lifted my hand to rub the good eye and felt the blood dripping from my knuckles. I smiled. I thought, Must’ve landed one punch at least.
‘He’s laughing,’ Thomas said.
Barraclough sounded almost sober. ‘Hardy’s got some fuckin’ funny ideas, but he’s not a squib.’
I said, ‘I don’t hate niggers.’
Dobbs’ ripe breath was close to my face again. ‘Say what?’
I had just enough strength to raise my hand and wiggle the fingers. ‘Joe Louis was the greatest fighter and Louis Armstrong’s the greatest horn player ever.’
‘An’ the best singer?’ Dobbs said.
‘Ella Fitzgerald,’ I said.
‘You’re all right, man. Who’s going to take this guy home?’
I don’t know how it happened, but the next thing I knew I was sitting in the back seat of my Falcon. My shirt was ripped but I could feel my watch and money in the pocket. Dobbs was driving and the blonde in the miniskirt was sitting next to me soaking up my blood with tissues. We crossed the bridge.
‘Walker Street,’ she said. ‘Turn here, sweetie.’ She had a nice, soft, breathy Sydney voice.
Then we were on the landing outside the flat and the woman was ringing the bell and Dobbs was holding me up.
Astrid opened the door. She was wearing one of her black silk nighties and looked adorable.
Her eyes went wide at the sight of the Negro, the battered bloody ruin and the whore.
‘Christ,’ she said. ‘Is it always going to be like this?’
