Peter Corris: The Marvellous Boy

‘No. He lived out mate. Face was buggered, you know the way they get. There was something though…’

‘His hands?’

‘His hands! Right! Most derros, shit you wouldn’t let them put their hands down your dunny, but his hands were white and smooth like.’

I handed over the floating ten. ‘Do you remember Miss Reid, the companion?’

‘Do I what. Hatchet-faced old bitch.’

I wouldn’t have called her old or particularly hatchet-faced, but he was talking character, not physiognomy.

‘You didn’t get on with her?’

‘Who could?’ He lit a cigarette, needing something to counter the angry memories. ‘The judge couldn’t stand her and I was with him all the way.’

‘What was wrong with her?’

‘High and mighty. Humble as shit when the old lady was around and Queen shit when she wasn’t.’

He was scrambling his images and running low on vocabulary but the sentiment sounded genuine. ‘All servants hate servants’, who said that? I couldn’t remember. Maybe that was all there was to it but it was worth another question.

‘Did Miss Reid have a boyfriend when you were there?’

His answer was a derisive snort and a shake of his head. Then he looked down at his belly and the room and recognised that he wasn’t doing so well in the sexual stakes himself. The realisation sobered him.

‘She’s got one now,’ I said.

‘That right? Must be a mug.’

Our exchanges were getting aimless but I had a feeling that he was holding something back. The talking and drinking and driving had unravelled me and I couldn’t think how to probe for it. I got out a card and put it on the bed.

‘That’s me,’ I said, getting up. ‘If you think of anything useful get in touch. There could be some money in it.’

He put the card and the ten where he’d put the five.

‘You mean about shit face Reid, Slim?’

‘Don’t call me that. About her or anything. You’ve got something more to say about her?’

‘I might. Give us another five.’

I moved over to the bed, grabbed the neck of his shirt, twisted and pulled. The cloth cut into his fat neck.

‘You know Albie, I don’t really like pushers, not really. I don’t think I’ve had good value from you. What will your protection do about a jelly nose?’

He squirmed and tried to pull free. I twisted harder.

‘Okay, okay,’ he rasped. ‘I’ll tell you. Let go.’

I dropped him onto the bed, the saucer jumped and spilled ashes and butts across the blanket.

‘Shit! I drove Miss Reid to the Botanical Gardens once.’

‘Albie, you didn’t. What tree did you do it under?’

‘Don’t joke about it, I’d rather go without. She met a bloke there. I got pissed off waiting and went to take a look. I saw her sitting on a bench talking to a bloke.’

‘Describe him.’

‘That’s hard, I wasn’t close.’

‘Young or old?’

‘Middling. All I remember is he had sideburns,’ he sketched in facial hair, ‘like Elvis Presley.’

‘Maybe that’s who it was. How long did they talk?’

‘Maybe half an hour.’

‘How was she afterwards?’

‘Same as always, fuckin’ frozen.’

‘Funny you don’t like her Albie. I got the feeling she thought you were a bit of all right.’

He looked up at me and dug the card out.

‘Private detective,’ he said.

I nodded.

‘Smartarse.’

‘Don’t push your luck. I could fix it so’s you’d be cleaning out the carriages.’

I went out leaving the door open. It slammed when I was halfway down the stairs.

It was nearly five o’clock, Friday. I drove to my bank in Glebe, paid in the Chatterton cheque and drew out half of it — my grandfather was a Scot. Then I thought that it could be a busy weekend coming up and a shortage of cash would be inconvenient. I drew another hundred and to hell with my grandfather, what did he ever do for me? I might even have some fun, he’d have hated that.

I bought groceries and wine and went home. The house was quiet as usual, lonely as usual. My ex-wife Cyn had never been there and my ex-woman Ailsa very seldom. It was just a place for sleeping, eating, drinking and thinking. I put on some music, B. B. King, got out my pen and pad and tried to arrange what I’d learned, see what directions it suggested. Nothing came, too early. All I had were male and female signs on bits of paper with names and some bits with signs but no names — like the woman who delivered the baby, if there was a baby. And a bit with a male sign on it and a question mark. I gave up on it, grilled some meat and tossed some salad. The beer and Bacardi were old memories and I poured some riesling down on top of them.

After the meal I used the telephone. All organisations present confidential fronts — especially about their personnel

— which can be cracked if you know how. It took me three calls to breach the defences of the City Cab Co. Hilda Bourke was the only woman who’d been driving for the Company two years back and she was still with them, on the road just then. I persuaded the base to get her to call at my place by promising to pay for her time — a taxi ride to nowhere.

While I was waiting I got my. 38 and ammunition out of their oilcloth wrapping and mated them. I put on a shoulder holster and tucked the gun away. A car horn sounded softly outside. I turned off the lights and went out to the cab. The driver was a stocky woman in her forties; blonde hair gleamed in the car’s interior light under her head scarf. She had a strong, tired face devoid of make-up.

‘Hilda Bourke?’ I opened the front passenger door.

‘That’s right. Mr Hardy?’ Her voice was pure Sydney, a slightly nasal drawl.

I got in. ‘I want to ask you a few questions about a fare you handled. I’ll pay you. I cleared it with your base.’

‘Stuff them, it’s a change. I might not remember anyway.’

‘You should, it was out of the ordinary — a tramp you took up to a big place in Rushcutters Bay.’

‘Jesus, you’re going back a bit.’

‘Yes, but you do recall it?’

‘Mm, pretty well. I waited for him and he gave me a tip — five bucks I think. He was pretty drunk.’ She said it apologetically, as if it was against the ethics of the job to take big tips from drunks. ‘Poor bugger,’ she went on, ‘I’ve thought about him since. I wonder what he wanted up there?’

‘I know what he wanted,’ I said. ‘What I’m interested in is where he came from.’

‘That’s easy. I took him back to where I picked him up, the Noble Briton pub.’

‘At the Cross.’

‘Right, little fare and a big tip like I said.’

‘He hailed you from the street?’

‘No I think there was a call from the pub. He looked pretty rough but had the street right. Sorry, I can’t recall it.’

‘That’s okay. Did he behave himself in the car?’

She shot me a look but she had no vanity. ‘Yeah, no chucking or burning smokes. He was a gentleman really, spoke well.’

‘He went into the pub when you dropped him?’

‘Like a shot.’

I gave her ten dollars.

‘Thanks, I hope that old codger’s not in trouble.’

‘Why d’you say that?’

‘You look like trouble to me, Mr Hardy. Hey, can I take you to the pub? You’ve paid.’

I shook my head, thanked her and got out. She u-turned and drove off. I coaxed the Falcon into life and drove off sedately towards the Cross.

They’ve gutted it of course, the Cross, stripped away nearly everything that made it a unique place. But coming up from the empty city and the quiet park, the Cross still had some glamour. It still reminded you that not everybody lived tidy and safe. There were still bodies for sale, gambling games older than civilisation, men-women and women-men, phoneys and genuine seekers after truth.