful memory,’ he said. ‘ Have I seen old Bill lately?’
‘Yeah. You’ll be flattered to hear he’s been writing about you.’
‘Me?’ He looked as alarmed as if he’d discovered that his fly was open.
‘You. This is a secret, but I’m telling you because I can’t see how you’d make any money out of it. Mountain’s writing a novel. He’s got a character in it who’s unmistakably you. Like Fleming and Le Carre used Dicky Hughes, you know?’
