Saving Billie

The barmen and waiters were hard at it and a lot of the calories on the food table had been transferred to the guests. I took my second drink and Thomas, the man who'd quizzed me on my arrival, appeared at my shoulder.

'I told you not to drink.'

'You told me not to get drunk. I won't. You also said to circulate and look natural. That's what I'm doing.'

He smelled strongly of alcohol himself and something stronger than wine. 'Keep your eyes open. Mr Clement's going to make a speech soon. There could be demonstrators.'

'What, getting past you? Never.'

'You're pissing me off, Hardy, but for your information they came up from the water one time. Worked their way up from one of the other houses.'

'What was the occasion in aid of? Aboriginal land rights?'

I was sorry as soon as I said it. Hank needed this gig not to be a fuck-up and I wasn't helping. I turned towards

Thomas to say something conciliatory, but he'd gone. Failing an invasion from the water, it looked like being a quiet night. Fine by me.

There was a stirring among the guests that signalled a significant moment and Jonas Clement appeared almost magically on the bandstand as the musicians let out a quiet riff and fell silent. Clement looked to be in his late forties; he was tall and well built with a full head of dark hair greying at the sides. He had a tan and white teeth and he wore his evening clothes as if they were something to relax in. The woman standing beside him was tall and blonde and everything else she should be. She stayed slightly behind Clement, but he reached back and squeezed her hand before stepping up to the mike.

The tall champagne drinker who'd commented on the flags earlier spoke next to my ear: 'Ten to one, he clears his throat. Common touch. Unaccustomed as I am… like hell.'

Clement cleared his throat. 'Ladies and gentlemen, friends… it's so good to see you here tonight supporting this brave and worthy cause. My wife Patty and I are hoping to raise enough money to…'

I tuned out after he got on to the need for laws to punish what he called traitors here and overseas, and moved to where I couldn't hear him as clearly. Most of the crowd was paying rapt attention, but there were a few cynics intent on drinking, like the one who'd picked Clement's mannerism so accurately. A couple of the men and a few of the women were clearly drunk and having trouble standing, let alone listening. One guy was busily cracking lobster claws and couldn't have heard what was coming over the microphone anyway.

Hank's remark about there possibly being some available women at the bash came back to me and I looked the group over with that in mind, not optimistically. That's when I spotted her. She looked and moved differently from the other guests. Not that she wasn't dressed appropriately. She wore a dark blue dress with a black jacket and had the requisite jewellery. Dark hair, fashionably spiked. She was medium tall and athletically built, marking her out from the models and the well-fed wives. More than that, she was slowly moving through the crowd towards the bandstand and there was purpose in her movement. At a party, especially a well-fuelled one like this, people move differently than they do at work or in the street. She looked as if she was working. In that context it seemed threatening and I headed in her direction, pushing people aside.

Clement was winding up and I could hear him again.

'And so, thank you, each and every one, from the bottom of our hearts and I beg you to reach to the bottom of your pockets. Donation letters are on the way. Tell your secretary to expect one and put it at the top of your pile. Thank you, thank you.'

He finished. The dark-haired woman got there before me and grabbed the mike.

'Mr Clement, do you have any comment about your connection with American arms manufacturers who supplied weapons to rebels in Sierra Leone and-'

Rhys Thomas was there in a flash, but not before Clement hissed 'You slimy bitch' audibly. Thomas jerked the microphone from the woman's grasp and shouted to the musicians to start playing: they did, loudly. Thomas's grip on the woman's arm was vice-like and she was wincing with pain. I moved in quickly and dug into the nerve in his shoulder so that he let go. 'There's a guy filming this back there,' I hissed. 'Want to make it look worse?'

Clement, momentarily nonplussed, recovered quickly when he heard me. 'Let her go, Rhys. She's nothing. You,' he pointed at me, 'get her out of here.'

She was still gasping from the pain of Thomas's grip and let me escort her back past the musicians towards the steps leading to the house. By the time we'd gone up a step or two she'd recovered and resisted.

'What the fuck are you doing? There was no one filming.'

'I know, but he could've paralysed your arm. Let's see it.'

She slipped off her jacket and her bare, lightly tanned arm showed a redness that would probably become a deep, dark bruise where Thomas's meaty hand had been.

'Jesus,' she said. 'You're right.'

'Better get moving. Thomas'll be looking for the video maker. He'll be very pissed off when he doesn't find him.'

We went up a few steps and she gave a short laugh. 'No, not to worry. You can video with a mobile phone. He'll never know. Still, I made my point.'

'You did. Is it true?'

'You bet your life it's true.'

We'd reached the top of the steps with the gate in sight. She dug into her handbag and took out a tape recorder. 'I've got that prick on tape and also what I said to him. Good copy.'

'Journalist?'

'And author to be. Well, you'd better get back to work. You're a minder if ever I saw one.'

I was reluctant to let her go. She had an attractive intensity and a voice that made you want to listen to her. 'You could be wrong about that. I'm just filling in for someone.'

'You don't work for Clement?'

'I'd rather spend the rest of my life at a Kamahl concert.'

She laughed. 'That's a good line.'

'I stole it from somewhere.'

'I guessed that. Never mind.'

'I'm Cliff Hardy.'

She took a card from her bag and handed it to me, turned quickly and walked away. I had a weird feeling she was going to flutter her fingers at me without looking back, like Liza Minnelli in Cabaret, but she didn't.

2

Thanks a lot, Cliff.' Hank's voice on the phone the — L next day was still full of wheeze and huskiness. Since Hank, like many Americans, was incapable of irony, I had to accept that he meant it.

'I understand Clement thanked you,' he said. 'Not personally. He sort of conveyed his thanks. I think that's how he does things.'

'Anyway, I'm still on the books with those people so I owe you.'

I'd gone back to Clement's party and continued on with my uneventful duties. I got some black looks from Thomas but one of Clement's minions had told me the boss was happy with what I'd done. I had another drink on the strength of that and called it a night as the party was winding down around 1.30 am. I'd had my three drinks and managed a couple of sandwiches and chunks of cheese as blotter so I reckoned I was all right to drive home.

Back in my place at Glebe, I took off the dinner suit and went through the pockets. I'd shoved the card the woman had given me in with my keys and it was crumpled. I smoothed it out. It identified her as Louise Kramer, feature writer on the Sydney News, a paper I'd never heard of. It carried her work and mobile phone numbers, and her email address. I put the card aside and made a mental note to check on her with Harry Tickener, who knows everything worth knowing about journalism and journalists in Sydney. She'd shown a lot of courage fronting Clement like that and I liked her feistiness. I thought I might give her a call and ask how her arm was. She was on my mind as I went up to bed-thirty-five or thereabouts, no wedding ring, black Irish looking with the pale skin, dark hair and blue eyes. Why not?