‘I’m not. planning to bust the Mafia, mate. I’m just going to show the flag, show that I know who works for who and how to find them.’
‘What good would that do?’
‘Always helps to be positive-attack the net.’
‘Attack the net. Is that how they catch the ferrets?’
‘No, that’s tennis. If I find out how they catch the ferrets I’ll let you know, seeing you’re so interested.’
‘You could ask you uncle.’
‘He’s been dead for twenty years.’
Primo starting hatching in a section of his drawing. ‘That probably means his ferrets are dead, too.’
Being mono-lingual, I’ll give the last word any day to a man who can make a joke in his second language. Besides, doing that usually makes people happy to talk to you again and Primo was a first-class source.
It was after five, getting towards wine or gin time rather than coffee time, but I wandered down to the Venezia anyway. It was a nice afternoon for a walk, or would have been sixty years ago when my rabbitto uncle was a boy. Now the traffic was banked up in William Street right back to the tunnel. The air was thick with fumes from idling engines; the case for lead free petrol seemed urgent. I was wearing a white shirt, dark pants and my Italian shoes; I could play a fair game of pool but my Italian was non-existent beyond una cappuccino molto caldo, per favore. The Venezia has two entrances, one on one street and the other around the corner which is occupied by a florist. From the steady twenty-four-hours-a day, 365-days-a-week trade the Venezia did, you’d have thought they could’ve bought out the florist and expanded, but maybe the florist didn’t have a price. I wandered in at Crown Street, bought my coffee and went through pinball and video game purgatory to the pool room. You could buy coffee in there and something stronger if you had the right look about you. All four tables were in operation and the couple of nests of tables and chairs were crammed full of men talking, sipping and smoking; no women. I leaned against the counter and watched a player run a series of balls into the pockets. He had the expert’s simultaneous total concentration and relaxation-whether he’d have grace under pressure was another question.
I finished the coffee and ordered another. The man serving it wore long sideburns that covered his cheeks to within a centimetre of his nostrils. He wasn’t busy but he seemed determined to give me the minimum attention he could get away with. I fumbled for money and counted it slowly to extend his attention span.
‘Do you know Carl Peroni by any chance?’ I compared a dull dollar coin to a shiny ten cent piece.
‘Carl? Yes.’ His fingers obviously itched to pull the right money from my handful of coins.
‘Expect him in tonight?’
His shrug sketched the coastline of the Bay of Naples in a single movement. I got out a ball point pen and flicked it; I really had his attention now.
‘Got a bit of paper? I want to leave him a message.’
He pushed a cardboard coaster across the counter towards me. I gave him the right money for the coffee and added the dull dollar. On the coaster I wrote: ‘Enjoyed our meeting in the car park, Carl. We must do it again sometime.’ I added my name and the office phone number. The counter man craned forward to read it. I pushed it across.
‘Give it to him, will you? And buy him a coffee.’
He looked out into the cigarette fug; the air was as blue as in William street and we had the noise of the mechanical and electronic machines instead of the cars. ‘Could be in later,’ he said.
‘I’m busy. It’s not important.’ I finished the short black in a gulp and walked out. The florist was just closing; I stood on the pavement and watched him pull the street displays in and tidy the shop. He was a tall, thin, middle-aged man wearing a dust coat and a bow tie. He whistled while he worked. I remembered that it was one of the many complaints of Cyn, my ex-wife, that I never bought her flowers. It was true, I hadn’t. I tried to a couple of times after she first mentioned it, but I could never feel right about doing it. I wondered what Dr Holmes would make of that.
I’d given Erica Fong a key to my place before sending her off to stay at Bill Mountain’s house with Max. I was glad that she’d used it and glad she was asleep on my couch. I was in the lonely mood my work sometimes brings, a feeling that other people are only contacts, sources of information or problems, and I needed to talk to someone who was more than that.
She was sleeping quietly with her straight hair all spikey and her head resting on a pillow she’d made of an expensive-looking leather coat. One hand, the nicotine-stained one, was under her head and the other was curled in a tight fist as if she was ready to throw a punch the instant she woke up.
Two bottles of duty-free Scotch poked out of the big overnight bag by the couch. I guessed that at least one of the bottles was for me so I took it out to the kitchen, got rid of all the cardboard and wrapping and poured a hefty slug of it over Australian ice. I had a mouthful to make sure the stuff had travelled okay, and then took the bottle, some ice and another glass back to the front room.
She didn’t look travel-stained and I suppose that’s one of the advantages of being small. An airline seat, especially a first class one, would allow enough room for reading, eating and drinking, and isometric exercises. A brush of the teeth, nothing to shave, and you’re right. Erica was wearing fashionably baggy pants and a loose cotton top. Her espadrilles were on the floor and I noticed that she had the shapely feet only small women have. There was a carton of Benson amp; Hedges cigarettes in the bag and another open on the arm of the couch. I had to conclude that either she wasn’t a woman of her word or she hadn’t brought Bill Mountain back with her.
She stirred briefly and came awake quickly. She sat up, stretched and reached for the cigarettes. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I just got in. I dropped off.’
‘You’re entitled, flying however many miles it is in however few hours.’ I held up the Scotch and she nodded. I made her a drink while she inhaled and exhaled as if that’s what life was all about. When she had tried her drink she looked at me gravely.
‘I didn’t find him.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I spent Dad’s money like a lunatic just getting around. Everything costs the earth…’ She broke off the travel chat for more alcohol and nicotine and when she spoke again the worry line was like a small fold on her forehead. ‘It looks bad, Cliff. I don’t suppose you…?’
I shook my head.
‘I bought a bottle of Scotch for you and one for him, just in case.’
‘He’s stopped drinking.’
‘He’s what? How d’you know?’
‘I saw his sister in Melbourne.’
‘I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s doing some crazy things.’
‘Like?’
She finished her cigarette and lost interest in her drink. She tucked her legs up under her and folded her arms and looked like a sad Oriental statue. ‘It’s weird, let me tell you,’ she said. ‘I went to Nice, flew there with just one change. I can’t speak any bloody French but I showed the taxi driver the postcard and he took me to the hotel. It’s inn by this amazing woman with long black hair and diamond rings. She speaks good English and she’s got a big dog, a Doberman. We big-dog people get along. Well, I had a photo of Bill and I showed it to her and she said he’d stayed there for a couple of days. He’d arrived from Marseilles.’
‘What was he doing in Marseilles?’
‘I think he was buying heroin.’
‘Jesus. Why d’you think that?’
‘Madame at the hotel-she said she saw Bill down at the beach sitting in a chair talking to a bloke. She says this bloke is a well-known Marseilles heroin dealer. They set the deal up in Marseilles and deliver in Nice. Don’t ask me why. They have all these chairs lined up on this concrete promenade…’
‘I’ve seen it in the movies.’
‘It’s lovely, and you could talk privately there. I mean, not be overheard. Oh God, Cliff, he’s never had anything to do with hard drugs. I’m sure of that.’