‘Think.’
‘I could ask around.’
I got out one of my cards, put it on top of the note and took my finger off. He grabbed with one of his dancing hands. He’d spend the money on something to put in a vein or up his nose and wouldn’t remember who had given him the card or why, but you never knew.
‘Give me a call if anything comes.’
He nodded jerkily. I went out onto the street and turned towards the last Bondi place on the list, a snooker room. I was thinking that it wasn’t a promising start when a kid stepped out of a doorway and asked me for a light.
‘I don’t…’ He hit me low and hard and I gasped, feeling the fluid rise inside me. Then my arm was grabbed and swung and I had to go with it or break it. I went, spinning out of control off the street into a lane, where my back hit a wall with an impact that shook my teeth. They came at me, two of them, with a third hanging back. I was shaky and just managed to get a knee up into one of them before the other threw a punch that got me on the neck.
I sagged and would have been a sitting duck for the next punch, but it never came. Someone moved behind my playmates and hooked the legs of one neatly out from under him. He didn’t even watch the effect of that; the other kid swung around and my saviour hit him just above the belt. There were three sounds: a whuump as the punch landed, a grunt from the guy who delivered it and a scream from the recipient. The third guy, the non-participant, ran down the lane and the one who went down first scrambled up and ran after him. The unluckiest of the trio lay on the ground, fighting for breath.
I straightened up. My deliverer gripped my arm and I felt the immense strength in his hold.
‘Easy,’ he said.
‘I’m okay, thanks. That was a great punch.’
He looked down at the figure on the ground; he was young and slight.
‘He was overmatched,’ he said. ‘I was the light heavyweight champion of Oregon, amateur.’
‘I believe you.’ I peered down at the kid. I’d never seen him before; he was pimply and smelt a bit.
The light heavyweight champion of Oregon let go of my arm and gave me his hand to shake. I took it carefully.
‘Bruce Henneberry.’
‘Cliff Hardy. Henneberry? Really?’
‘Sure. Why?’
‘He was a fighter here, good one. Fred Henneberry.’
‘That right? Now, what was this here?’
‘I don’t know.’ The kid was crawling now, back towards the street, and Henneberry put a leg across his path.
‘You show any money out on the street?’
‘Yes, a bit.’
‘Junkies most likely, then.’ He bent down for a closer look at the kid. ‘Scabs, skin and bone. Hopped up-junkie for sure. After your cash.’
‘Let him go,’ I said wearily. ‘He’ll be bruised for weeks.’ He lifted his leg and the kid got up and walked off shakily as if his legs were made of tin.
During the action, Henneberry had looked to be of middle height or under, but now I could see that he was nearly as tall as me. He’d been in a fighter’s crouch, for one thing, and for another he was so solidly built that he didn’t look tall. His shoulders were huge and he had the sort of neck and chest that are built up by weight training. He wouldn’t have made the light heavyweight limit now. His face was wide and open and his brown hair was cut short.
‘I need a drink,’ I said.
‘How about brandy and coffee? I know a place.’
‘Fine. How far?’
‘Close. Let’s go.’
We walked; he was not quite supporting me, but ready to do so. I tried to think of what I knew about Oregon and couldn’t come up with much-capital Portland, industries, timber and fish. Not sparkling openers.
‘Ah, Cliff, do you mind me asking what you were doing flashing your roll on Hill Street?’
‘I wasn’t exactly flashing it. I’m looking for someone. I was buying information.’
He stopped in mid-stride. ‘You’re not a cop?’
‘Private enquiries. Why?’
‘I don’t want to screw up. Helping a cop wouldn’t help me.’
We got moving again and he steered me into a small court that was flanked by boutiques, a cake shop and a surf shop. It struck me that Bondi was light on for outdoorsy places like surf shops. There was a dark window at the end of the court, dimly lit from inside, with an illuminated sign saying ‘Manny’s’ over the door.
‘This is my base,’ Henneberry said. ‘Manny keeps a bottle under the coffee machine.’
5
You couldn’t have read the Times inside Manny’s, but it wasn’t like the interior of a coal bin either. There were a few people sitting around smoking and drinking coffee and a few were even talking. It was an intellectual sort of place. We sat down and a short, dark character with long, oiled hair bustled over. He wore a Charlie Chan moustache and looked like a walking mixture of the Orient, the Middle East and the decadent West. His white safari suit was spotless and he sported some gold jewellery around his solid neck and on his capable-looking hands.
‘Manfred,’ Henneberry said. ‘Meet Cliff Hardy.’
I shook my second power-packed hand for the evening. Manny kept his strength in check so that his grip was almost flaccid, but the force was there.
‘What’ll you have, Bruce?’
‘Coffee with,’ Henneberry said. ‘Cliff just had a dust-up with some junkies on Hill Street.’
‘He did the fighting,’ I said.
Manny nodded. ‘I hope you didn’t break any bones, Bruce.’ From the way he said it, I had the feeling that Manny might have broken a few in his time.
‘Nah,’ Henneberry said. ‘I just raised my voice some.’
Manny grinned and looked as though he’d like to hear more, but he remembered his role and moved smoothly over towards the coffee machine.
‘Base for what?’ I said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘You said this was your base and I was wondering about your operation.’
He laughed, showing his expensively cared-for American teeth and the imposing circumference of that built-up neck. I reckoned it at seventeen inches of bone and muscle you could break a hand on.
‘Well, I’m a journalist. Freelance, you know? I’ve got a commission to do a series on the drug problem here on the beach. That’s why I was hoping you weren’t a cop. Now it’ll get around that I saved some dude from getting mugged tonight. That’s not very cool, but it’d be worse if you were a cop. Who’re you looking for, Cliff? Maybe I can help. I’ve been working here a couple of weeks now.’
The coffee came, which gave me time to think about an answer. Bruce seemed extraordinarily physical for a journalist. Most of those I knew could scarcely get the glass to their mouths without help, but Americans are a different race.
I stalled. ‘Who’re you working for, Bruce?’
‘Oh, National News, right here.’
That would be so easy to check that it looked as if he was telling the truth. Also he had a way with him, a frankness and openness that might have been professional but didn’t come across that way. I sipped some of the brandy-laced coffee with appreciation.
‘I’m looking into the alleged disappearance of a guy named John Singer. Seems he went into the water around two years ago and hasn’t come out yet.’
He drank some coffee. ‘Good guy or bad guy?’
‘Bit of both. There’s a whisper that he’s still with us. I’m checking it out.’
‘I never heard of him; sorry. But I could ask on the street.’
‘What are you doing, exactly?’
‘Oh, I… ah… hang around and talk to the kids. Truth is, I feel more like a social worker than a writer. I’ve helped a few of the kids get out of the shit and go home. Not many.’
‘Plenty left?’
‘Sure.’
We drained our cups and he raised two fingers to Manny, who obliged quickly. The brandy did me a power of good; I had only a dull ache where the kid had hit. My pride hurt, but a few drinks is good for that, too.
‘Do the drugs get sold in the pinball parlours?’