‘Erskineville-the fuckin’ Belmont Arms at this time of day.’

I handed over the money and the cigarettes, but he didn’t thank me.

Before heading back to the John Curtin, Spider had given me a rough, highly unflattering description of Lola Swift and I spotted her as soon as I walked into the pub. About forty, looking fifty, stringy, gaunt-faced, blonde dye job, wearing a top and skirt more suited to a twenty-year-old. She was nursing a beer and bending over a racing guide.

The pub was the standard inner-city model that had undergone a bit of renovation some time ago so that the new surfaces were fast fading back towards the old. A few drinkers, singles, minding their own business, like Lola.

‘What’s Lola drinking?’ I said to the barman.

‘Old.’

I bought a schooner of Tooheys black and a middy of light for myself. I sat opposite her at the small table and pushed the beer across. She looked up from the guide, pen held tightly in nicotine-stained fingers with blood-red nails. She gave me a practised smile.

‘Hello, darling.’

I shook my head and moved the drink closer to her. ‘Sorry, love. I’m here for a talk, not for your services.’

The smile disappeared and with it the instinctive professional gestures-the raised eyebrows, tautened neck, straightened upper body. She pulled her drink a little closer.

‘Fuck off.’

I put a fifty down on the ring of moisture the glass had made so that it stuck there. She finished the drink she had on hand but didn’t touch the new one. Not yet, but she was paying attention.

‘My name’s Hardy.’

‘Oh, Jesus.’ For the first time a genuine emotion showed on her eroded face-disappointment, fear, regret… whatever it was. ‘I knew there’d be trouble.’

‘You were right. I have to talk to you about Cleve Harvey.’

‘And you reckon you can do that with a schooner and fifty bucks?’