calls.’
Her glass was empty. She showed it to me, I shook my head. She got a refill, spilled more from the tap this time, spilled some on her front when she sat down. It was going to be a short day indoors. Short out and much shorter in.
‘Married?’ she said.
‘I’ve been married.’
‘Kids?’
‘One.’
She looked at me, nodding.
‘Give you his name, the cop?’ I said.
She frowned, waved her cigarette. ‘Well, it’s gone. Ugly bloke, tell you that, the dark glasses, these big bumps over his eyes. How’s ya drink?’
I finished my glass. ‘Driving,’ I said. ‘Can’t take a chance.’
She gave me a good stare, blinking, pulled at her top between the breasts with her cigarette hand, pulled it away from her body. ‘Could stay over,’ she said. ‘Get an early start in the mornin.’
‘That’s tempting,’ I said. ‘Would you have a picture of Janene I could borrow? I’ll copy it, send it back.’
‘Got a photo of Jan and Wayne and the other little bitch,’ she said. ‘The time they come here. In the Porsche.’
She got up and left the room, not unsteady in her walk on the long legs she’d passed on to Janene. She was back in seconds, stood beside me, touched my arm with a hip, held the photograph for me to see, bent over, head close to mine, leaning on me.
‘Lovely girl,’ she said.
Janene was thinner in this picture, even more like a starveling now, but she looked groomed, expensive short haircut, well-cut pants, a silver bracelet wristwatch. She also had bigger breasts, hard-looking, pushing against a tight shirt. She was posing against a grey car. Beside her, an arm draped over her, was a big man, bony face, short dark hair, black glasses, a bodybuilder. He had two rings on the visible hand: pinky and index fingers, one ring bigger than the other. His other arm was around a small, dark young woman, also well dressed, scarf, dark aviator glasses. She could have been a rich Year 12 student at the polo.
‘The other one’s Katelyn Feehan,’ said Mary, unasked. ‘Up herself little bitch.’
‘Also a model?’
‘Yeah, that kinda thing.’
I stood. It was not easy, I feared that I would unbalance Mary Ballich, dislodge her. But she was not without experience in remaining on her feet.
‘I’d like to copy this picture,’ I said.
‘Got the neg,’ she said. ‘Give you that.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘You should keep the neg, that’s precious. I’ll take this one and I’ll pay for you to get copies made for yourself.’
‘Yeah, okay,’ she said, had some wine. ‘Jack’s a nice name. Sure you’re a lawyer? More like a human.’
I got out my wallet, put two fifties on the table. Mary picked them up.
‘Settle down, mate,’ she said. ‘Only a photo.’ She offered them back to me.
‘It’s also for your time,’ I said. ‘In my business, you charge for your time and you pay for other people’s time.’
‘Bit like escortin then,’ she said and she smiled, the small mouth, it had its own erotic charm. I realised I had not seen her teeth.
‘I’ll probably have to call you again,’ I said. ‘Ask more questions.’
‘You can call any time,’ she said. ‘Jack.’
At the front door, I said thank you and put out a hand.
She took it, raised it and gently bit the flesh behind the thumb. ‘Any time,’ she said.
17
‘Dilthey,’ said Cameron Delray. ‘Never heard of him. Where are you?’
‘Drouin,’ I said.
‘That voluntary?’
‘A tidy town. I’m passing through.’
‘Give me a bit.’
I was approaching Dandenong before he rang back. I pulled over, watching a storm sky building over Melbourne, coming from the west, blue-black rolling clouds.
‘Got him,’ he said. ‘Want to do something today?’
‘Might as well.’
‘King Street. It’s called the Officers’ Club.’
I groaned.
‘You’ll fit in with the public-service crowd. Crack a fat on the way to the station, twenty bucks. Juices em up for the wife in Camberwell, they come in holdin the briefcase in front.’
‘What those women have to endure. After a long day driving the kids. Where in King Street?’
He told me how to find the place.
‘Tell em Mr Costello’s expectin you. Popeye. He’s a nice bloke, could’ve been a judge, just got off on the wrong foot.’
‘And who am I?’
‘Say Cam rang.’
In the city, the storm broke as I was leaving the parking garage in Little Collins. I retreated and watched the deluge. It lightened after a few minutes and I set off. In time for the sleet and then the hailstones, small marbles skittering in the street, bouncing off the cars, just too small to dent.
The man ahead of me at the Officers’ Club counter was wearing a fawn raincoat and carrying an umbrella and a briefcase. He put his change in a side pocket, didn’t bother about his wallet.
‘Mr Costello’s expecting me,’ I said to the receptionist.
She might have been Mr Costello’s mother, still helping at the school canteen after all these years. The man leaning against the wall could have been the school bully, still waiting to take half or more of whatever you bought.
‘And it’s who?’ said Popeye Costello’s mum, friendly.
‘The person Cam rang about,’ I said.
She picked up a telephone, pressed a button. ‘The person Cam rang about,’ she said.
‘Yes, right.’
‘He’s got someone with him,’ she said. ‘Through the portrait room and into the club room. You’ll see a door in the right corner, it’s got two green lights over it. Have a seat outside. Michael won’t keep you waiting.’
I passed through the portrait room, a characterful chamber, panelled, lit by brass picture lights above paintings of several centuries of British soldiers, mostly in dress uniform. The frames were gilt, broad, carved. Everything was fake.
The club room was large, dim, a bar on the left, not busy. The officers, not many of them, were standing around two small podiums upon which women were performing. The women were fully dressed and their behaviour suggested that they were uncomfortable in their garments. There was tugging, rubbing and long-nailed groin- scratching of a languorous heat-affected kind.
The officers, all in civilian dress, were offering helpful suggestions.
‘Show us yer pussy,’ said one.
The woman pulled up her skirt. Beneath it she was naked and shaven. The officers made approving noises.
As I crossed the room, I had a view through a door into a corridor lined with booths curtained with semi-
