‘Not exactly.’
‘It was a sweet deal of a break, Cliff. In retrospect the van driver reckoned there could’ve been half a dozen cars on the roads blocking him and slowing him down. They had a nifty little jigger to cut the hole. That all takes money, and there’s only one way to pay that sort of money back.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘Our ears’re open, but there’s nothing yet. What’ve you got?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Cliff, leave it alone. It’s bound to be sticky. Do a few compo investigations, do a few arsons. Leave it alone.’
I grunted non-committedly and hung up.
In prison, men talk about escaping all the time. They talk about escapes that succeeded and those that didn’t. They pool the knowledge, share the wisdom-the result is that they all do the same things when they’re on the run and they mostly get caught. They talk endlessly about cars, which is one of the mistakes. Did you ever hear of anyone being apprehended in a taxi or a train? They steal cars and drive them in the dumb way they do everything else and they might as well be carrying a sandwich board-ESCAPEE AT LARGE.
Kevin was hooked on Volvos; he claimed they were safe, but no car was safe with Kevin at the wheel. Time was when a Volvo in Glebe would have stood out like a camel on Bondi beach, but that’s all changed. Even so, it didn’t hurt to cruise a few of Kevin’s haunts-the gym off Derwent Street, the card room under the Greek restaurant in St John’s Road, the Forest Lodge video outlet where Kev and the girls sometimes made their own movies-just in case there was a Volvo around that didn’t belong. There wasn’t, but it filled in the time until I could go looking for Dave Follan at the Glebe Grenadier.
The Grenadier is the sort of pub the Vicar warned you about-it smells of smoke and spilt beer and a good time. It used to serve counter lunches that would stop a wharfie but they cut them down when the weight-conscious professionals moved in. But there’s a bus stop outside, a TAB next door, no stairs to the pisser-nothing will ever drive the old-timers from the Grenadier.
I ordered a beer and looked around for the pub’s social secretary-the man or woman who would know everyone who came and went and the colour of their socks. He was leaning his belly against the bar and watching the pool players. People slapped him on the shoulder as they passed and he greeted them by name without even looking at them. He was the man. I eased up to him with money in my hand ready to order.
‘Good pub,’ I said.
‘Usta be, too many bloody trendies now.’
The clientele looked pretty solidly working class to me, but I respected his judgement.
‘Dave Follan’s a regular here, isn’t he? He’s no trendy, Dave.’
‘Need more of him.’ He finished his schooner and I gave the barman the signal as soon as his glass hit the bar. I finished too and ordered a middy. He lit a cigarette in the small space between drinks.
‘Ta.’ he sipped. ‘You a mate of Dave’s?’ He looked at me properly for the first time; his eyes were lost in the beer fat and his small mouth was overhung by a whispy ginger moustache. He wore no particular expression and it was impossible to guess at his thoughts.
‘Sort of,’ I said. ‘Wouldn’t happen to know if he’s coming in tonight, would you?’
He reached over the bar and poured the rest of the schooner into the slops tray. When he turned back to me he was holding the empty glass like a weapon. ‘I would happen to know. I’m Follan, and I don’t know you from Adam, mate. What the fuck d’you want?’
After the Hardy foot, I thought, try the Hardy charm. I grinned at him. ‘Let me buy you a beer, I got off on the wrong foot then.’
He wasn’t having any. ‘You certainly did. What’s your game?’
‘Cathy told me you gave her the nod about Kevin’s break.’
‘Cathy should keep her bloody trap shut, then.’
‘She’s worried about Kevin, just wants to know he’s okay.’
Follan’s piggy eyes drifted along the bar to the right and left of us; it looked as if he could measure earshot to within an inch. He sucked froth from his empty glass and somehow I knew it was to oil a lie. ‘ I dunno any more than what I told Cathy. I got the word from a bloke who was just out. Kevin told him to look me up. I gave it to Cathy word for word and that’s all I know.’
‘I could be lying about Cathy, I could be a cop.’
He signalled for more beer. ‘Who gives a shit? I dunno where Kevin is.’
‘That’s a good safe story you’ve got.’
‘It’s true, too. Piss off.’
I downed my drink and walked away; before I left the bar I turned and looked back. Follan was jiggling his change like a man about to make a phone call. I walked up the street and moved my car to a point where I could see the pub door, but was hidden behind three or four cars. I was hungry and the two quick middies felt like a gallon on my empty stomach. A taxi pulled up immediately outside the bar door and Follan took three steps across the pavement and got in. ‘If you drink, don’t drive’-an honest citizen observing the law? Not likely; I U-turned dangerously and followed the taxi.
After fifteen years in the business of doing for people what they can’t do for themselves, I thought nothing a human being did could surprise me. Follan proved me wrong; I thought he’d head for some Ultimo or Chippendale boarding house, or another pub, but the taxi drove to the Bellevue Hotel. Follan got out and waddled into the foyer as if he belonged there. I couldn’t park and I didn’t fancy hanging around behind aspidistras in the lobby anyway. I drove home, had a sandwich and some wine and sat out behind the house looking at the big city glow and smelling the big city smells. They jangle some people; they soothe me.
Dave Follan looked at me sullenly. I’d followed him from the Grenadier the next day to his flat in Avon Street, Glebe. I’d bailed him up as soon as he turned the key, pushed him in, and tried to impress him with my seriousness as much as with the. 38. But I wasn’t sure it was working. He sat on an overstuffed, floral covered chair and looked belligerent. The flat was fussily decorated and arranged but the arrangements were fraying and breaking down as if the woman who’d set them up was no longer around. Fat Dave Follan looked incongruous amid the floral prints and china, but he didn’t seem to know it.
‘You won’t use that bloody thing,’ he growled. ‘I’m just sittin’ here wondering where to hit you.’
‘It could come to that,’ I said evenly. ‘After we spoke the other day you made a phone call and then you went to the Bellevue. I want to know why.’
‘You know what you can do.’
I took off my jacket and put the gun in the pocket, dropped the jacket over a chair. ‘You’re fat and I’ve got ten years on you. You’ll get hurt and we’ll break things. You really want to do it this way?’
‘Yes.’ He came up out of the chair heavily but not too slow. He expected his bulk to help but it didn’t. He swung at me, I moved aside and he nearly lost balance.
‘You’ve had a few too many as well, Dave. Don’t push it.’
He swore and drove a pretty good punch straight at me. I took it on the shoulder moving back. He was slow to recover and I put my bunched right hand in his face, fingers near the eyes and the heel on the nose and pushed hard. He grunted and went down.
‘This is silly,’ I said. ‘But if that’s the way you want it, okay. I’ll fix you up here, go to the Bellevue, find out what room you went to, give it a call and throw your name in. Be interesting to see what pops up.’
That got to him. The beer courage and the bully drained out of him. He got up slowly and eased onto the couch; his flesh spread and settled as he let it take his weight. That left him with the weight on his mind.
‘Don’t do that. Jesus, don’t do that.’
I picked my jacket off the chair and sat down. ‘Well, you can see where we are, Dave. You have to tell me why you’re so scared.’
‘I’m a dead man if I bloody do,’ he muttered.
‘It’s up to you, maybe I can keep you out of it. I could try. D’you have any choice?’