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 towards 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.’