Saving Billie

'I think it might've been Neville Wran, but your father was a funeral director.'

'So, he lifted coffins. Same thing applies. Let's have that coffee. No cake? Oh, no, you're too figure conscious these days.'

I took the lids off the coffees and handed him his, several packets of sugar and a plastic stirrer. 'I don't eat anything until the evening meal most days and then as little as I can. Gym in the morning; long walk in the afternoon or evening. Lost ten kilos. I break out from time to time, but that's the routine.'

Harry shuddered. 'Spare me. What about the grog?'

'Don't want to waste away. I take in a few calories there. Of course, as we now know, red wine's good for everything that ails you.'

I perched on the edge of his big desk; Harry poured three packets of sugar into his coffee, stirred vigorously and took an appreciative sip.

'I've got three names, Harry. Be grateful for your input on all or any.'

'What's in it for me?'

'A subscription to your newsletter.'

'You already subscribe.'

'A renewal-three year.'

'Shoot.'

'Louise Kramer. Jonas Clement. Rhys Thomas.'

'The first is doing a book on the second who employs the third.'

'Shit, Harry, I know that. I mean-'

'I know what you mean. Okay, Clement's a bit of a mystery man. Came from nowhere. I've got a suspicion it's not his original name, shall we say. At a guess, I'd bet on him being a South African or from somewhere close, like Zimbabwe.'

'Thought I twigged to an accent.'

'Right. I don't really know much about him. Bloody rich, political connections. Conservative of course.'

'Reactionary, I'd say.'

Harry grunted. 'Kramer's a bit of a handful. She wrote for me when I was running The Clarion and she still does bits and pieces for me. She's been around. She can research and write but tends to piss people off. Word is she got a big advance for the book. There's a story in Clement if she can suss it out. She's your client, right?'

'Yes.'

'You're doing what?'

'Looking into things for her.'

C mon.

'Harry, you know I can't tell you, especially as she's writing a book. Tell you what, if she gets it done I'll try to persuade her to let you run extracts for free.'

'Her publishers'd have something to say about that, but I take the point. Now Thomas is a bad bastard. He's been banned from the racing industry for life, not allowed to look at a horse. Tough nut, but he isn't dumb.'

'I've already run up against him. He had a grip on Kramer that was likely to bruise the bone. I had to… cause him to stop.'

'Bad enemy to make. When was this?'

'Last night, at a Clement fund-raising party.'

'Oh, yeah, I heard about it. Absolutely no press present, meaning lots of publicity because the press speculates about who was there and who wasn't. Clement knows how to play it. Doesn't sound like your sort of gig, though.'

'I was filling in for someone.'

'How'd Lou get in?'

I shrugged.

'She's a tricky one, Cliff. Watch yourself.'

'Meaning?'

'I dunno. Her stuff was always good but I wasn't completely sure she got her info… ethically. Sailed close to the wind with her a few times-quotes ever so slightly doctored, questions about what was on and off the record. That kind of thing.'

We finished the coffee and the cups went into the bin. I asked Harry about Billie Marchant, mentioning that she'd been interviewed by Lou Kramer in Liston, and Eddie. He'd never heard of her and all he knew about Eddie was that he'd cashed in. 'No great loss,' he said. 'What d'you know about Liston, Cliff?'

'Heavyweight champ. Lost to Ali twice. Probably tanked the second time.'

'Very funny. It'll open your eyes. Three generations of welfare dependents out there, with a fourth coming along.'

'Well, my grandad was on the dole when he wasn't on the wallaby, and my dad was on it in the Depression. Me too, for a bit, when the insurance company sacked me.'

'You can compare notes then with some of the people out there, but I doubt you'll find much similarity. Some of them are locked into poverty traps no one has a clue about relieving.'

'You're talking about our political masters, our elected representatives.'

Harry blew a raspberry. 'Yeah, and we're about to elect the same lot again, or worse. Stay in touch, mate. I'll hold you to that promise about the extracts if Lou gets her shit together.'

'You have doubts?'

'She always filed dead on time. What's her deadline on the book?'

'I didn't ask.'

'You should.'

'Why?'

'It puts writers under stress. Some of them spend the advance and can't get on with the book. They go for the booze or the drugs, even suicide. It's been known.'

'Sounds like you know.'

'Sort of. I've been trying to write a novel for years. Can't crack it.' Harry waved his hand at the computer and other professional material in the room. 'Lucky I've got this. Haven't you ever tried to do something and couldn't make it, Cliff?'

'Sure. Tried to clear six feet in the high jump. Five eleven and a half was fine but I knocked the bar off every time at six feet.'

'So, what did you do?'

'Changed to the long jump.' 'And?'

'Couldn't clear sixteen feet.'

'Same thing, mental barrier. So?'

'Went surfing. I could stand up on the board and if I fell off it didn't matter.'

'Ask her.'

Perhaps by nature, certainly by experience and habit, private enquiry agents are suspicious and mistrustful. But some friendships take and hold and I had one going back quite a way with Bob Armstrong. Bob had eventually yielded to the blandishments of one of the corporations and become a security consultant and functionary within its organisation, but before that he'd been a keen and successful independent operator. I rang him, told him I wanted to talk about a former colleague, and we agreed to meet for a drink at six in Balmain.

'In the glorious smoke-free pub where you can breathe the air and taste the beer,' he said.

'Didn't know there was one.'

He named it. The day heated up considerably and I did a few routine things, like returning the dinner suit to the hirer, depositing Lou Kramer's cheque and paying a few bills before heading to the Dawn Fraser baths at four thirty for a pre-drink and work swim. The baths have gone through a few changes over the years but not many. The water's better now than a few years ago when the harbour around Balmain was very sludgy. I paid for a locker and stripped, wrapped my mobile in the towel and went out on the boards.

There's something Old Sydney, in the true sense, that I like about the place. I remember the photo of poor Les Darcy in his trunks with the kids at the Manly baths, ninety years back. He looked as hard as a rock and ready to take on any middleweight on the planet. That image was in my head as I walked towards a clear spot. The way it is with me when a case is on hand, I could hear the voices of the people I'd spoken to inside my head. This is my shot, I heard Lou Kramer saying. Les never got his shot. Should have.

I tucked my towel and thongs into a corner, dived in and swam a few lengths. The water was choppy because a light wind had sprung up. I enjoyed the swim, pulled myself out and headed for the towel. The mobile chirped and I answered it with water still in my ears. I could scarcely make out the voice.

'Can't hear you. Hang on. I have to clear water from my ears. Okay. Who is it?'

'It's Lou Kramer. Why've you got water in your ears?'

'I've been swimming.'

'Swimming!'

'Healthy mind in a healthy body. What's up?'

'I wanted to tell you not to deposit that cheque just yet.'

'I've already deposited it. Paid extra for quick clearance.'