Tony Ulasewicz didn’t look at me, didn’t say anything.

‘Brendan sends his regards,’ I said.

Silence.

‘Remember Brendan? Brendan O’Grady. From Reservoir? From school? Your best man? Your friend? That Brendan.’

Tony sniffed loudly. ‘Whadda you want?’ He shot his left cuff and looked at his watch, a big black diver’s watch.

‘Me? I don’t want anything. Brendan, he wants you to tell a lawyer where he was on the night of February 11 at 11.26 p.m.’

Tony looked at me, shrugged. He had a small scar above his left eyebrow, like a worm under the skin. ‘Dunno what you’re saying.’

‘The two hookers, Tony,’ I said. ‘Sylvia and Carlette? Out there in that fancy hotel in Marysville. You and Brendan and Jim Beam and the hookers. Chatting, reading magazines. Just when some person unknown was shooting Frank Zakia in his driveway in Camberwell. With a.22 pistol. Many times.’

‘Know nothing about that,’ said Tony, getting up. ‘Gotta go.’

I put a hand on his shoulder, a meaty shoulder. He resisted, I leaned, he sat.

‘Tony,’ I said, ‘Brendan’s going down big time. Frank’s wife ID’d him, not a doubt in her mind. She knows him. He was in the house three days before, arguing with Frank. Now Brendan says he couldn’t have been the one topped Frank because at that moment he was off with you, screwing hookers in Marysville. But you’re gone, the hookers are gone, hotel doesn’t know if it was you and Brendan or the Pope and Elvis in the room. Plus the cops find the.22 in Brendan’s office. Plus Brendan’s got more form than Phar Lap.’

Tony’s chin slowly moved down to meet his collarbone.

‘Brendan’s going, Tony,’ I said. ‘And blokes in there are waiting for him. Death penalty, that would be easier. Nicer even.’

Tony’s shoulders went weak. He tilted at the waist until his forehead rested on the pew in front.

‘Can’t,’ he said, voice spitty. ‘Fucking can’t.’

‘Why? He’s your mate.’