took the turnoff to Maianbar and drove to a small timber house on the edge of the settlement.
Maianbar is one of those anachronisms-a small pocket of freehold land within a national park. It consists of a few unpaved streets off the main road, maybe a hundred houses and a general store. At low tide you can walk around the beach to Bundeena and get a ferry to Cronulla. Otherwise, the only way out is by road. Cyn and I had spent a let’s-try-to-patch-this-marriage-up holiday there years ago. Good holiday, no soap on the marriage. The house de Sousa went to was at the end of a rough track, surrounded by bush. I approached on foot, using the abundant cover. I saw two cars besides de Sousa’s, two other men and one woman. They sat on the front veranda, talked and drank coffee. They argued, then calmed down. I’d have given a lot to be able to hear what they were saying but there was no way to get close enough. When the group showed signs of breaking up I scooted back to my car and got it out of sight down another track.
All three cars left and I walked back to the house, intending to break in. The woman sat on the veranda fiddling with something on her lap. I squinted through the bush, trying to make out what she was doing. Suddenly, she lifted a pair of heavy binoculars and started scanning the landscape. I ducked back under cover and squirmed away through the scrub to my car.
On Sunday I thought about it. On Monday I decided to have a look at Fiona Hathaway. She left her father’s large terrace house in Macauley Street, Leichhardt, at 8.15 and caught a bus into the city. I rode along with her. She was pretty, blonde, nervous-looking; fashionably and expensively dressed in a pale linen suit and cream silk blouse, but without the confidence those sorts of clothes usually give a woman. She sat in the bus, staring straight ahead of her. Maxwell had thought of her as possibly tough underneath a conventional exterior. I wasn’t sure. There was something unusual about her, but I couldn’t identify it.
She walked from George Street to an office building in Martin Place. I watched the lift go up to the third floor, killed half an hour and went in, pretending to be lost. I got enough of a look around to see that Lilly, Braithwaite amp; Reade was a big, prosperous legal firm and that Miss Fiona Hathaway was the assistant secretary to a clutch of the associates. She had her own cubicle, almost an office. I went to my place of work and handled routine matters for the rest of the day. At five o’clock I trailed Fiona home. It was hot and she carried her linen jacket, but she wore her long-sleeved blouse buttoned at the wrists.
She got off the bus two stops early and went to the Leichhardt library. I followed her in and browsed around, keeping her in sight. She lingered in the travel section. I was nearby, in geography and local history. I consulted an atlas and found that Madeira was indeed closer to Morocco than Portugal, but not by much. A history of Marrickville told me that the district had originally been inhabited by the Cadigal band-fifty or so Aborigines speaking the Dharug language. By 1790 only three Cadigals survived.
Fiona took her selection to the desk and I sneaked closer to get a look. She had three books on Portugal.
‘Have you been to Portugal?’ the librarian asked as she entered the books in the computer.
Fiona looked nervous and dabbed at her face which was perspiring, although the library was air-conditioned. ’I’m hoping to go soon,’ she said, ‘on my honeymoon.’
That’d be news to her dad.
I had a lot and I had nothing. Plenty of tracks but nothing to actually shoot at. Alberto was scoring smack, consorting with prostitutes and conducting secret meetings in the bush. Fiona thought she was going on an Iberian honeymoon. What the hell was going on here? And what was I supposed to do? I could keep up the surveillance on Alberto, take a few infra-red snaps and lay it out for Hathaway and his daughter. I could also tell Hathaway about Fiona’s wedding plans. But something told me that what I was seeing wasn’t the reality. Alberto the pusher, Fiona the bride — it didn’t feel right.
I followed her back to Macauley Street, noting the quick, nervous way she walked, the mannerisms that suggested insecurity, or something else. My car was parked nearby and had collected a ticket. Another expense for Mr Hathaway. I drove to Petersham, intending to watch Alberto, maybe even front him. As it turned out, there was no need. I parked in a lane behind the liquor store and, as I was locking the car, I became aware of the blue Laser that had drawn up behind me to block the exit to the lane. Alberto got out of the car and wrapped his right fist around a heavy bunch of keys. I had two keys and an NRMA tag on a single ring. I also had a. 38 Smith amp; Wesson on my right hip under my shirt-tail.
Alberto approached me, waving the loaded fist. ‘I want to talk to you. Why’re you following that woman?’
I moved away from the car into open space. He was as tall as me, lighter, but much younger and maybe quicker. “What woman?’ I said.
He had the fist cocked and he was well-balanced. He wore jeans, a T-shirt and Nikes. Good fighting gear. ‘You were on the bus,’ he said. ‘You followed her to the library, then you followed her home.’
‘You’ve been doing some following yourself,’ I said.
He feinted at my head with his left and threw the right low. Good move, like something Fenech might have taught him at the Police Boys’ Club. But he hadn’t done it often or seriously enough to quite bring it off. I stepped back, made the punch miss, and clipped him on the side of the jaw with a short left. He lost balance and I gave him a bit of elbow and shoulder to help him on his way down. He fell, but he bounced up quickly and tried a roundhouse swing at my head. Another feint, but this time his feet were doing the work. He kicked me on the inside of my right thigh and I felt the strength drain from the leg as I buckled. He shuffled like Ali, but couldn’t decide whether to punch or kick. I dropped my head and butted him in the stomach with the last of the leverage I had. We both fell, me on top. I kneed him fairly hard in the crotch, splayed my fingers and exerted pressure on his staring eyeballs.
‘Keep very still,’ I gasped, ‘or get badly hurt.’
He froze. ‘OK, man. OK.’
I eased away slowly, plucking the keys from his hand and letting him see the gun in mine. ‘I want to talk, too,’ I said.
He said, ‘It’s not that heavy, man. I’m just trying to save one junkie.’
I put the gun away, kept the keys and let him sit up. We sat on the kerb in the lane. He lit a cigarette and told me about Fiona and her smack habit and how he wanted to help her kick it.
‘I saw you score in the underpass, again in Newtown and maybe again at the Cross last night.’
He shook his head. ‘I didn’t score in the Cross. I talked to a couple of the girls about what it’s like, trying to get straight. It’s rough. I’ve been building up a supply. I’m going to take Fiona away…’
‘To Maianbar?’ I said.
‘Yeah, right. You really have been on the job. Are you a nark?’
‘No. Go on.’
‘I’m going to take her to Maianbar and taper her slowly and get her clean. I’ve got some friends who’ll help.’
‘Why?’ I said.
‘I love her.’
‘How’d she get hooked?’
He turned his head to look at me. There was a slight swelling under his jaw where I’d hit him and some bruising around his eyes, but he was ready to take me on again if he had to. ‘The guy responsible is dead,’ he said.
We struck a deal, Alberto and me. I agreed to obtain some clean heroin, not the street crap he’d been scoring, and to get a doctor in on the cure. He agreed to let me tell Henry Hathaway what was going on.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Hathaway said. ‘Not my daughter.’
We were in the living room of his house- polished boards, Persian rug, cedar furniture. ‘It happens,’ I said. ‘Think about it-how jumpy she is, the long-sleeved blouses. Track marks. She met the wrong man at the wrong time. Now she’s met the right one.’
He shook his head. ‘A bloody wog.’
I leaned closer to him. ‘Let me put you straight. He’s risked more for her already than you ever have. The man who introduced her to heroin isn’t with us any more.’
Hathaway’s high colour leached away. ‘God,’ he breathed.
