Manuma returned to his seat and to his discussion with his client as if nothing had happened. When he was free he nodded at me and I took a seat. 'John Manuma,' he said without offering to shake hands. 'What can I do for you, Mr Hardy?'
6
Terri Boxall phoned me about you.'
Now we shook hands. As well as being taller than Terri had said, he had considerably more than a hundred kilos with it. He wasn't particularly friendly and his big, broad face wore a sceptical look as I gave him a version of the story.
'Lot of people out here, brother. Lot of coming and going.'
I read off the address where Lou had talked to Billie Marchant. I'd driven past it-indistinguishable from dozens of others, perhaps a bit more rundown looking than most. 'D'you know the people there now?'
He shook his massive head. 'Nothing comes to mind.'
'Terri said she thought you'd be helpful.'
'She shouldn't have said that without me hearing your story first.'
'You've heard it now.'
'Yes, and I reckon it's a lot of nothing. I don't think there's anything here for you, Mr Hardy.'
He gave me a hard stare, then looked over my head at whoever was next in line. Not hard for him to do; sitting down, he was bigger than me in every way. His hands, on the paper-strewn desk, were the colour of teak and the size of shovel blades. He oozed impatience and aggression, and the combination lifted me out of the chair as if a hook had taken me by the collar and swung me aside. It was a new experience-being dismissed with a curiously strong element of indifference. I left the room struggling to maintain dignity.
I learned long ago not to expect things always to turn out well, but a knock-back of this intensity took me by surprise. I wandered out into the sunshine and stumped up the steps to the car park. I hadn't replaced my sunglasses and was slow to adjust to the bright light and was almost run down by a cruising police car. I stepped back just in time and swore. An Islander woman standing nearby gave me a dirty look. All in all, it wasn't a good start to my work in Liston.
I went back down to the shopping area and took another look at the liquor store. Still closed. I went into one of the all-purpose shops where three immense Polynesian women were sitting chatting while cooking something on a portable stove.
'Excuse me,' I said, 'can you tell me when the bottle shop opens?'
'Closed,' one woman said.
'I know, but when will it be open?'
'Closed for good.'
'Why?'
She shrugged and they went on talking as if the subject was of no interest. What they were cooking smelled delicious, but the shop sold vegetables, clothes, shoes and other things that meant health regulations forbade food preparation. They didn't look concerned and it seemed that Liston was in some ways a law unto itself.
I left the shop and a man approached me with a smile on his face, the first smile I'd seen there. Tall, he was Aboriginal, built on a much smaller scale than the Islanders. In his late teens at a guess, and to judge from his clothes-a threadbare T-shirt, dirty jeans and thongs-not doing too well.
'Think I can help you, brother,' he said.
'How's that?'
'I was in the office when you was talking to Johnny. I know who lives there.'
'Where?'
'At that address you said. And I know the woman you was talking about. I mean, I seen her.'
'Are you sure?'
He nodded his head and his ill-kept dreads bounced. I looked closely at him. Despite the signs of poverty, he didn't appear to be mentally adrift, drunk or drug-damaged. His eyes were clear and his body was lean but not withered.
'All right,' I said. 'You are?'
'Tommy.'
'My name's Cliff Hardy. You heard what I'm here for. What're you suggesting, Tommy?'
He smiled again and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in the universal gesture. 'You want to talk to the chick, I can help.'
'Chick?'
'Girl, whatever. Lives there with her kids.'
'Can you get me inside the house?'
'I reckon, yeah.'
'And about the woman?'
'What about the money, brother?'
'Is there an ATM around here?'
'Newsagent got one.'
'Wait here.'
I drew out five hundred dollars. No telling how useful Tommy might be, or his rates. I bought a diet coke and changed one of the fifties so I'd have smaller chips to play with. Tommy was standing more or less where I'd left him.
'Gotta smoke?'
I handed him a twenty. 'Get yourself some and I'll see you by the blue Falcon in the car park. The dirty one with the dings.'
He grinned, took the money and loped away. I popped the can and took a drink. Things were looking up, maybe. Tommy returned with a cigarette in his mouth and another tucked behind his ear. I stuffed the can into an overflowing bin. We got into the car and drove to the address I'd looked at before. It was one of the more hard- bitten of the houses with no attempt made in the garden, a mattress leaking stuffing on the front porch and a broken swing rusting in the side yard. Lou had described the room where she'd interviewed Billie and the furniture, including the drawer where she'd seen the photograph. I pulled up two doors away.
'Here's the deal,' I said. 'I want to go in and look at a particular piece of furniture and ask about this woman I'm trying to locate.'
Tommy blew smoke. 'Got you.'
'Fifty for you, a hundred for whoever's there.'
'Hey, why?'
'I'm invading their home. You're just a go-between.'
He thought about it as he finished his cigarette. He lit the one from behind his ear from the butt, then dropped the butt through the car window. 'Okay. Stay here and I'll see what gives.'
He slipped out, slammed the door, and crossed the street, stepped through the open gate and went up the path to the door of the house. I kept my eye on him as I got out and went around to put my foot on the smouldering butt. I leaned against the car and was grateful for the sunglasses because the sun was high and bright and my battered eye still hurt a bit. The door to the house opened and a woman stood there. She had a baby on her hip and a toddler peeked around her legs at the caller. Tommy started talking and offered her a cigarette. She took it and he lit her up, still talking. He jerked his thumb back at me. She moved slightly to get a better view, shrugged and nodded. Tommy crooked a finger at me.
I went up the path and Tommy gave me one of his winning smiles, swivelling a little to include the woman in it. 'This is Coralie, Cliff, my man. Says you have to excuse the mess in the house.'
I nodded. The toddler scuttled away and the infant on Coralie's hip sucked on its dummy. Coralie was in her twenties, pale and freckled with greasy, mousy-blonde hair. Her heavy breasts had leaked, leaving stains on her faded Panthers sweatshirt. The finger she used to flick her hair away from her eyes was heavily nicotine-stained,
