Townsley on smack and contributed to his decline, but looking at this wreck it was hard to imagine the elegant singer having anything to do with him. Still, it was a year ago.
Berry was in withdrawal, shaking and sweating. I squatted down near him and showed him a twenty dollar note. ‘A few questions,’ I said.
He nodded, still clasping his hands over his crotch.
‘I’m told you and Simon Townsley had a thing going on that last tour.’
Peter Corris
CH28 — Taking Care of Business
‘Me ‘n a hundred others.’
‘Townsley was like that?’
‘He’d fuck anything; young, old and in between.’
‘Others in the band?’
‘No. All except. Fucked Doc Reiss’ son but.’
‘Reiss? The drummer?’
‘Yeah. Laughed about it behind Doc’s back.’
‘Why’s he called Doc?’
‘Dunno. Mad bastard. Threatened to pull the plug unless the boys performed in that fuckin rainstorm after the temperature had dropped to nothing. Do I get the money? I need a hit bad, man.’
‘He didn’t shoot up with you? Share a needle? You look like you could have hepatitis.’
He let go all he could manage in the way of a laugh. ‘Nah, Simon didn’t use; didn’t even drink. Too fuckin’ vain. You’re right about me though. I’ve got everything that’s going. You’re lucky I didn’t bite you.’
It was all I could do to stop myself from drawing back. I dropped the note between his legs and left.
I went to the nearest pub, bought a beer and read Steve Cook’s fax sheets carefully. One story was devoted to the trials of Carl ‘Doc’ Reiss, who’d studied medicine and qualified as a pharmacist before pursuing a musical career. He was forty-two and his sixteen-year-old son, Danny, had died of AIDS the year before last. After that, it wasn’t hard to put it together.
I went back to Woolloomooloo and found Reiss on his own in the rehearsal space, drinking beer and tapping on a snare drum.
‘You know,’ he said.
I sat down out of range of his sticks. ‘I think so. Townsley infected your son and you somehow doctored his medication. Then you helped him to get pneumonia.’
‘Are you wired?’
I shook my head, stood and pulled my shirt out of my pants and rotated.
‘Drop your strides.’
I did. He tapped a few times, then laid the sticks down. ‘He knew he was positive and he didn’t give a shit. He was one of those who reckoned they’d take as many with them as they could. Well, he took my Danny and I took him.’
‘How’d you do it?’
‘Easy. Substituted placebos for some of his pills. The bastard was on thirty pills a day. Some of the stuff that went into his cocktail rotted inside him. A while without his Bactrim and he was wide open. I know about that stuff.’
‘You insisted they play in the rain.’
He nodded. ‘I fucked the air-conditioner in the van as well. What’re you going to do?’
‘Talk to Jordan Elliott.’
‘Talk all you like. Tell him his lover kept score on the back of his guitar. He must’ve rooted fifty blokes on that tour. As for me, you’ll never prove a thing. I’m in favour of cremation, aren’t you?’
I thought about it but in the end decided to tell Elliott the truth. He listened and he seemed to age in front of my eyes. He wept unashamedly. ‘I wish you hadn’t told me. You’ve destroyed a dream.’
‘I’m sorry. That happens,’ I said.
BLACK ANDY
I’m a literary agent but I’m not ringing to talk to you about your memoirs,’ Melanie Fanshawe said quickly. ‘A couple of people in the business have told me about your…’
‘Rudeness?’
‘Not at all.’ Emphatic refusal. ‘This is something quite different. Professional. I can’t talk about it on the phone and I’m afraid I can’t get to you today. Could you possibly come to me? I’m sorry, that sounds… I’m sure you’re busy, too.’
She gave me the address in Paddington and suggested five o’clock. Suited me. I knew the area. There was a good pub on a nearby corner where I could have a drink when we finished, whichever way it went.
I was at her door a couple of minutes early. A tiny two storey terrace described by the real estate sharks as a ‘worker’s cottage’. The door, with a small plaque identifying the business carried on inside, was right on the street. No gate. One step up. I rang the bell and a no-nonsense buzzer sounded inside.
Heels clattered briefly on a wooden floor and the door opened. Melanie Fanshawe was solidly built, medium-tall, fortyish. She wore a white silk blouse, a narrow bone-coloured mid-calf skirt and low heels. Her hair was dark, wiry and abundant, floating around her head.
‘Mr Hardy?’
‘Right.’
‘Come in. Come through and I’ll make some coffee and tell you what this’s all about.’
I followed her down a short passage, past an alcove under the stairs where a phone/fax was tucked in. The kitchen was small with a slate floor, eating nook, microwave, half-sink and bar fridge. She pointed to the short bench and seats. ‘You should be able to squeeze in there.’
I could, just. ‘Small place you’ve got here.’
She laughed. ‘I inherited it from my grandma. She was five foot nothing, but I’ve learned to turn sideways and duck my head.’
‘I’ve got the opposite problem,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a terrace in Glebe that’s too big for me.’
She boiled a kettle, dumped in the coffee, poured the water and set the plunger. ‘How d’you take it?’
‘White with two.’
She lifted an eyebrow. ‘Really?’
‘I’m trying not to be a stereotype.’
She laughed again. ‘You’re succeeding. They didn’t tell me you were funny.’
I made a gesture of modest acceptance as she pushed the plunger down.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘This is it. I’ve got a client who’s written a book. No, he’s writing a book. I’ve got an outline and the chapter headings and it looks like amazing stuff.’
‘Good for him. And good for you.’
She smiled that slightly crooked smile that made you want to like her. ‘Yeah, sure. If he lives to finish it.’
I drank some of the excellent coffee. ‘Here comes the crunch.’
‘You’re right. This book tells all there is to know about corruption in Sydney over the past twenty years-up to yesterday. Names, place names and dates. Everything. It’s going to be a bombshell.’
‘But it hasn’t been written yet.’
‘As I said, the outline’s there and the early stuff is ready. He’s got the material for the rest-tapes, documents, videos. The thing is, as soon as it becomes known that this book’s on the way, the author’s life is in serious danger.’
‘From?’
