Peter Temple - White Dog

I put on my raincoat and went into Collins Street, thought about how to get to the office. I’d take a cab, this was business. But first, coffee. In a slanting rain, I walked down to Exhibition Street and along to Bourke and up to Pellegrini’s, where nothing changes and the staff appear to know several hundred people by name and preference.

‘Hey, Jack, where you been?’ said the man making coffee. ‘Short, right? My mum saw Andrew on television. Tell him I want him when I murder this bastard here.’

‘When you kill him,’ I said. ‘The jury will decide whether it’s murder.’

I drank my coffee and thought about Mickey Franklin and the Massianis. Not much warmth there. Why then had they backed him when he started out as a developer? Was there a falling-out later? Business or personal? There was something personal if I read Steve correctly. Did it matter? All I was doing was trying to justify whatever horrendous daily rate Wootton was charging Drew for my services.

Wootton. The prelim scan in forty-eight. Whatever that was, he hadn’t received it. I waved to the men behind the counter and left, caught a cab with a taciturn driver.

At the office, I rang the last number I had for D. J. Olivier in Sydney. He was capable of reaching the places Simone Bendsten couldn’t reach. A voice said, ‘You have called a number that is no longer connected.’

I sat in the chair and did some drowsing, looking at the ceiling. No cobwebs. In a room dusted once in six years? I got up and inspected the room. Nothing. Spiders hung out their nets in air currents, they fished where there was life, where the air moved, where there were living things. In this room, there were no flows, nothing could live here except me.

The phone rang. It was D. J.’s assistant with the ruling-class voice. I wished I could think of a way to get her to say fuck, she gave the word an extra vowel. She put me onto the man.

‘Jack,’ he said. ‘Turning into a regular.’

‘Given the last bill,’ I said, ‘you don’t need many regulars to keep afloat.’

D. J. Olivier laughed, a man comfortable in the knowledge that he owned the only pub in town. ‘The labourer is worthy of his hire,’ he said. ‘My late dad used to say that.’

‘Your late dad and the late St Luke. I’ve got a name.’

‘Spell.’

I gave him Mickey.

‘And ramifications?’

‘Ramify,’ I said. ‘Ramify to buggery.’

I shut up shop and walked around to Taub’s Joinery, let myself in with my key and felt, as I had from the beginning, that this was my proper place of work.

Charlie was at one of the massive redgum benches, his back to me.

‘So, Mr Busy,’ he said, not looking around. He claimed that his hearing was bad. If this was true, another sense, unknown to medical science, had developed to compensate.

I walked across and stood beside him. ‘Just mucking around?’ I said. ‘No work to do?’

He said nothing, chiselled with precision and economy, a thumb the size of a doorknob guiding the blade. I knew what he was doing. He was making dovetail blocks to attach the big desk’s top to its frame.

‘No one will see those, you know,’ I said. ‘And if they do, they won’t understand. And if they do understand, they won’t care.’

How best to attach tops to bottoms. The crude use screws. But wood moves — it shrinks as it dries, and it also moves with the humidity levels. The wider the surface, the bigger the movement. Something has to give. Since the screws won’t, the tabletop cracks. Less crude woodworkers use metal fasteners that allow for movement. Not Charlie. Charlie scorned metal. He solved the problem in the most difficult way: dovetail-shaped pieces attached to the top slid into dovetail blocks on the rails.

Charlie pushed half-a-dozen blocks my way, a sweep of a hand. ‘I can hear on the wireless nonsense,’ he said. ‘You want to be useful or talk rubbish?’

‘Oh, all right,’ I said. ‘You should be a talkback host on the ABC, drawing things out of people, sympathetic.’

I went to the chisel cupboard and chose one. All the tools were sharp. In this workshop, following some ancient European work discipline, blades were sharpened after use, wiped with oil and put away. Those chisels prone to rust had their little oily socks to wear.

At the bench, I held a male piece against a block and marked the angles with a knife. ‘A router,’ I said. ‘This is what routers were invented for. We’re like printers rejecting the Linotype machine.’

Charlie finished a block, removed the dead cheroot from his mouth and blew down the precise channel in the wood. ‘You can teach an idiot,’ he said, ‘but you cannot make him learn. Grosskopf said that.’

‘And we’re all indebted to him. On the money every time was Grosskopf. Didn’t go to his head either. What’s the bowls news? Still thrashing the pishers?’

‘Four on the ladder,’ said Charlie, holding up massive fingers. ‘Good thing for them I don’t start earlier. Before they were born. The fathers, some of them.’

We worked side by side, finished the blocks, testing the slide of each one, they couldn’t be too tight. Then we set about fixing them to the short rails of the desk, gluing them into housings Charlie had chiselled out. After that we made buttons for the long rails.

When I looked up, the light was almost gone from the high and dusty northern windows. ‘That’s it,’ I said. ‘Beer time.’

We sharpened chisels, burnishing on leather strops. I swept, coaxed Charlie out of the front door, slightly easier this evening because there was nothing being glued, no clamps to fiddle with.

On the way to the Prince, walking down wet streets lined with Golfs and Civics, here and there a bump in the line made by a four-wheel-drive, Charlie said, ‘They want me to give it up.’

‘Give what up?’

He waved a hand. ‘The work.’

The early autumn evening colder now, felt on the face. ‘Who wants?’

‘The family.’

We parted around a puddle, came back together, touched for an instant, my twenty-year-old raincoat from Henry Buck’s brushing an overcoat that John Curtin might have worn.

‘All of them?’ I said.

Charlie had three children, all female, and six grandchildren.

We turned the corner, the pub was in sight, a lick of light on the pavement, two people leaving, parting, heads together for a few seconds, more than just friends.

‘Most,’ Charlie said.

‘And Gus?’

Gus was a grand-daughter, a trade union executive. Charlie thought she was the brains of the family, his true heir.

‘No, not Gus.’

‘I’m glad to hear that.’ I was partial to Gus. ‘So what do you tell them?’

Charlie looked at me. ‘What do you think? I tell them, they find me not breathing, they can know I’ve given it up.’

‘Sensible retirement plan,’ I said, returning to breathing.

The pub was busy, Stan’s scalp glistening. Charlie headed for the bowls cabal. The Youth Club was in its corner, animated, an argument in progress, situation normal. Wilbur Ong, sitting against the wall, saw me coming in the dim, freckled mirror that had seen my father and my grandfather coming.

‘Jack,’ said Wilbur, ‘listen, they’re offerin $3.25 on the Sainters tomorrow. These blokes don’t want to be in it.’

‘Is that so?’ I said, trying to catch Stan’s eye. ‘Not a vote of no confidence in the team on the eve of the first game, is it?’

Norm O’Neill shook his head, raised his eyes to the ceiling, shifted his glasses with a thumb, adding another smudge. ‘Sometimes I wonder,’ he said.

We waited. Stan looked my way. I signalled a round.

‘Some people,’ said Norm, looking at Wilbur, ‘you ask yourself how they get through the day, don’t walk in front of a bloody tram, think the drain cleaner’s the bicarb.’