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  The doorbell rang, ding-dong, a happy hello. Jack held his breath and pushed himself into the plant to get closer. Heard the front door open.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Beaumont’s voice, annoyed.

  ‘Now that’s not very nice. Is it, Mick?’

  ‘No, Mr Kippax.’

  ‘She’s here,’ said Beaumont. ‘So I can’t talk now, all right?’

  ‘Young Ms Brandt?’ said Kippax. ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind meeting the lady. Actually. You, Mick?’

  ‘Be a pleasure.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘You’re not coming in.’

  ‘Now, now, Duncan. I wouldn’t be here if you had done as you said you would. And I believe you’ve had more than enough time now.’

  The front-door hinges creaked and a latch half clicked, not closing completely. Beaumont lowered his voice. A car drove by and drowned out what he said. Jack moved closer, but stepped on a loose brick and lost his balance. He managed to stay on his feet only by stumbling into the fuchsia. Like hugging a giant hairbrush. Twigs snapped and the branches flicked and the wet flowers made wet noises. Jack froze, not breathing.

  Silence. They were listening for more. Then Kippax said: ‘Mick. Take a look.’

  Fuck.

  Jack quick-stepped back down the side of the house, ears tuned to the sound of Kippax’s man making his way around. He was going to have to jump the rear fence, go through the neighbour’s place. To think he could be at home, reading a book and sipping something warm, Lois on his lap …

  ‘Hey! You!’

  He dodged an outdoor setting, crashed through a huge sopping honeysuckle and hit the fence. Up and over. On the other side, the neighbour’s yard was a large paved space, strewn with kids’ bikes and garden equipment. Rose bushes tugged and tore at his clothes as he hugged the perimeter. Fuck. Through a full-length window he could see a family inside, framed in soft light and milling around a table, mum on a phone in the kitchen. Calling the cops? Jack crouched and hurried down the left, lifted the latch on a tall wooden gate and slipped past two cars parked in the drive. Wharf Road. Keep it natural. Left again. Breathing hard.

  Twenty metres up the road, headlights strobed him. An engine roared and was suddenly right there. Jack kept walking, eyes straight. The car moved up with him, and then a door popped open. Astrid leaned across the passenger seat of the Porsche.

  ‘Get in.’

  10

  The heating was up high and cosy. Astrid smiled. ‘Evening, Jack.’

  He nodded, slammed the door and strapped himself into the seat. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

  ‘I know.’ She gunned the motor down the narrow street. ‘Hungry? I’m starving. What do you feel like?’

  ‘Scotch.’

  ‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘I think sushi and a hot miso.’

  Astrid was wearing dark-grey lycra, a white long-sleeved T-shirt and a puffy red vest with the collar up. Her feet danced over the clutch and accelerator in blue-and-white Pumas. Hair in a gym-tousled ponytail. In the tight sports interior of the Porsche, she smelt good. Jack managed to get his eyes off her.

  ‘So what happened exactly?’ she said.

  ‘A bad idea that proved to be so.’

  She glanced at him. ‘You’re all wet.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘No other injuries?’

  ‘Emotional. None you can see.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  Her voice was warm, folded through with concern. Designed to thaw, but Jack was not in the mood. ‘You first. How come you’re here?’

  She shifted down, third, then second, snapped a hard left. ‘I heard about the assault charge. Thought you might be looking to discuss things with the other party.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Astrid waited for more. ‘Don’t feel like talking?’

  ‘What’s there to say? You know everything already.’

  ‘About the assault? An old partner keeps me in the loop.’

  ‘Lucky Ziggy.’

  ‘No, lucky you. You’ve got a meeting with his lawyer at nine-thirty on Thursday morning.’ She paused. ‘Nice welt on the cheek, by the way. Still hurt?’

  ‘I don’t need his lawyer.’

  ‘Oh yes you do. Beaumont was thorough. He’s got pictures of his face, a doctor’s report, some hotshot former QC … If you go in there alone, then —’

  ‘I’m out of this. I already left a message on Brandt’s phone.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Ziggy might have brought you in but now it’s Beaumont who’s sealed the deal. And now you need help.’ She squeezed out a dimpled smile and checked the rear view. ‘Maybe if you hadn’t hit him …’

  ‘I know he works for ASIC. This whole fucking thing has got nothing to do with Claudia.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Astrid. ‘So while it did, you were happy to take up the offer?’

  The Porsche cut its way through the tight streets of Balmain, jerking over potholes and fraying patches of repair-work. ‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Jack. ‘And I didn’t take anything up.’

  She took a moment. ‘It’s okay.’

  Her tone pissed him off. ‘Listen, like I said, babe, I’m out of this. You can pull over anywhere here.’

  ‘You know it isn’t that easy. So just calm down.’

  Jack zipped up. Shit. He knew she was right and it was like a set of chain irons on his ankles. Try to run and he would fall down in a messy heap — then look up, see Ziggy standing there, smirk on his mug. Warden uniform and gun in hand.

  ‘How do you know Beaumont works for ASIC?’ she said.

  ‘Claudia told me.’ He remembered her in Beaumont’s kitchen, their lovers’ embrace. ‘Is that what this is about? Ziggy thinks Beaumont’s investigating him?’

  Astrid shrugged. ‘He’s not sure.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Maybe. But either way, he wants him out.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he just buy him off like he does everybody else?’

  ‘Apparently the guy’s clean, no chance. And anyway, Claudia said she’d never speak to him again if he tried it.’

  Jack was thinking about the box of westerns back at Susko Books now. Saw everything playing like out like a weathered old Dell paperback. Deputy Marshal Beaumont, the handsome hero with principles. Rides in with his badge to take down the bad guys. Falls in love with the daughter of the biggest baddie of all and faces a moment of uncertainty: what comes first, the law or love? But it’s the law that makes him who he is, so there’s nothing to think about. And that’s the man she loves, she tells him. She gives up her old man for him, even if it means the noose. So Ziggy’s got to bring in his Comanchero, his rough rider. Jack Susko. But look, there he is, bleeding on the cover: sombrero and an empty Colt and a bullet in the arm. Middle of the goddamn desert with no horse to ride home.

  Jack mulled over it all as Astrid drove, trying to put it together. He remembered something else: what the hell was Allan Kippax doing at Beaumont’s house?

  They turned onto Darling Street, the wipers swooping intermittently over the windscreen. Jack wished he could clear his mind as easily — but decided to keep Kippax to himself.

  ‘When you called, I was going to tell you,’ said Astrid, soft, sympathetic. ‘But you hung up on me.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘She lives with him.’

  Jack touched the back of his hand to the window, felt the outside cold. ‘Yeah, well, don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I got a good look at that.’

  11

  Wednesday morning could not wait to get there so it caught a cab. Jack hit the snooze button three times before giving in, then yawned so that his eyes watered. Lois padded into the bedroom and started moaning about breakfast. One of these days he was
going to have to show her how to flick the kettle on. Jack eased out of bed, stiff and sore. Maybe show her the switch for the heater, too.

  Second cup of coffee and third cigarette, he got a call from Ray.

  ‘Mr Campbell.’

  ‘Mr Susko.’

  ‘It’s early. You already at the shop?’

  ‘Cataloguing, Jack, it’s that time of year. Again. I’ve been here all night.’

  ‘You should have called me.’

  ‘I should have. What are you doing this evening?’

  ‘Nothing. Eva Mendes called, said she couldn’t get out of LA and cancelled, so I’m free.’

  ‘Marvellous. Who is Eva Mendes?’

  ‘Hopefully one day the mother of my children.’

  ‘Happy for you, Jack. Meanwhile, I’m up to the glorious peez.’

  ‘Mr Poe?’

  ‘One or two.’

  ‘Don’t forget my birthday is coming up.’

  Ray laughed. ‘I don’t like you that much. But I tell you what, I’ll let you hold them if you come. And a good Scotch in the other hand. And …’

  Jack heard a little glee in Ray’s voice. ‘What?’

  ‘How’s the house hunting progressing?’

  ‘Still in the starting blocks. I’m thinking about a caravan.’

  ‘Well, then, we cannot have that. How would you like to live in Birchgrove?’

  ‘Gee, that’s really funny,’ said Jack without a smile, Beaumont strolling through his mind. ‘I was only there last night, thinking how much I’d love to live in Birchgrove.’

  ‘The universe works in strange ways.’

  ‘Do I have to sell one kidney or both of them? There’s Lois, too, if that helps.’

  ‘No kidneys. Just cost you reasonable rent and good company.’

  ‘I’m not living in a share house, Ray. If I wanted to be a uni student —’

  ‘Settle down. It’s a granny flat, completely self-contained and renovated and right on the water.’

  ‘I’m not a granny.’

  ‘When you see it, you might want to be.’

  ‘Friend of yours?’

  ‘That’s right. A lovely woman, intelligent, great company, attractive —’

  ‘Maybe you should move in?’ Jack noticed Ray’s tone, warm and smiling.

  ‘We’re just good friends.’

  ‘What’s her name? And does her husband know you’ve been seeing her on the side?’

  A pause. Ray breathed a sigh through his nose. ‘She’s not a salad, Jack.’

  ‘Must be serious.’

  ‘She’s a widow and a great lady. Are you interested or not?’

  Jack was not sure. Did he really want to live in somebody’s backyard? Make conversation with some old biddy who noticed when he brought a girl home?

  ‘Why don’t you meet her first and have a look at the place? I’m going there Friday afternoon if you would like to join me.’

  ‘Okay, fine. What’s her name?’

  Another sigh, the old man hesitating. ‘Her name is Faye. Now do your worst.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it. I’d never dare mess with rhyming love.’

  Jack showered, got himself ready. Paused before the bottle of grappa on the drinks trolley and thought about a morning bracer against the cold. Good for da blood, Mario had said. Well, everybody could do with that.

  He poured a couple of fingers and sipped. As the alcohol kicked in his chest he took Allan Kippax’s card out of his wallet. Mr Mod and his right-hand battering ram. The little Jack overheard last night at Beaumont’s house had set his mind wandering, most of it to the shady part of town. Kippax certainly had not sounded anxious or worried. More like smoothly threatening, amused and confident. It was Duncan Beaumont — Mr Australian Securities and Investments Commission investigator — who seemed the one with something on his mind. She’s here. You’re not coming in. Not wanting Claudia to know who had rung the bell. What was that all about?

  Jack splashed more jet fuel into his glass. Though anybody at the window might have said he looked pretty relaxed in his Eames 670, feet up on the coffee table, Lois could sense his discontent. She would have rolled him a joint and given him a neck rub, except she was not that kind of girl. He lit another cigarette, hating the feeling of being connected to things he could not see clearly. He needed a crack in a wall, a loose word or two, a lucky break. Who should he talk to first? Claudia or Kippax?

  12

  He did not talk to anybody, deciding to let things cool off for a day or two. Playing the patience card, the one he usually had the most trouble with. He helped Ray catalogue his stock into the late hours: it was good distraction, as were the Scotch and the Motown. Ray’s favourite, Diana Ross and the Supremes, got lots of airtime. ‘Come See About Me’. Baby I’m hurting.

  Thursday night, she called.

  They met half an hour later in the front bar of the ArtHouse Hotel in Pitt Street. The after-work crowd had already filled the flashy place up enough to have to squeeze sideways past the suits. The atmosphere was busy, the mood almost buoyant, everybody nearly-the-weekend happy, sheltering from the cold and the nine-to-five-plus-overtime still lit in some of the high-rise windows. She was already there at a table, in a tight-fitting cashmere V-neck that looked very pleased to be there, suede boots and a soft fawn miniskirt riding high in the chair. Eyes down over her phone, pressing buttons: around the bar, male eyes all over her, buttons pressed. Jack waited a moment and then said hello, feeling like a teenager about to ask for a dance.

  She looked up. He pointed at the bar. ‘Drink?’

  ‘Oh, hi,’ she said. ‘Um, yes … White wine. Semillon. Thanks.’

  No smile, but she sounded friendly enough: or maybe just not as angry as the other day. Jack went to the bar and — eventually — ordered the wine, plus a Jameson’s and a Heineken for himself, and a serve of potato wedges, too: some stomach-settling carbohydrates to see him through. As he scooped up his change from the cake plate that the over-groomed barman placed before him, he wondered, as always, who the hell had come up with that idea. He bumped his way back, not spilling a drop because none of the drinks were poured past the half-a-glass line. Another great idea from the inhospitality industry.

  Claudia had put her mobile away and was now looking casually at the abstract paintings displayed around the place. Jack put the drinks on the table, took his coat off and hung it on the back of a chair. ‘So how’s your old man?’

  ‘Fine.’ She glanced away and sipped her drink.

  ‘Talked him into walking you down the aisle yet?’

  ‘That’s not funny.’

  He waited for a look of scorn or disdain — hate even — but was surprised to see her eyes welling. ‘So why the rendezvous?’ he said.

  She turned her glass of wine around between her fingers. ‘I asked to talk to you because I need your help.’

  Jack getting the inswinger, not expecting it. He managed to say, ‘Okay.’

  ‘Duncan’s disappeared.’

  The newsflash was not necessarily bad news. ‘What do you mean?’

  Claudia leaned across the table, her face pale now, Jack could see, not disguised by the reddish glow that came off the walls below the bright halogen spotlights. ‘He’s gone,’ she said, throwing up her hands. ‘I don’t know where he is. He hasn’t been home for a couple of days, he hasn’t been to work, he’s not answering his phone, nobody has seen him.’ She stared meaningfully at Jack. ‘I’m going a little crazy here.’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘Jack, please.’ She had caught the dismissive tone. ‘This isn’t about us. Please.’

  ‘Please what?’ he said, half convinced by her sincerity, but also half very wary of something he could not put his fin
ger on. Maybe it was the gear change, so smooth and perfect, from self-assured to almost helpless and worried. Or was he just being cynical, hard-bitten and bitter about their past, both recent and old? Jack frowned and concentrated on her eyes, looking for confirmation either way.

  ‘Help me.’

  ‘Boy, the irony, hey?’ said Jack. It was all coming out hard and closing her down fast and he was not even trying. He finished the whiskey and chased it with a mouthful of beer.

  ‘Why are you being such a prick?’

  He ran a hand through his hair. ‘A few days ago you were telling me to go jump in the lake within sixty seconds of seeing me for the first time in years. Then your Mr Fiancé comes around and throws a couple of combinations at me for good measure, and so now I’ve got the cops on my arse, too. And you want me to help you? Why don’t you help me?’

  ‘What cops?’

  ‘You don’t know he’s had me charged with assault?’

  ‘What?’ Anger flashed in her eyes. ‘His face? You did that to him?’

  ‘No. He did that to him.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  Jack waited. Tipped the Heineken to his lips again. Glad that she was sitting there but wishing it was for a different reason. ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘What the hell do you think I can do about him being gone somewhere? Why don’t you take his lead and call the cops yourself?’

  She shook her head quickly, took a shaky, staccato breath, like a child in trouble trying to hold the tears. ‘I … I haven’t seen him since Tuesday night,’ she said, as though confirming the fact for her own benefit. ‘No call, nothing.’

  ‘I’ll say it again, Claudia.’ Jack’s voice went up a few decibels and grew some muscle. ‘Why are you talking to me about this?’

  ‘Because …’ She looked towards the bar. A man with a loose tie and a shiny red face smiled and raised his drink. His friend laughed and leaned over to say something into the guy’s ear. Claudia was oblivious, preoccupied; or just used to it. She turned back to Jack. ‘Because you know Allan Kippax.’