So I hit the street with my photo and my list and my expense account. Although the pubs were busy, they hadn’t reached that frenetic stage when everybody seems to be shouting while a full-scale brass band plays in the background. I had a discreet word to a barman here and a barmaid there, but drew blanks. I limited myself to half scotches with soda and ice, which made me belch but otherwise did little harm.
Mrs Singer was right; I did have something against pinball. The Punk Palace of Fun was a garish barn with strobe lights and brain-scrambling music. The machines gave out bleeps and blasts that the players seemed to understand and respond to. The non-players stared vacantly around them through their cigarette smoke; the users worked with the intensity of brain surgeons. The light sharpened their features, accentuated their youth. I felt the same kinship with them as I would with Chinese border guards.
At the back, in the shadows but not out of range of the noise, was a tiny recess with a table, a telephone and mine host. He was about thirty with sparse hair, a sunken chest and a grey, twitching face. He took a long look at the photo, which he held in a hand that vibrated like a musical saw.
‘Could be. I dunno.’
‘He’s the owner. How long have you been here?’
‘I dunno. Coupla years.’
‘Have you ever seen this man?’
‘I wouldn’t see the owner, man. I manage for a guy who rents. He might rent from someone else, for all I know.’
‘You might have seen him somewhere else. On the street?’
‘Could be.’
I got ten dollars out and put it on the table, keeping my index finger down hard on one corner of the note.
‘Think.’
‘I could ask around.’
I got out one of my cards, put it on top of the note and took my finger off. He grabbed with one of his dancing hands. He’d spend the money on something to put in a vein or up his nose and wouldn’t remember who had given him the card or why, but you never knew.
‘Give me a call if anything comes.’
He nodded jerkily. I went out onto the street and turned towards the last Bondi place on the list, a snooker room. I was thinking that it wasn’t a promising start when a kid stepped out of a doorway and asked me for a light.
‘I don’t…’ He hit me low and hard and I gasped, feeling the fluid rise inside me. Then my arm was grabbed and swung and I had to go with it or break it. I went, spinning out of control off the street into a lane, where my back hit a wall with an impact that shook my teeth. They came at me, two of them, with a third hanging back. I was shaky and just managed to get a knee up into one of them before the other threw a punch that got me on the neck.
I sagged and would have been a sitting duck for the next punch, but it never came. Someone moved behind my playmates and hooked the legs of one neatly out from under him. He didn’t even watch the effect of that; the other kid swung around and my saviour hit him just above the belt. There were three sounds: a whuump as the punch landed, a grunt from the guy who delivered it and a scream from the recipient. The third guy, the non- participant, ran down the lane and the one who went down first scrambled up and ran after him. The unluckiest of the trio lay on the ground, fighting for breath.
I straightened up. My deliverer gripped my arm and I felt the immense strength in his hold.
‘Easy,’ he said.
‘I’m okay, thanks. That was a great punch.’
He looked down at the figure on the ground; he was young and slight.
‘He was overmatched,’ he said. ‘I was the light heavyweight champion of Oregon, amateur.’
‘I believe you.’ I peered down at the kid. I’d never seen him before; he was pimply and smelt a bit.
The light heavyweight champion of Oregon let go of my arm and gave me his hand to shake. I took it carefully.
‘Bruce Henneberry.’
‘Cliff Hardy. Henneberry? Really?’
‘Sure. Why?’
‘He was a fighter here, good one. Fred Henneberry.’
‘That right? Now, what was this here?’
‘I don’t know.’ The kid was crawling now, back towards the street, and Henneberry put a leg across his path.
‘You show any money out on the street?’
‘Yes, a bit.’
‘Junkies most likely, then.’ He bent down for a closer look at the kid. ‘Scabs, skin and bone. Hopped up- junkie for sure. After your cash.’
‘Let him go,’ I said wearily. ‘He’ll be bruised for weeks.’ He lifted his leg and the kid got up and walked off shakily as if his legs were made of tin.
During the action, Henneberry had looked to be of middle height or under, but now I could see that he was nearly as tall as me. He’d been in a fighter’s crouch, for one thing, and for another he was so solidly built that he didn’t look tall. His shoulders were huge and he had the sort of neck and chest that are built up by weight training. He wouldn’t have made the light heavyweight limit now. His face was wide and open and his brown hair was cut short.
‘I need a drink,’ I said.
‘How about brandy and coffee? I know a place.’
‘Fine. How far?’
‘Close. Let’s go.’
We walked; he was not quite supporting me, but ready to do so. I tried to think of what I knew about Oregon and couldn’t come up with much-capital Portland, industries, timber and fish. Not sparkling openers.
‘Ah, Cliff, do you mind me asking what you were doing flashing your roll on Hill Street?’
‘I wasn’t exactly flashing it. I’m looking for someone. I was buying information.’
He stopped in mid-stride. ‘You’re not a cop?’
‘Private enquiries. Why?’
‘I don’t want to screw up. Helping a cop wouldn’t help me.’
We got moving again and he steered me into a small court that was flanked by boutiques, a cake shop and a surf shop. It struck me that Bondi was light on for outdoorsy places like surf shops. There was a dark window at the end of the court, dimly lit from inside, with an illuminated sign saying ‘Manny’s’ over the door.
‘This is my base,’ Henneberry said. ‘Manny keeps a bottle under the coffee machine.’
5
You couldn’t have read the Times inside Manny’s, but it wasn’t like the interior of a coal bin either. There were a few people sitting around smoking and drinking coffee and a few were even talking. It was an intellectual sort of place. We sat down and a short, dark character with long, oiled hair bustled over. He wore a Charlie Chan moustache and looked like a walking mixture of the Orient, the Middle East and the decadent West. His white safari suit was spotless and he sported some gold jewellery around his solid neck and on his capable-looking hands.
‘Manfred,’ Henneberry said. ‘Meet Cliff Hardy.’
I shook my second power-packed hand for the evening. Manny kept his strength in check so that his grip was almost flaccid, but the force was there.
‘What’ll you have, Bruce?’
‘Coffee with,’ Henneberry said. ‘Cliff just had a dust-up with some junkies on Hill Street.’
