Peter Temple - White Dog

‘Masterly,’ I said. ‘Now we get the eyedrops in the food.’

‘If they dare,’ said Drew. ‘They dare only against the weak. What else?’

‘Not much. It seems the feds were asked but they were busy.’

‘Asked what?’

I shrugged. ‘Sarah thinks she was being watched.’

‘I’m not surprised. I’d watch her. What’s thinks mean?’

‘She kept seeing the same woman in the street.’

Drew shook his head. ‘Anyone to back that up?’

‘Only her sister and the deceased. Then there’s the actual property invasion and the suspected one.’

‘I know about them,’ said Drew. ‘Unreported is the problem.’

‘What about Rick the driver?’

‘I was going to ask about Rick.’

Pearbum’s replacement arrived, a slim youth carrying a bottle and new glasses. He uncorked the bottle and poured a splash for Drew, who gave it a cursory sniff and nodded.

‘As two blokes having lunch,’ said Drew. ‘What?’

‘She probably did it,’ I said, ‘but she presents well. No visible twitches, engaging candour, scorns angry jilted lover angle, says little sister Sophie was always saying give me your toy.’

I tried the wine. Pearbum had captured its essence: wine, red. ‘Sophie’s a hope. She may be able to point the finger somewhere else, vaguely point, there’s a chance.’

‘We’ll have to talk to her,’ said Drew. ‘Our mutual friend say anything about her?’

‘No. I don’t think she’s on their team.’

‘We’ll find out in due course. The old boy says she’s staying with friends.’

‘Mickey worked for the Massianis for six years,’ I said. ‘I read they’re on this building royal commission’s playlist.’

Drew put a finger to the outer corner of an eye, took on a strange Asian-Caucasian look. ‘My instinctive reaction,’ he said, ‘is that if Mickey could’ve hurt the Massianis, he’d have long been part of the structural underpinning of a prestigious office tower.’

‘I’ll ask him about that,’ I said.

‘Do that,’ said Drew. ‘Ask him. He went to Monash, Steven Massiani, tell him you went to Melbourne. He’s probably haunted by feelings of inferiority like all Monash graduates. Law and engineering, first-class honours. For what that’s worth.’

Drew looked up at the painted ceiling, at the badly painted fat nudes and cherubs and bowls of fruit. ‘I wonder why they don’t combine law and transgender studies,’ he said. ‘What about law and hairdressing. Law and podiatry. Law and Hopi Indian ear candle therapy, law and…’

The youth arrived with our first course: slices of chicken breast stacked with things in between. Standing in a puddle of balsamic vinegar sauce.

‘They used to fan the food around the plate,’ Drew said. ‘Now they give you mounds, you have no idea what to do.’

‘Wreck it,’ I said.

We wrecked, we ate.

‘Plus,’ said Drew, ‘I’ve never seen the point of pine nuts.’

‘It’s about texture,’ I said. ‘Get you to the footy this week?’

He put his head to one side, gave me the sympathy look designed to lull prosecution witnesses. ‘Saints play Carlton,’ he said. ‘For the Saints, I have nothing but contempt. For Carlton, I reserve a special loathing.’

‘You wouldn’t care to umpire the game?’ I said.

Walking up Collins Street to a tramstop, a cab pulled in ahead of me to discharge a passenger. A business lunch, I thought. Transport to and from would be billable.

‘Smith Street, Collingwood,’ I said to the driver, whose hairs were arranged across his scalp like swimming lanes. He was writing something on a pad. ‘Know where that is?’ I said, gently.

‘Think I’m off the fuckin boat, mate?’

‘I assume nothing,’ I said.

‘Fuckin Smith Street,’ he said. ‘Talkin to an Abbotsford boy, mate. Born and bred.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘So you’ll have a rough idea.’

The driver sulked until the Spring Street lights, when he said, ‘So. What’s your team?’

‘Saints,’ I said.

‘You poor cunt,’ he said, immensely cheered. ‘Still, Carlton on Satdee, even your girls got a chance. Poofs Carlton.’

‘Carlton,’ I said. ‘Possibly.’

I passed the leaden afternoon in paperwork, attending to legal matters, writing letters of inquiry and impotent threat, itemising bills for small services performed. In the dusk, the air cold and damp, I walked to the post office, a place now without a hint of gravitas, and consigned my missives to the steel bin, no doubt the only lawyer in the country who posted his own letters.

On the way back, I passed a woman retching dryly, and, in the alley, two boys grabbing and snarling, both pale and pinched, chapped lips and flaking skin, noses leaking.

It was after eight, I was home, behind the label of the Maglieri, deep in a melancholy reverie, not listening to Abdullah Ibrahim, once Dollar Brand, when the bell rang. I went down the narrow and dangerous staircase, more perilous now, and opened the door with caution.

A big man in dirty jeans and T-shirt, no hair to speak of, a beard or a painful shave coming on.

‘G’day, mate,’ he said.

‘Len,’ I said. We shook hands. I always expected to come away with splinters in my fingers.

‘Time again,’ he said. ‘Christ knows why you buggers need fires.’

Melbourne cold was a joke to Len. He was from beyond Avoca, Melbourne was like Bali to people from beyond Avoca.

The old Ford truck was backed in, wheels against the kerb, ready to unload the last two cubes of redgum, dry, split small. It came in autumn and in mid-winter, heavily discounted courtesy of a horse owner for whom Harry Strang had managed a sizeable coup.

I sat on the stairs and watched Len and his offsider, a silent ginger youth, unload and stack in the recess beneath me. We talked football. There was no point in trying to help. These were pros, you got in their way. When they were finished, Len said, ‘The boss says thirty bucks will be fine.’

Money paid, thanks said, hands shaken, I was halfway up the stairs when the phone began to ring. I made haste.

‘A shortness of breath?’ said Drew. ‘Is this a bad time? Or is awkward the word?’

‘Just getting wood,’ I said. ‘Downstairs.’

‘My instinct confirmed. I’ll be brief. The party’s father wants words, contacted me directly. From my position, that’s… what is the word?’

‘Awkward,’ I said.

‘Exactly. Ever the slotter of the black ball. I’d prefer to take instructions from the client. Perhaps my associate could call on him.’

‘In the billable universe, anything is possible,’ I said. ‘Is this part of my Cyril employment?’

‘It is. There’s no reason to speak of that to the client. Ten tomorrow at the Macedon estate?’

I thought of humming up the Calder Highway in the Alfa. Perhaps the day would be sunny. ‘Directions? Or will any forelock-tugging rustic in the vicinity be able to direct me?’

I went back to the kitchen. More wine needed. What to eat was also a question becoming urgent. Left over was a complete sausage and another biggish bit, just under half. Also a lot of mustard mash. How can you eat the same food two nights running? I tried a spoonful of the mash. How can you not?

I put the mash on to warm up, plus a bit of milk, sliced the cold sausage into thick coins and added them. Peas wouldn’t hurt. I microwaved the last of the tiny frozen peas with some butter, leant against the sink, rolling the Maglieri in the mouth. A balanced meal coming up, all major food groups represented: the dead animal group, the lumpish underground vegetable group, the things hiding in pods group, pungent seeds group, fat cows group. Preceded and accompanied by the fermented grapes group.