full privileges, whatever they were.
The addicts were feeding the pokies, the alkies were nursing their drinks, and the old surfers were staring out at the rolling waves. The thing about Sydney beaches is that they have a way of looking good whatever the weather. This Monday morning was one that might go this way or that as it developed. There was a mild southerly, good waves, but dark cloud building.
I was early, a chronic habit. I bought a middy of light and sat at a table where I could see the entrance and keep an eye on the water. I'd surfed here myself in days gone by, but preferred the southern beaches.
He came in at eleven-twenty. Lil's description had been accurate and he was easy to spot. After climbing the few steps he was out of breath and clutched the metal handrail as a spasm of coughing seized him. He survived it and lit a cigarette the instant it passed.
He wore a tweed jacket that had seen much better days and he took it off slowly as he looked around. I stood and he moved towards me, folding his coat over his arm in an oddly old-world gesture. He was dressed in a grey pullover, cream shirt and grey slacks, the jumper and pants streaked with cigarette ash.
He approached the table and looked at me with eyes that had a milkiness suggesting cataracts forming.
'Mr Belfrage,' I said.
'Doctor Belfrage, if you please.'
'What'll you have, doctor?'
He lowered himself into a chair. 'I'll have a middy of black and a large brandy.'
I bought the drinks and when I got back he'd lined up a packet of fifty cigarettes and his lighter, and drawn the ashtray closer. He accepted the drinks without thanks, took a sizeable sip of the brandy and a long pull on the middy after inhaling smoke. He exhaled and leaned back in the chair letting the drugs do their work. The area we were in was quiet but activity was beginning in the cafeteria adjacent, and further off the pokies were whirring.
'Private investigator, eh?' he said. 'I used to employ blokes like you when my clients didn't pay up. Do much of that sort of work?'
'Not much.'
'I hope you brought the brandy.'
I lifted the bottle in its paper bag from the chair beside me. 'Hennessy,' I said. 'Hope that's all right.'
He went through the smoke-inhaling drink-absorbing ritual again. 'It'll do. What d'you want to know?'
'Do you remember a doctor named Bellamy being murdered and his partner, Heysen, being convicted of conspiring to kill him?'
'Vaguely.'
'I've been told Heysen and another doctor were performing illicit plastic surgery.'
'In what sense illicit?'
'I mean clandestine and for people wanting to change their appearance for other than cosmetic reasons.'
'Nicely put. Well it happened, certainly.'
'But you can't confirm it in this case.'
'It's a long time ago. Your lady friend traduced me, you know.'
It was clear he was going to play a very cautious game with diversionary tactics.
He smoked and drank some more and looked around as if he'd lost interest in the conversation. His skin was grey and drawn tight over the bones of his face. His greasy, dun-coloured hair was plastered across his skull like a smear of mud. His hands, one holding the cigarette, the other wrapped around a glass, were thin with long fingers and bloodless nails. Lily was right-you wouldn't want him to touch you.
I decided to be direct. 'I'll try a name on you-Dr Karl Lubeck,' I said. 'Have you heard of him?'
He looked at me with the milky eyes. 'Yes, he worked with Heysen in Darlinghurst.'
'So you do remember about Heysen's sideline?'
'I do, and I can probably remember a deal more if I see the money and…' he tossed off the rest of the brandy and beer, 'I get another drink. Same again.'
This time when I came back a garishly dressed old crone with a corrugated face was standing next to Belfrage, who was lighting the cigarette she'd obviously bludged.
'Give Dulce a few dollars, Hardy, so she can dream of a jackpot.'
I handed the woman some change and she mooched away.
'One of your clients, doctor?' I said.
'Watch your mouth.'
'I'm getting sick of this, Belfrage. I know what a defrocked, discredited, dis-fucking-grace to your profession you are. I've got the money and you can have it if you tell me something useful. Otherwise you can sink those two drinks and fuck off without the money or the brandy.'
He sat very still and lit another cigarette. 'Don't smoke, do you?'
'Not anymore.'
'How did you stop?'
'Stubbornness.'
'Yes, I can believe that. What do you want to know about Karl?'
'Where he and a woman named Pixie Padrone are.'
'Pixie!' He tried to drink and laugh at the same time and was overwhelmed by a coughing fit that shook him from head to toe. The cigarette fell from his fingers and the brandy glass hit the table, slopping out half of its contents. I put the cigarette in the ashtray and pushed the middy towards him as he fought for breath. After he managed to suck in a few wheezy gasps he drank some beer and reached for the cigarette. People were staring at us. I gripped his bony wrist, trying to look solicitous.
'Breathe some air and tell me about it.'
His puny chest heaved as air flowed into his wrecked system. 'You shouldn't make me laugh. You'll kill me.'
'Karl and Pixie, where?'
He wrapped both hands around the middy glass like a drowning man clutching at driftwood. 'Pixie Padrone, I remember when she was that. She could be had for ten dollars, five on a slow night. Now she's Patricia.'
'Okay. Take it slowly, I don't want you dropping dead quite yet. Tell me about them, especially where they are.'
'Brisbane.'
'I couldn't find him in the medical registry. Has he been delisted, like you?'
'You're trying to provoke me. No, he's changed his name. He's Karol Lubitsch now and, as I said, Pixie is Patricia.'
'Where in Brisbane?'
'They have a clinic in New Farm, Glendale Gardens or some such pretentious address.'
I moved around the table and put the bottle of brandy on the seat next to him.
'The money?' he said.
'In a minute. How would you suggest I get to see Lubeck… Lubitsch?'
The cloudy eyes studied me again. 'How many times has that nose been broken?'
'Several.'
'And the scarred eyebrows-boxing, I take it?' 'Right.'
'The nose could be remodelled and scars smoothed out. I'd suggest you get a referral from a doctor. A man in your trade should have a tame medico.'
'I wouldn't call him tame, but it can be done. Good idea.'
He snapped the long, blue-white fingers. 'So?'
'I've got just one problem. What's to stop you contacting Lubitsch and alerting him that I'm coming?'
He lit a cigarette from the butt of the previous one and drew on it with a surprising amount of wind. 'Why would I do that?'
'To bleed money from him, of course.'
He held up his hand. 'Don't make me laugh again. There's no love lost between Karol Lubitsch and me, I assure you. We had a serious falling out long ago. I passed a client to him who gave him a considerable amount of
