Saving Billie

I learned long ago not to expect things always to turn out well, but a knock-back of this intensity took me by surprise. I wandered out into the sunshine and stumped up the steps to the car park. I hadn't replaced my sunglasses and was slow to adjust to the bright light and was almost run down by a cruising police car. I stepped back just in time and swore. An Islander woman standing nearby gave me a dirty look. All in all, it wasn't a good start to my work in Liston.

I went back down to the shopping area and took another look at the liquor store. Still closed. I went into one of the all-purpose shops where three immense Polynesian women were sitting chatting while cooking something on a portable stove.

'Excuse me,' I said, 'can you tell me when the bottle shop opens?'

'Closed,' one woman said.

'I know, but when will it be open?'

'Closed for good.'

'Why?'

She shrugged and they went on talking as if the subject was of no interest. What they were cooking smelled delicious, but the shop sold vegetables, clothes, shoes and other things that meant health regulations forbade food preparation. They didn't look concerned and it seemed that Liston was in some ways a law unto itself.

I left the shop and a man approached me with a smile on his face, the first smile I'd seen there. Tall, he was Aboriginal, built on a much smaller scale than the Islanders. In his late teens at a guess, and to judge from his clothes-a threadbare T-shirt, dirty jeans and thongs-not doing too well.

'Think I can help you, brother,' he said.

'How's that?'

'I was in the office when you was talking to Johnny. I know who lives there.'

'Where?'

'At that address you said. And I know the woman you was talking about. I mean, I seen her.'

'Are you sure?'

He nodded his head and his ill-kept dreads bounced. I looked closely at him. Despite the signs of poverty, he didn't appear to be mentally adrift, drunk or drug-damaged. His eyes were clear and his body was lean but not withered.

'All right,' I said. 'You are?'

'Tommy.'

'My name's Cliff Hardy. You heard what I'm here for. What're you suggesting, Tommy?'

He smiled again and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in the universal gesture. 'You want to talk to the chick, I can help.'

'Chick?'

'Girl, whatever. Lives there with her kids.'

'Can you get me inside the house?'

'I reckon, yeah.'

'And about the woman?'

'What about the money, brother?'

'Is there an ATM around here?'

'Newsagent got one.'

'Wait here.'

I drew out five hundred dollars. No telling how useful Tommy might be, or his rates. I bought a diet coke and changed one of the fifties so I'd have smaller chips to play with. Tommy was standing more or less where I'd left him.

'Gotta smoke?'

I handed him a twenty. 'Get yourself some and I'll see you by the blue Falcon in the car park. The dirty one with the dings.'

He grinned, took the money and loped away. I popped the can and took a drink. Things were looking up, maybe. Tommy returned with a cigarette in his mouth and another tucked behind his ear. I stuffed the can into an overflowing bin. We got into the car and drove to the address I'd looked at before. It was one of the more hard-bitten of the houses with no attempt made in the garden, a mattress leaking stuffing on the front porch and a broken swing rusting in the side yard. Lou had described the room where she'd interviewed Billie and the furniture, including the drawer where she'd seen the photograph. I pulled up two doors away.

'Here's the deal,' I said. 'I want to go in and look at a particular piece of furniture and ask about this woman I'm trying to locate.'

Tommy blew smoke. 'Got you.'

'Fifty for you, a hundred for whoever's there.'

'Hey, why?'

'I'm invading their home. You're just a go-between.'

He thought about it as he finished his cigarette. He lit the one from behind his ear from the butt, then dropped the butt through the car window. 'Okay. Stay here and I'll see what gives.'

He slipped out, slammed the door, and crossed the street, stepped through the open gate and went up the path to the door of the house. I kept my eye on him as I got out and went around to put my foot on the smouldering butt. I leaned against the car and was grateful for the sunglasses because the sun was high and bright and my battered eye still hurt a bit. The door to the house opened and a woman stood there. She had a baby on her hip and a toddler peeked around her legs at the caller. Tommy started talking and offered her a cigarette. She took it and he lit her up, still talking. He jerked his thumb back at me. She moved slightly to get a better view, shrugged and nodded. Tommy crooked a finger at me.

I went up the path and Tommy gave me one of his winning smiles, swivelling a little to include the woman in it. 'This is Coralie, Cliff, my man. Says you have to excuse the mess in the house.'

I nodded. The toddler scuttled away and the infant on Coralie's hip sucked on its dummy. Coralie was in her twenties, pale and freckled with greasy, mousy-blonde hair. Her heavy breasts had leaked, leaving stains on her faded Panthers sweatshirt. The finger she used to flick her hair away from her eyes was heavily nicotine-stained, but she blew smoke away from the baby. She pressed herself against the doorway to let me through. The smell hit me like a grenade-fried food, sweat, tobacco smoke and despair.

Coralie pushed past me on her way to the back of the place. 'That fuckin' money's in my hand in ten fuckin' minutes, Tommy, or I'm putting the men on you.'

'No worries,' Tommy said. 'Make it snappy, Cliff.'

I was more than willing. Lou had said she talked to Billie in the front bedroom to the right of the passage. I went there and found it contained a double bed, a built-in wardrobe and a chest of drawers. The room was like an op-shop sorting area with clothes and bedding and plastic bags strewn about. I pushed through the detritus and slid open the middle drawer in the chest. It came easily and I emptied the contents on the bed and turned it over. A polaroid photograph was cellotaped to the underside and I eased it free.

'Hey,' Tommy said. 'That's worth a bonus. How about the fifty?'

After a quick look at it, I put the photograph in my shirt pocket. I picked the stuff up and restored it to the drawer. Slid it home. I gave Tommy his fifty.

'How long's she been here?'

He shrugged. 'Coupla weeks.'

'How many kids has she got?'

'Four.'

'No bloke?'

He shook his head.

'Get her back.'

He went down the hall and after a few minutes returned with Coralie, minus baby, in tow, both of them with fresh cigarettes going.

'Thanks,' I said. I gave her four fifties, making sure Tommy saw them. 'Good luck.'

Her dull, defeated eyes barely blinked as she took the money. She stood crookedly, as if perpetually ready to carry a child on her hip.

'You said a hundred,' Tommy complained as we reached the car.

'She needed it. Let's see if you can deliver.'

'Best to get away from here, brother. When I said no bloke, they come and go, like.'

We drove off and Tommy asked to go back to the shopping centre. 'I'm hungry, man. Wanna get something to eat.'

'Get me a coffee, then.'

I sat on a seat near the car park. If he'd been bluffing about knowing Billie I wouldn't see him again. If he was stalling, working up a story, it might take a while. The day was getting hot and there were fewer people around. The health centre looked to have closed and the homeboys had drifted off somewhere. Tommy came back with a packet of chicken and chips, a bottle of coke and a coffee in a styro-foam cup. He put the lot down and sank onto the seat with a sigh. He reached into a pocket and brought out a stirring stick and several packets of sugar. He tore open his package, ripped off a piece of chicken and stuffed it into his mouth with a fistful of chips. He chewed no more than he needed to, swallowed and sighed again. He was hungry all right.