hard times.
The Red Unicorn hotel used to be a bit of a bloodhouse like many of the pubs in Balmain. Again like many, it gentrified along with the area itself, so that it had a bistro and sold boutique beers. TAB facility and a bank of pokies, but not too many. There were signs advertising live music two nights a week and a trivia competition. All the hallmarks of the trendy twenty-first century pub. The smokefree rule was its newest pitch at the high disposable income crowd. Didnât worry me: Iâd given up the rollies long ago. The last cigarette Iâd lit in a moment of stress after years of abstinence tasted like old dog blanket and I knew I was cured. Bob, another quitter, had been a ferocious smoker and was still a keen drinker. The Unicorn was an obvious choice for a meeting.
Bob was at the bar when I arrived. I hadnât laid eyes on him since heâd gone corporate and seeing him in a suit was a shock. I was in my usual late spring to early summer uniform of drill slacks, cotton shirt and beat-up linen jacket. Bob was working on a schooner and had a middy sitting beside it. He looked at his watch as I approached.
âDead on time. Knew you would be so I ordered you a beer.â
I toasted him with it. âThanks.â I touched the lapel of his jacket. âNice suit. Doing well, Bob?â
âI have to say I am. No overheads, car in the package, health insurance . . .â
âI could do with that.â
âBut not with the rest of it, eh, Cliff?â
âA dinosaur?â
âNot quite, but an endangered species, thatâs for sure. This former colleague is . . . ?â
I looked around before answering. The nearest drinker was three or four stools away and the barman was well out of hearing. Old habitânames spoken aloud in public can attract attention. âWas Eddie Flannery.â
âPoor Eddie. Went down a long flight of stone steps. Possible suicide but probably pissed.â
âI heard he was murdered.â
âDid you now? That wasnât the coronerâs opinion. Accidental death.â
âI missed all this. When did it happen?â
âA few months ago.â
âPrecisely when?â
Bob, whoâd put on weight since Iâd last seen him, stroked the beginnings of a jowl and took a long pull on his schooner. âEight weeks, give or take a day or two. Thatâs the inquest. The death was about six weeks earlier. Canât be more exact than that. I went to the funeral. It was pissing down.â
I finished the middy and signalled to the barman. âThatâs as it should be. It mustâve been when I was in Queensland.â
âNone of it made much of a splash.â
âWas Billie Marchant there?â
âSure was. Very fetching in black in a Barbara Stanwyck sort of way, if you get me. Whatâs this about, Cliff?â
I told him as much as I felt entitled to. He didnât know about Eddieâs association with Clement and when that name came up he seemed to run dry of information, even though he had a fair amount of alcohol inside him. So did I, and I was facing a walk home to Glebe.
âWhy do I get the feeling youâre closing up on me, Bob?â
Bob suddenly looked as if heâd like a cigarette. Instead, he started to shred his coaster. The fingers that used to be nicotine-stained with bitten-down nails were manicured but nervous. âClementâs a client of the firm Iâm with.â
âThen you should be a mine of information about him.â
He shook his head. âNot a chance.â
âBad guy is he?â
âYou wonât get another word out of me. In fact, Iâm going. Sorry, Cliff.â
He was halfway off his stool. I grabbed his arm. Felt the quality of the material of his jacket. âYouâve been helpful. Iâll tell anyone who asks.â
âFuck, no. I wasnât here.â
He pulled free and left quickly. Hadnât
Caitlin Crews, Trish Morey