I drove home to Glebe, stopping to buy some fish and some white wine on the way. I grew up on a diet of fried meatchops, steak, sausages, bacon. That kind of tucker, plus large dollops of frustration, blocked my fathers arteries and saw him off at a fairly early age, but I seem to have inherited my mothers constitution and temperament. She ate, drank and smoked what she liked, made it to seventy, and went complaining about her short innings. These days I exercise some dietary caution, but not with fish; the only way to cook it is the way my Uncle Jim said. He used to catch flathead, bream and tailor off Maroubra Beach after pulling up sandworms for bait with his fingers. Fry the fuckers! was Uncle Jims advice, and thats what I did.

Ive lived alone since Glen Withers married her policeman. I occasionally see a former girlfriend, Terry Kenneally, who came out of longish relationships more or less intact, like me. We have a meal together, go to a movie and sometimes to bed. Theres nothing possessive about it. Were both looking for company and sex without complications. I cant say I prefer the arrangement to a passionate, committed relationship, but its not too bad. I enjoy the gaps and solitary spells, knowing that theyre not permanent.

I was in just such a spell at the moment with Terry, who was a tennis coach, away interstate with one of her hopefuls. Over the meal I lowered the level of the wine to halfway down the label and then quit, I made coffee and sat down to think about what I could be getting into with Barry White. It was hard to be optimistic. For years stories had circulated about cops with treasure trovesbales of marijuana, talcum powder tins full of cocaine, suitcases of money. As far as I knew none of these ships had ever come in, and the old rogue cops were all doing time or paying off their lawyers bills by installment. Still, Whites story had a different ring and the man himself wasnt the standard sticky-fingered corrupt moron.