Saving Billie

'Shit, it'll bounce. I'm sorry. I have to move some money around.'

'You're not filling me with confidence.'

'It'll be fine in a day or so. Just re-present it. I'll pay the fee.'

'I've got a question for you. What's your deadline for the book?'

'Why d'you ask?'

'Just curious.'

'None of your bloody business. Sorry again about the cheque.'

She rang off. I thought a better rule than check on your client might be check on your client's bank balance.

Bob Armstrong once attempted to work up a PEA trade union of a sort but he had no luck. I played along for a while until it was clear there was no possibility of such a bunch of individuals with highly diversified lifestyles, values and politics ever cohering. Still, Bob stayed in touch with others in the profession as a matter of principle and occasionally organised a whip-round when someone fell on hard times.

The Red Unicorn hotel used to be a bit of a bloodhouse like many of the pubs in Balmain. Again like many, it gentrified along with the area itself, so that it had a bistro and sold boutique beers. TAB facility and a bank of pokies, but not too many. There were signs advertising live music two nights a week and a trivia competition. All the hallmarks of the trendy twenty-first century pub. The smoke-free rule was its newest pitch at the high disposable income crowd. Didn't worry me: I'd given up the rollies long ago. The last cigarette I'd lit in a moment of stress after years of abstinence tasted like old dog blanket and I knew I was cured. Bob, another quitter, had been a ferocious smoker and was still a keen drinker. The Unicorn was an obvious choice for a meeting.

Bob was at the bar when I arrived. I hadn't laid eyes on him since he'd gone corporate and seeing him in a suit was a shock. I was in my usual late spring to early summer uniform of drill slacks, cotton shirt and beat-up linen jacket. Bob was working on a schooner and had a middy sitting beside it. He looked at his watch as I approached.

'Dead on time. Knew you would be so I ordered you a beer.'

I toasted him with it. 'Thanks.' I touched the lapel of his jacket. 'Nice suit. Doing well, Bob?'

'I have to say I am. No overheads, car in the package, health insurance…'

'I could do with that.'

'But not with the rest of it, eh, Cliff?'

'A dinosaur?'

'Not quite, but an endangered species, that's for sure. This former colleague is…?'

I looked around before answering. The nearest drinker was three or four stools away and the barman was well out of hearing. Old habit-names spoken aloud in public can attract attention. 'Was Eddie Flannery.'

'Poor Eddie. Went down a long flight of stone steps. Possible suicide but probably pissed.'

'I heard he was murdered.'

'Did you now? That wasn't the coroner's opinion. Accidental death.'

'I missed all this. When did it happen?'

'A few months ago.'

'Precisely when?'

Bob, who'd put on weight since I'd last seen him, stroked the beginnings of a jowl and took a long pull on his schooner. 'Eight weeks, give or take a day or two. That's the inquest. The death was about six weeks earlier. Can't be more exact than that. I went to the funeral. It was pissing down.'

I finished the middy and signalled to the barman.

'That's as it should be. It must've been when I was in Queensland.'

'None of it made much of a splash.'

'Was Billie Marchant there?'

'Sure was. Very fetching in black in a Barbara Stanwyck sort of way, if you get me. What's this about, Cliff?'

I told him as much as I felt entitled to. He didn't know about Eddie's association with Clement and when that name came up he seemed to run dry of information, even though he had a fair amount of alcohol inside him. So did I, and I was facing a walk home to Glebe.

'Why do I get the feeling you're closing up on me, Bob?'

Bob suddenly looked as if he'd like a cigarette. Instead, he started to shred his coaster. The fingers that used to be nicotine-stained with bitten-down nails were manicured but nervous. 'Clement's a client of the firm I'm with.'

'Then you should be a mine of information about him.'

He shook his head. 'Not a chance.'

'Bad guy is he?'

'You won't get another word out of me. In fact, I'm going. Sorry, Cliff.'

He was halfway off his stool. I grabbed his arm. Felt the quality of the material of his jacket. 'You've been helpful. I'll tell anyone who asks.'

'Fuck, no. I wasn't here.'

He pulled free and left quickly. Hadn't even finished his drink. I topped mine up with what he'd left and went into the bistro with the two-thirds full glass. I ordered a steak and salad, no fries, and eked the drink out over the meal. Bob Armstrong had softened up since his days as an independent, but he'd never been short on guts and the genuine fear in his attitude surprised me. It sounded as though he wouldn't mention our meeting to anyone at his place of business, but I couldn't be sure. Anyway, I was glad I hadn't talked about Billie's kid.

4

It was a good night for a walk and a think, and it's always good to avoid being breathalysed. The car was safely parked and locked and there wasn't anything worth stealing in it. If someone wanted my sweaty gym gear and salty swimmers they were welcome. I was due for new stuff anyway.

At one time, Wednesday would have been an unusual night for a party like the one at Clement's, but these days corporate types work seven days a week and have clocks around them set to London, Tokyo and New York time and a week has taken on an entirely different shape. For us lesser mortals, Thursday still means late night shopping and activity beyond the usual in the streets. I walked down Darling Street to Victoria Road and negotiated my way down to pick up the Crescent. I thought about cutting through Jubilee Park but decided against it. People do private things there at night and I respect their privacy. The Wigram Road hill is a good calf muscle stretcher and I was thinking I might reward myself for my virtue by having a quick one at the Toxteth hotel.

I tried to remember when I'd last been in Campbelltown and couldn't. I knew I'd never been to its outer suburbs and decided I'd do a web search on Liston before I went out there. Couldn't hurt. I was halfway up the hill when I became aware of something unusual. It wasn't much-a feeling that a car light behind me wasn't quite right, a half-heard idling car motor. I didn't turn round but my senses were alerted and before I got to Glebe Point Road I knew there was a car, hanging back, slowing, letting others pass, following me.

I stepped up the pace, crossed over Wigram Road and used the pedestrian crossing over Glebe Point Road. Then I walked briskly past the couple of trendy shops and into the Toxteth. If someone wanted to talk to me they could do it here. If they wanted to do something else they could whistle for it. This was my turf, and I could make it home in ways only someone who'd lived here for twenty years would know.

I went in by the Ferry Road door through the pool area with its swanky blue baize tables. Three of them. Two youngsters, looking barely old enough to be in the place, were smoking, drinking and knocking the balls about- misspending their youth and enjoying it. I went into the bar where there were padded chairs and settees, plus stools and classy framed sporting prints on the walls. I bought a scotch and went back to watch the pool players. A mistake. Three men in suits entered the pub-Rhys Thomas and two others, both very big.

They moved quickly and purposefully, Thomas blocking the Ferry Road door to the street and one of the biggies standing in the wide opening between the pool area and the bar. It's wide, but if he'd spread his arms he could just about have covered the distance.

I put my glass down, and picked up a cue and a ball. The one wearing the smartest suit took two fifties from his wallet, handed one to each of the kids and gestured with his thumb.