‘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.
6
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.
I bought groceries and wine and went home. The house was quiet as usual, lonely as usual. My ex-wife Cyn had never been there and my ex-woman Ailsa very seldom. It was just a place for sleeping, eating, drinking and thinking. I put on some music, B. B. King, got out my pen and pad and tried to arrange what I’d learned, see what directions it suggested. Nothing came, too early. All I had were male and female signs on bits of paper with names and some bits with signs but no names — like the woman who delivered the baby, if there was a baby. And a bit with a male sign on it and a question mark. I gave up on it, grilled some meat and tossed some salad. The beer and Bacardi were old memories and I poured some riesling down on top of them.