The Marvellous Boy (4 page)

She wandered in and handed me the glass. Her own was full but if she was the drinker I thought she was she'd have sneaked one out by the ice cubes. She stood beside me, close.

“That's us,” she said.

“Nice family.” I put the picture down.

She stayed where she was and I was pinned in a corner. In her high-heeled sandals she wasn't much shorter than me. She tossed back her hair and put her hand on my arm.

“You know Richard and I have an arrangement when we go to Singapore. Want to know what it is?”

“Sure.”

I sipped rum and looked at her eyes. The lids were drooping and the pupils were dilated. She was well on the way to her afternoon nap. She had just one thing in mind now and there was no point in pretending to be a journalist or a gentleman. I took hold of her arm to steady her. It was a nice, firm arm. She leaned into me.

“We give each other two free nights, no questions asked. Understand?”

“I think so.”

“I'm a passionate woman.” She pressed her breasts against me and set her glass down to have both hands free.

“I can see that,” I said. “No wonder you enjoy your holiday. When's it due?”

She stopped trying to undo my shirt. She grabbed the drink to help her ponder the question.

“Must be soon,” she said slowly. She drank some more and spilled a little down the front of her dress. She wiped at it and the contact with her own body seemed to excite her. I edged back a bit.

She came after me. “What's the matter? Don't you want me?”

I didn't. I've got nothing against women older than me. I'd just finished a relationship with a woman almost as old as Bettina and it had been good, for a while. But this lady was skidding and disintegrating and I didn't want to be part of the wreck. As well as that, I'd have to see her again as the enquiry developed and a boozy bedding now was no way to start. I tried to deter her by passivity but she came on reaching for my head. I noticed that she had long fingernails, almost colourless. She was in close with her hand on the back of my neck when I heard a noise, like something falling to the floor.

The man in the photograph was in the room, a briefcase was on the floor and he was moving towards me with his fists clenched as I pulled free of his wife. She clung and he got one punch in, a hard swing which I took on the shoulder moving away. He was taller and wider than he looked in the picture, but musclebound. He was slow and I ducked his next swing and slammed him in the ribs. A one-punch fighter who didn't seem to know what to do after that, he lowered his head and blundered forward and I clipped him hard on the ear and let him fall over my foot. He went down heavily and lost his wind. He started to get up and I put my foot on his chest and thumped him down. I was lucky he wasn't a Hagler. I was in no condition to handle anything fancy.

Bettina had stood stock still, breathing heavily. I'd kept a side eye on her in case she decided to take part but she seemed frozen. Selby levered himself up from the floor, I guessed that the flab on him was old weight-lifting muscle. He'd still be dangerous if he could use the weight. I tensed myself but he swung around and belted Bettina across the face. She doubled over and just made it to a chair. She sat and started to giggle. Selby jabbed a finger at me.

“Get out,” he gasped, “before I call the police.”

I collected my jacket and tobacco and moved towards the door. He rubbed at his ear; I picked up his briefcase and flicked it at him, hard. It took him in the chest and he staggered back. Cheap stuff.

Bettina giggled again and let her head drop; the hair hung across her face like a curtain of blood.

It hadn't been my proudest hour. Mrs. Selby hadn't passed the sobriety and steadiness test but she wasn't a complete ruin. There was a strength about her, eroded by the booze and other things, but still present. She might be capable of obliterating a child from her life, then again that act might have something to do with the drinking. But Richard looked like the candidate for that role—a hell of a good timer when he was up and a real bastard when he was down. Bettina had no time for mum and dad, that was clear—appeals to uncover the lost grandson would cut no ice with her for the best of reasons. Weighing it all up, as much as the aggressive traffic would let me, I concluded that I hadn't learned a damn thing, hadn't earned a cent of the money in my pocket. The way to start earning it was to find Henry Brain.

The traffic was heavy all the way back to the city and beyond. I picked up Bridge Road and slogged down through Glebe to Leichhardt which has some nice places and some not-so-nice. Logan's address was somewhere in between, veering towards the non-nice. It was a big three-story terrace with a deep, overgrown garden in front. The place was divided into flatettes and a roughly painted notice on
the gate told me that Logan was upstairs front in flat three. The walls had been painted within the last five years, the floor had been cleaned within the last month and the stair carpet was anchored on most steps. I went up; the bright day died on the first landing and a boarding house gloom took over.

I knocked at a plywood door with 3 painted on it. Paint had dribbled down six inches from the tail of the figure. Someone inside swore softly; bedsprings creaked, paper rustled, and a drawer opened and closed. I waited. Bare feet squeaked on the floor inside. I had ten dollars in my hand and held it in front of his face when he opened the door. He grinned and grabbed. I whisked it away.

“Albert Logan?”

“That's me, mate. You can leave the money.”

“I might if I hear what I want to hear.”

“I'll try to oblige.” He held the door open and I went in. It wasn't much. Fifteen dollars a week tops. Albie must have been saving his tips. There was the usual mahogany veneer furniture and anonymous lino. There was an old, lumpy looking department store bed with a pair of fifty-dollar shoes peeking coyly out. The mirror on the dresser was streaked, the doors leading to the balcony had grimy glass panels—Albie wasn't spending anything on front. He sank back onto the bed and pulled cigarettes toward him.

“Smoke?” he held out the packet.

I shook my head and sniffed the air. Albie watched me like a fire spotter watching a pine forest. The sweet smell of marijuana hung on the air like a promise. Albie lit up and blew smoke around ostentatiously.

“If you're on a bust you're wasting your time.”

“Why?”

“Protection,” he blew a shaky smoke ring. “I've got protection. You check around, Slim, you'll find out.”

I sat in a tired armchair. “I'm not on a bust. You can cut heroin with ground-down toenail for all I care. I want some information.”

“Tough guy,” he sneered.

“Don't push me,” I said. “I've had a hard day in the suburbs. I might throw you off the balcony just to hear the glass break.”

It wasn't much to say and didn't look so hard to do. He was more like a jockey than a driver or a steward, not more than five two and the ball of muscle he'd once been was getting a coating of fat. Still, he could be right for those trades; drivers and stewards work in confined spaces and extra inches get in the way. His hair was thinning across a pink scalp and dark stubble was bristling on his pale cheeks—a night person who slept while the sun shone. I smoothed out the ten dollars.

“You used to work for the Chattertons, driving.”

“Right, no sweat there Slim. I left that job clean as a whistle.”

“Who said you didn't? Put your guilty conscience away, it craps me. Do you remember a tramp coming to see the old lady, a few years back?”

He drew the cigarette down to the filter and squashed it out in a saucer. “I remember him. What a wreck! You could have bottled his breath.”

“What did he say to you?”

“Not much. He wanted to see the lady.”

“Why'd you give him a hearing?”

He scratched his jaw, remembering. “Well, it was like this. I was surprised to see a tramp up there. But that's not all. He got out of a cab and I saw him flash some money. He told the cabbie to wait.”

“Did the cab wait?”

“You bet it did. He had a roll like this.” He made a circle of his thumbs and forefingers. “Well, I'm stretching it a bit but he had some dough, I can tell you.”

“What sort of cab was it?”

“City.”

“You're very sure.”

“Look, it was very unusual, I can see it like yesterday.”

“Did you see the driver?”

“I did, yeah.”

“Remember him like yesterday?”

“When do we start talking money? I think I can help if you're trying to find that guy. That's it isn't it?”

“That's it. What've you got?”

“Five'll get you a whiff of it.”

I pulled out my wallet, peeled off five dollars and gave it to him.

“Thanks.” He put it under the pillow. “You asked the wrong question Slim.”

“What question?”

“Him. You shoulda said her.”

“Who?”

“The cabbie was a her—blonde, that's all I saw.”

“Good, go on!”

“Well, like I said, he had money, new tens, I got one . . .”

“So I heard, and . . .?”

He'd shot his bolt. He groped around for something to say. “Ah, let's see, he talked pretty good—educated, you know? But the grog had got to his voice.” He did a fair imitation of a meths drinker's croak on the last words.

I was depressed by what I was doing and hearing. The room depressed me. I wanted to be eating and drinking
somewhere light and airy with someone young and optimistic. It made me impatient that I didn't know anyone like that.

“You'll be tap-dancing in a minute,” I snarled. “Cut out the shit. Did he say anything important? Give you any idea where he lived?”

“No. He lived out, mate. Face was buggered, you know the way they get. There was something though . . .”

“His hands?”

“His hands! Right! Most derros, shit you wouldn't let them put their hands down your dunny, but his hands were white and smooth like.”

I handed over the floating ten. “Do you remember Miss Reid, the companion?”

“Do I what. Hatchet-faced old bitch.”

I wouldn't have called her old or particularly hatchet-faced, but he was talking character, not physiognomy.

“You didn't get on with her?”

“Who could?” He lit a cigarette, needing something to counter the angry memories. “The judge couldn't stand her and I was with him all the way.”

“What was wrong with her?”

“High and mighty. Humble as shit when the old lady was around and Queen shit when she wasn't.”

He was scrambling his images and running low on vocabulary but the sentiment sounded genuine. ‘All servants hate servants,' who said that? I couldn't remember. Maybe that was all there was to it but it was worth another question.

“Did Miss Reid have a boyfriend when you were there?”

His answer was a derisive snort and a shake of his head. Then he looked down at his belly and the room and recognised that he wasn't doing so well in the sexual stakes himself. The realisation sobered him.

“She's got one now,” I said.

“That right? Must be a mug.”

Our exchanges were getting aimless but I had a feeling that he was holding something back. The talking and drinking and driving had unravelled me and I couldn't think how to probe for it. I got out a card and put it on the bed.

“That's me,” I said, getting up. “If you think of anything useful get in touch. There could be some money in it.”

He put the card and the ten where he'd put the five.

“You mean about shit face Reid, Slim?”

“Don't call me that. About her or anything. You've got something more to say about her?”

“I might. Give us another five.”

I moved over to the bed, grabbed the neck of his shirt, twisted and pulled. The cloth cut into his fat neck.

“You know Albie, I don't really like pushers, not really. I don't think I've had good value from you. What will your protection do about a jelly nose?”

He squirmed and tried to pull free. I twisted harder.

“Okay, okay,” he rasped. “I'll tell you. Let go.”

I dropped him onto the bed, the saucer jumped and spilled ashes and butts across the blanket.

“Shit! I drove Miss Reid to the Botanical Gardens once.”

“Albie, you didn't. What tree did you do it under?”

“Don't joke about it, I'd rather go without. She met a bloke there. I got pissed off waiting and went to take a look. I saw her sitting on a bench talking to a bloke.”

“Describe him.”

“That's hard, I wasn't close.”

“Young or old?”

“Middling. All I remember is he had sideburns,” he sketched in facial hair, “like Elvis Presley.”

“Maybe that's who it was. How long did they talk?”

“Maybe half an hour.”

“How was she afterwards?”

“Same as always, fuckin' frozen.”

“Funny you don't like her, Albie. I got the feeling she thought you were a bit of all right.”

He looked up at me and dug the card out.

“Private detective,” he said.

I nodded.

“Smartarse.”

“Don't push your luck. I could fix it so's you'd be cleaning out the carriages.”

I went out leaving the door open. It slammed when I was halfway down the stairs.

It was nearly five o'clock, Friday. I drove to my bank in Glebe, paid in the Chatterton cheque and drew out half of it—my grandfather was a Scot. Then I thought that it could be a busy weekend coming up and a shortage of cash would be inconvenient. I drew another hundred and to hell with my grandfather, what did he ever do for me? I might even have some fun, he'd have hated that.