'Sure. Tried to clear six feet in the high jump. Five eleven and a half was fine but I knocked the bar off every time at six feet.'
'So, what did you do?'
'Changed to the long jump.' 'And?'
'Couldn't clear sixteen feet.'
'Same thing, mental barrier. So?'
'Went surfing. I could stand up on the board and if I fell off it didn't matter.'
'Ask her.'
Perhaps by nature, certainly by experience and habit, private enquiry agents are suspicious and mistrustful. But some friendships take and hold and I had one going back quite a way with Bob Armstrong. Bob had eventually yielded to the blandishments of one of the corporations and become a security consultant and functionary within its organisation, but before that he'd been a keen and successful independent operator. I rang him, told him I wanted to talk about a former colleague, and we agreed to meet for a drink at six in Balmain.
'In the glorious smoke-free pub where you can breathe the air and taste the beer,' he said.
'Didn't know there was one.'
He named it. The day heated up considerably and I did a few routine things, like returning the dinner suit to the hirer, depositing Lou Kramer's cheque and paying a few bills before heading to the Dawn Fraser baths at four thirty for a pre-drink and work swim. The baths have gone through a few changes over the years but not many. The water's better now than a few years ago when the harbour around Balmain was very sludgy. I paid for a locker and stripped, wrapped my mobile in the towel and went out on the boards.
There's something Old Sydney, in the true sense, that I like about the place. I remember the photo of poor Les Darcy in his trunks with the kids at the Manly baths, ninety years back. He looked as hard as a rock and ready to take on any middleweight on the planet. That image was in my head as I walked towards a clear spot. The way it is with me when a case is on hand, I could hear the voices of the people I'd spoken to inside my head. This is my shot, I heard Lou Kramer saying. Les never got his shot. Should have.
I tucked my towel and thongs into a corner, dived in and swam a few lengths. The water was choppy because a light wind had sprung up. I enjoyed the swim, pulled myself out and headed for the towel. The mobile chirped and I answered it with water still in my ears. I could scarcely make out the voice.
'Can't hear you. Hang on. I have to clear water from my ears. Okay. Who is it?'
'It's Lou Kramer. Why've you got water in your ears?'
'I've been swimming.'
'Swimming!'
'Healthy mind in a healthy body. What's up?'
'I wanted to tell you not to deposit that cheque just yet.'
'I've already deposited it. Paid extra for quick clearance.'
'Shit, it'll bounce. I'm sorry. I have to move some money around.'
'You're not filling me with confidence.'
'It'll be fine in a day or so. Just re-present it. I'll pay the fee.'
'I've got a question for you. What's your deadline for the book?'
'Why d'you ask?'
'Just curious.'
'None of your bloody business. Sorry again about the cheque.'
She rang off. I thought a better rule than check on your client might be check on your client's bank balance.
Bob Armstrong once attempted to work up a PEA trade union of a sort but he had no luck. I played along for a while until it was clear there was no possibility of such a bunch of individuals with highly diversified lifestyles, values and politics ever cohering. Still, Bob stayed in touch with others in the profession as a matter of principle and occasionally organised a whip-round when someone fell on hard times.
The Red Unicorn hotel used to be a bit of a bloodhouse like many of the pubs in Balmain. Again like many, it gentrified along with the area itself, so that it had a bistro and sold boutique beers. TAB facility and a bank of pokies, but not too many. There were signs advertising live music two nights a week and a trivia competition. All the hallmarks of the trendy twenty-first century pub. The smoke-free rule was its newest pitch at the high disposable income crowd. Didn't worry me: I'd given up the rollies long ago. The last cigarette I'd lit in a moment of stress after years of abstinence tasted like old dog blanket and I knew I was cured. Bob, another quitter, had been a ferocious smoker and was still a keen drinker. The Unicorn was an obvious choice for a meeting.
Bob was at the bar when I arrived. I hadn't laid eyes on him since he'd gone corporate and seeing him in a suit was a shock. I was in my usual late spring to early summer uniform of drill slacks, cotton shirt and beat-up linen jacket. Bob was working on a schooner and had a middy sitting beside it. He looked at his watch as I approached.
'Dead on time. Knew you would be so I ordered you a beer.'
I toasted him with it. 'Thanks.' I touched the lapel of his jacket. 'Nice suit. Doing well, Bob?'
'I have to say I am. No overheads, car in the package, health insurance…'
'I could do with that.'
'But not with the rest of it, eh, Cliff?'
'A dinosaur?'
'Not quite, but an endangered species, that's for sure. This former colleague is…?'
I looked around before answering. The nearest drinker was three or four stools away and the barman was well out of hearing. Old habit-names spoken aloud in public can attract attention. 'Was Eddie Flannery.'
'Poor Eddie. Went down a long flight of stone steps. Possible suicide but probably pissed.'
'I heard he was murdered.'
'Did you now? That wasn't the coroner's opinion. Accidental death.'
'I missed all this. When did it happen?'
'A few months ago.'
'Precisely when?'
Bob, who'd put on weight since I'd last seen him, stroked the beginnings of a jowl and took a long pull on his schooner. 'Eight weeks, give or take a day or two. That's the inquest. The death was about six weeks earlier. Can't be more exact than that. I went to the funeral. It was pissing down.'
I finished the middy and signalled to the barman.
'That's as it should be. It must've been when I was in Queensland.'
'None of it made much of a splash.'
'Was Billie Marchant there?'
'Sure was. Very fetching in black in a Barbara Stanwyck sort of way, if you get me. What's this about, Cliff?'
I told him as much as I felt entitled to. He didn't know about Eddie's association with Clement and when that name came up he seemed to run dry of information, even though he had a fair amount of alcohol inside him. So did I, and I was facing a walk home to Glebe.
'Why do I get the feeling you're closing up on me, Bob?'
Bob suddenly looked as if he'd like a cigarette. Instead, he started to shred his coaster. The fingers that used to be nicotine-stained with bitten-down nails were manicured but nervous. 'Clement's a client of the firm I'm with.'
'Then you should be a mine of information about him.'
He shook his head. 'Not a chance.'
'Bad guy is he?'
'You won't get another word out of me. In fact, I'm going. Sorry, Cliff.'
He was halfway off his stool. I grabbed his arm. Felt the quality of the material of his jacket. 'You've been helpful. I'll tell anyone who asks.'
'Fuck, no. I wasn't here.'
He pulled free and left quickly. Hadn't even finished his drink. I topped mine up with what he'd left and went into the bistro with the two-thirds full glass. I ordered a steak and salad, no fries, and eked the drink out over the
