life.’
I thought I saw something in Massiani’s eyes, as one registers the faintest cloud shadow on a bright day. He rose, shorter than I’d expected, and came around the desk.
‘My father had a saying,’ he said, ‘to the effect that whenit comes to men, some women have a connection missing between the head and the body.’
‘That sounds like a piece of ancient wisdom,’ I said. ‘Where did the Massianis come from?’
He offered his thin, unworked hand. ‘Corsica. We’re wogs. You’ll know the term.’
Steve Massiani opened the door for me. I said goodbye and walked down the corridor. The woman behind the desk said, Goodbye, Mr Irish. The lift slid me to the ground floor, a slick, silent, hurtling passage.
I put on my raincoat and went into Collins Street, thought about how to get to the office. I’d take a cab, this was business. But first, coffee. In a slanting rain, I walked down to Exhibition Street and along to Bourke and up to Pellegrini’s, where nothing changes and the staff appear to know several hundred people by name and preference.
‘Hey, Jack, where you been?’ said the man making coffee. ‘Short, right? My mum saw Andrew on television. Tell him I want him when I murder this bastard here.’
‘When you
kill
him,’ I said. ‘The jury will decide whether it’s murder.’
I drank my coffee and thought about Mickey Franklin and the Massianis. Not much warmth there. Why then had they backed him when he started out as a developer? Was there a falling-out later? Business or personal? There was something personal if I read Steve correctly. Did it matter? All I was doing was trying to justify whatever horrendous daily rate Wootton was charging Drew for my services.
Wootton. The prelim scan in forty-eight. Whatever that was, he hadn’t received it. I waved to the men behind the counter and left, caught a cab with a taciturn driver.
At the office, I rang the last number I had for D. J. Olivier in Sydney. He was capable of reaching the places Simone Bendsten couldn’t reach. A voice said, ‘You have called a number that is no longer connected.’
I sat in the chair and did some drowsing, looking at the ceiling. No cobwebs. In a room dusted once in six years? I got up and inspected the room. Nothing. Spiders hung out their nets in air currents, they fished where there was life, where the air moved, where there were living things. In this room, there were no flows, nothing could live here except me.
The phone rang. It was D. J.’s assistant with the ruling-class voice. I wished I could think of a way to get her to say
fuck
, she gave the word an extra vowel. She put me onto the man.
‘Jack,’ he said. ‘Turning into a regular.’
‘Given the last bill,’ I said, ‘you don’t need many regulars to keep afloat.’
D. J. Olivier laughed, a man comfortable in the knowledge that he owned the only pub in town. ‘The labourer is worthy of his hire,’ he said. ‘My late dad used to say that.’
‘Your late dad and the late St Luke. I’ve got a name.’
‘Spell.’
I gave him Mickey.
‘And ramifications?’
‘Ramify,’ I said. ‘Ramify to buggery.’
I shut up shop and walked around to Taub’s Joinery, let myself in with my key and felt, as I had from the beginning, that this was my proper place of work.
Charlie was at one of the massive redgum benches, his back to me.
‘So, Mr Busy,’ he said, not looking around. He claimed that his hearing was bad. If this was true, another sense, unknown to medical science, had developed to compensate.
I walked across and stood beside him. ‘Just mucking around?’ I said. ‘No work to do?’
He said nothing, chiselled with precision and economy, a thumb the size of a doorknob guiding the blade. I knew what he was doing. He was making dovetail blocks to attach the big desk’s top to its frame.
‘No one will see those, you know,’ I said. ‘And if they do, they won’t understand. And if they do understand, they won’t
I thought I saw something in Massiani’s eyes, as one registers the faintest cloud shadow on a bright day. He rose, shorter than I’d expected, and came around the desk.
‘My father had a saying,’ he said, ‘to the effect that whenit comes to men, some women have a connection missing between the head and the body.’
‘That sounds like a piece of ancient wisdom,’ I said. ‘Where did the Massianis come from?’
He offered his thin, unworked hand. ‘Corsica. We’re wogs. You’ll know the term.’
Steve Massiani opened the door for me. I said goodbye and walked down the corridor. The woman behind the desk said, Goodbye, Mr Irish. The lift slid me to the ground floor, a slick, silent, hurtling passage.
I put on my raincoat and went into Collins Street, thought about how to get to the office. I’d take a cab, this was business. But first, coffee. In a slanting rain, I walked down to Exhibition Street and along to Bourke and up to Pellegrini’s, where nothing changes and the staff appear to know several hundred people by name and preference.
‘Hey, Jack, where you been?’ said the man making coffee. ‘Short, right? My mum saw Andrew on television. Tell him I want him when I murder this bastard here.’
‘When you
kill
him,’ I said. ‘The jury will decide whether it’s murder.’
I drank my coffee and thought about Mickey Franklin and the Massianis. Not much warmth there. Why then had they backed him when he started out as a developer? Was there a falling-out later? Business or personal? There was something personal if I read Steve correctly. Did it matter? All I was doing was trying to justify whatever horrendous daily rate Wootton was charging Drew for my services.
Wootton. The prelim scan in forty-eight. Whatever that was, he hadn’t received it. I waved to the men behind the counter and left, caught a cab with a taciturn driver.
At the office, I rang the last number I had for D. J. Olivier in Sydney. He was capable of reaching the places Simone Bendsten couldn’t reach. A voice said, ‘You have called a number that is no longer connected.’
I sat in the chair and did some drowsing, looking at the ceiling. No cobwebs. In a room dusted once in six years? I got up and inspected the room. Nothing. Spiders hung out their nets in air currents, they fished where there was life, where the air moved, where there were living things. In this room, there were no flows, nothing could live here except me.
The phone rang. It was D. J.’s assistant with the ruling-class voice. I wished I could think of a way to get her to say
fuck
, she gave the word an extra vowel. She put me onto the man.
‘Jack,’ he said. ‘Turning into a regular.’
‘Given the last bill,’ I said, ‘you don’t need many regulars to keep afloat.’
D. J. Olivier laughed, a man comfortable in the knowledge that he owned the only pub in town. ‘The labourer is worthy of his hire,’ he said. ‘My late dad used to say that.’
‘Your late dad and the late St Luke. I’ve got a name.’
‘Spell.’
I gave him Mickey.
‘And ramifications?’
‘Ramify,’ I said. ‘Ramify to buggery.’
I shut up shop and walked around to Taub’s Joinery, let myself in with my key and felt, as I had from the beginning, that this was my proper place of work.
Charlie was at one of the massive redgum benches, his back to me.
‘So, Mr Busy,’ he said, not looking around. He claimed that his hearing was bad. If this was true, another sense, unknown to medical science, had developed to compensate.
I walked across and stood beside him. ‘Just mucking around?’ I said. ‘No work to do?’
He said nothing, chiselled with precision and economy, a thumb the size of a doorknob guiding the blade. I knew what he was doing. He was making dovetail blocks to attach the big desk’s top to its frame.
‘No one will see those, you know,’ I said. ‘And if they do, they won’t understand. And if they do understand, they won’t
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