I had contacts in the parole system and social services and from some of them I got a picture of how the place had changed in recent years.
Terri Boxall, a parole officer, said, 'It was a shithole to start with. One of those good ideas gone wrong. They built the houses cheek by jowl all facing this big open parkland with virtually no private space per house. The dead-end kids turned the open space into no-go areas and the rest of the people huddled inside by the tele drinking and producing more dead-end kids.'
'You imply it's got better.'
'It sure has. The Department turned the houses around-remodelled them so they faced away and knocked some down so there was some private space.'
'I can't imagine a government department being that imaginative. Worked, did it?'
'To an extent, but the big thing was the introduction of the Islanders.'
That got my attention. 'Islanders?'
'Samoans, Tongans, Fijians. They sorted out the car thieves, burglars and yahoos. They're churchy, you know? Law-abiding, despite their problems.'
'When was this, Terri?'
'It's been progressive. Probably started eight, ten years ago.'
'That could fit.'
'What's your interest, Cliff?'
'I'm looking for a woman named Billie Marchant. Ever heard the name?'
'Sorry, no.'
'I know she's got friends out there, and she's got a kid and I'm assuming she's in touch with him. I don't know how old he is-maybe fifteen, maybe more. In a photo he looks to be black.'
'What's his name? Are they in your kind of trouble?'
'No, not directly. I just might be able to help them. Hard to say at this point. I don't know his name.'
'Good luck. Tell you what, there's a sort of community protection set-up there. I've got a few… clients in Liston and these people help me keep tabs on them from time to time.'
'Community protection?'
'Civil rights fundamentalists might call it vigilantism. I wouldn't. Have a word with John Manuma. Mention my name.'
'Got a phone number?'
'He wouldn't be interested in talking to you on the phone, Cliff. You'd have to front him, face to face, as it were.'
'As it were?'
'He's a Samoan, two hundred centimetres or thereabouts.'
'That tops me by a fair bit. Shouldn't be hard to spot.'
Terri told me that the community protection office was a shopfront in Liston's only commercial centre and that it was staffed by volunteers and open seven days a week, so Saturday wasn't going to be a problem. I wasn't going out there today because tonight I was going to keep an eye on Lou Kramer, hoping to find out who her Mr X was. She was playing her game by her own rules, and in mine you just can't be too careful.
After a quiet afternoon, I was in my car at 6 pm equipped with field glasses and a camera, stationed across the way from the entrance to the Surrey Apartments. Lovers get together on Friday nights if they possibly can, for however short a time. Husbands tell their wives they have to work late cleaning their desks; working wives do the same. For both sexes there's the excuse of a drink with the fellow workers. Just the one.
I came into the business as the no-fault divorce laws were taking away work from private investigators. One or two of what were called 'Brownie and bedsheets' cases and it was all over. As a beneficiary of no-fault divorce myself I wasn't sorry, but it took some zip out of the profession, like the end of the Cold War did out of spying. This was about the closest I'd been to it since those days.
I was still there at 8 pm with no sign of Lou or a likely candidate for her lover. The few men who'd arrived had either been in the company of other men or women or, in the cases of the two who arrived alone, and whom I photographed, they left again within a few minutes, barely time to have given Lou a peck on the cheek.
At about eight thirty a silver BMW circled the block searching for a park. The driver made two circuits before a space opened up and he slid the car into it. He got out and approached the apartment building, passing within thirty metres of me. The camera could cope with the dim light and I got a good shot of him in profile. For a nasty split second I thought something had alerted him to my presence because he turned full face towards me, but he was only looking at a skateboarder who'd jumped a gutter with a clatter and a bang and was whizzing along the footpath. I didn't need another picture because I'd seen him before. He was the man at the party who'd been cynical about the pro-Americanism and speaking style of Jonas Clement.
He went into the building. I got out of my car and walked past his, noting the registration number. I was back behind the wheel when Lou and the BMW driver came out. She was dressed pretty much the way she had been at the party. He was in a business suit, no tie. Probably passed for casual with him. Out of the tailored dinner suit, with his jacket open, he looked less impressive than he had at the party. He was tall and spindly, but carrying ten kilos he didn't need, mostly around the middle, also around his face and neck. He had thin, dark hair slicked down and a bustling walk. Lou held on to his arm as if he might get away. They stood on the footpath for a few minutes until a taxi pulled up. He handed her gallantly into the passenger side back seat, then went around and got in beside her. I started my engine, waited, U-turned and followed the taxi.
The cab cruised down Devonshire Street, negotiated the lights at Eddy Avenue and took George until it turned off towards Darling Harbour. It was a slow run through heavy traffic and easy to keep it in sight. It pulled up outside the Malaya restaurant at King Street Wharf and the happy couple went inside. Must have had a reservation because the place is packed most of the time and especially for dinner on Friday night. I could've gone a prawn sambal myself but I wouldn't have got a seat and there was nowhere to park. How the other half lives.
I drove back and found a semi-legal parking place in Chinatown. A short walk and I was at my favourite Sydney restaurant-the Superbowl in Goulburn Street. No problem for a single diner here as long as he's ready to share a table. I was and got a seat at a table with a Chinese couple who ignored me. As always, the clientele was ninety-five per cent Asian which, to my mind, is the best indication that the food is good. The service is lightning fast as the object is to move people through as quickly as possible and that's always fine by me if I'm on my own.
I had what I always have-shredded chicken with salty fish in fried rice and a big glass of the house white. I ate as much as I could manage of the perfectly cooked and blended meal and left the rest reluctantly. In and out in just under an hour and twenty dollars. I eat there as often as I can, perhaps twice a month. The waiters must know me but they never acknowledge that they've seen me before. I like that.
Anticipating that Lou and Mr X would take longer over their meal, I wandered up George Street, checked out what was on at the movies, had a coffee. Still, I was back in Surry Hills too early and had to kick my heels for a while until the taxi pulled up. Lou and her date stood outside the apartment building for a few minutes. She gesticulated; he shook his head. He leaned down to kiss her and she stepped back, then relented and they kissed briefly. She turned away quickly and headed for the security buttons. He heaved a theatrical sigh, crossed the street and used his remote to unlock the Beemer.
Very interesting, I thought, but what it meant I had no idea. I considered following him to wherever he was going, but decided against it. A light rain was falling and I wouldn't have been able to keep pace with the BMW if he decided to open it up. Besides, a bit of voyeurism goes a long way with me and I had enough on him. By office hours on Monday I'd know who he was and where he lived.
Late night news on TV. The election campaign was in its fourth week of six, but it was hard to get excited about it.
The ALP had long ago put Karl Marx in mothballs and embraced Milton Friedman or one of his disciples. The conservatives were continually reassuring us that we were safe and secure, meaning that our houses and investments were-that is, as long as you had a house and investments. If you didn't you were insecure and it was probably your fault. It certainly wasn't theirs.
Pollies in suits, men and women, went around the supermarkets and malls and appeared on television pretending to be ordinary people, when they probably couldn't tell you the price of a litre of milk or what it cost to register a Toyota Corolla. Not within a bull's roar.
