Bad Debts by Peter Temple Page B

was what had happened when his mum rang me. That he was probably lying in some public toilet.’
    ‘Did he need money?’
    ‘I think so. He’d borrowed nearly five thousand dollars from me. They refused his American Express card at Latino’s the day before he went. I paid for the meal with my card. And there’s trouble about this house. It’s going to be sold by the bank.’
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    ‘How did he get that way?’
    Charles shook his head. He looked much older now, less firm of face. ‘I honestly don’t know, Jack,’ he said. ‘He didn’t tell me and I wouldn’t have dreamed of asking.’
    We shook hands. I liked him. He clearly deserved better than Ronnie Bishop. Burdett-Bishop.
    ‘Why did he stick the Burdett on his name?’ I asked.
    Charles sighed and looked heavenwards. ‘He was thinking of going into real estate and he thought it sounded impressive.’
    I went in search of lodgings, thankful that I’d bought a book.
    13
    A weak sun was shining on Melbourne, but to compensate a marrow-chilling wind was blowing. I rang the security parking garage and they sent their little bus to collect me.
    ‘Jetsetting again,’ the driver said. ‘You joined that Mile High Club yet?’
    He was an ex-cop called Col Boon, pensioned off the force for extreme hypertension after shooting another cop during a raid on an indoor dope plantation in Coburg. A tragic mistake, the coroner said. I suppose in some ways it’s always a tragic mistake to shoot the man who’s rooting your wife every time you’re on nightshift and he’s not.
    ‘The club reckons I couldn’t stand the excitement of high-altitude copulation,’ I said.
    Col made an animal noise. ‘Tell ’em you’ll do it sitting down. You growing a beard?’
    I felt my two-day growth. ‘Stewies like a bit of hair,’ I said.
    He shook his head. ‘Bit? Seen less hair on pussies.’ He took a corner with a squeal of balding tyres. ‘Talking pussies, you want to pick your stewie. Mate of mine put his hand in the golden triangle, found a big cock. Qantas I think it was.’
    I pondered the significance of this story. My maternal grandmother apparently addressed stewardesses as ‘waitress’. She would not have taken well to the idea that some of them were, in fact, waiters.
    At the parking garage, Col said, ‘There’s a hit of a problem with your car. That grease monkey rang. Says he took your motor to pieces and he can’t put it together again till he can find parts. Two weeks, minimum.’
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    I groaned. This was what happened when you left your ancient Lark for a service with a backyard mechanic who was a Studebaker fanatic.
    ‘Now you tell me. What am I supposed to do?’ I said. ‘Walk?’
    ‘He says he’s got an old Chevy you can use.’
    ‘I hate old Chevies.’
    ‘Well,’ Col said, ‘we’ve got a special on unclaimed vehicles this week. Nice Celica. Say two weeks, hundred and fifty.’
    ‘You work this out together?’
    He looked hurt.
    I said, ‘Throw in a full tank.’
    ‘Give us a break. There’s a good bit in it.’ He gave me an appraising look. ‘Had a call if your car was here.’
    I waited.
    ‘Your office. A girl.’
    I shook my head.
    ‘No. Well, this isn’t the lost and found either. Told her you hadn’t parked here for a while.’
    ‘You give a complete service here, Col,’ I said.
    He handed me the keys. ‘I’d say look after it like your own,’ he said, ‘but that’s the last thing we want.’
    I thought about Ronnie all the way to Fitzroy. I’d got the addresses from Charles and visited Ronnie’s two video rental shops in the Perth suburbs. One was closed. The other was in a small shopping mall and it didn’t look healthy. From behind a partition of grey tin shelves came the sobbing breaths, grunts, yells and urgings of a pornographic video and the jeers and cheers of a teenage audience. After a while, a sallow youth with a pigtail emerged and said, ‘Yep?’ It turned out he didn’t know Ronnie but was standing in