‘Are you interested . . . in craft beers?’ the man growled haltingly. The speaker had a scar that ran cheek by jowl towards a neck decorated with tattoos of over-endowed women fawning over apocryphal beasts from no mythology Maserov could recognise.
Maserov was taken aback. Sitting towards the rear of the main bar in the Grosvenor Hotel, the day after his conversation with Carla, this was not how he remembered Betga. What had life done to him, Maserov wondered. Hair colour could be changed easily, yes, but how does one compress a body so much? The man was squat but taut with muscles that insisted on grudging respect if not outright admiration. And Maserov remembered Betga to have been tall and lithe.
‘Am I interested in craft beers?’ Maserov asked incredulously.
‘Was that right?’ the man asked more fluently in the direction of a third party Maserov couldn’t see. The third party revealed himself only when Maserov turned around.
‘Well, you got the words right but the tone was appropriate only if you meant to intimidate him.’
The third party was A.A. Betga, still tall and lithe, in a crisp white shirt open slightly at the collar and lightly checked pressed trousers pleated in the style of the late forties. This was Betga’s style. No one else dressed like this and yet here he was, carrying it off without ostentation.
‘You’re . . . Betga?’ Maserov asked a little hesitantly.
‘Yes, A.A. Betga,’ said Betga, shaking Maserov’s hand. ‘And this is Kasimir. Did you mean to intimidate him?’ Betga asked Kasimir.
‘No,’ Kasimir replied.
‘Then you fucked up. Kasimir comes from a big family with a long, proud tradition, several of them, families and traditions. They were a very big name on the Melbourne waterfront at one time,’ explained Betga. ‘But things went wrong for the family ever since the Costigan Royal Commission into the Painters and Dockers Union in the eighties.’
‘I’ve engaged Betga as my life coach,’ explained Kasimir with something approaching pride.
‘How’s that working for you?’ asked Maserov.
‘Look, he can be a little condescending but I think we’re making progress,’ said Kasimir.
‘I’ll accept that,’ said Betga.
‘He is one of the best.’ Kasimir smiled at Maserov. ‘I shopped around. He’s a lawyer too.’
‘Oh, he knows I’m a lawyer,’ said Betga. ‘That’s why Mr Maserov is here. Do you want to get the two of us a beer? And that’s another one of those questions where the answer is assumed.’
‘Ah-ha!’ said Kasimir. ‘I knew that.’ Then, turning to Maserov, ‘I used to misconstrue like a motherfucker.’
‘Yes, I remember,’ Betga agreed as Kasimir headed towards the bar.
Then Betga swivelled around on his seat to face Maserov front-on and without missing a beat he began, ‘You work for Freely Savage. The partner responsible for these files is Mike “Crispy” Hamilton. You answer to him?’
‘Everyone answers to him.’
‘I don’t,’ said Betga. ‘Used to.’
‘You worked for Freely Savage?’
‘You hadn’t discovered that yet? Man, I’m surprised they’re still paying your way through the nine circles.’
‘The nine circles? Oh, right, Dante’s nine circles of hell.’ It had taken Maserov’s mind a moment to transcend Kasimir and the miscellany of craft beers.
‘It’s a change to be talking to a former high school English teacher instead of Kasimir over there.’
‘How do you know so much about me?’ Maserov asked.
‘Your wife told Carla everything. Don’t you remember? I thought you were there.’
‘Yeah, I was there,’ Maserov said with a sigh.
‘Well, I’m intrigued by what she told her about you and Hamilton,’ said Betga. ‘You’re looking for me because you work at Freely Savage and you’re acting for Torrent Industries, their most important client, as I recall, yet you’ve apparently done a number on Hamilton. Have I got it right?’
Just then Kasimir returned holding two pots of beer.
‘Good work!’ said Betga. ‘What did you choose?’
‘I can’t say the name. It’s from Czechoslovakia or some shit.’
‘That’s not a country anymore, but don’t worry. You go home and I’ll see you next week. Did you tell Keith to put the beers on my tab?’
‘Yeah, he said you don’t have one.’
‘Well, that’s wrong. He’s wrong. That’s a . . . That’s an administrative error. I can fix that. Ignore it. Okay, take it off what you owe me for this month. Don’t lose your temper between here and home and, if you do, don’t express yourself with your fists or your feet. If you have to defend yourself try sarcasm. It’s scalding but leaves no injury that can be picked up by an X-ray, CT scan or any other imaging device. And it’s not illegal. Not yet, anyway. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Kasimir, I’ve got some business to discuss with Mr Maserov here.’
Betga returned to where he’d left off before he’d accepted the free pot of Czech beer.
‘What did you do to Hamilton?’ he asked Maserov.
‘You’re the lawyer of record for Carla. Why aren’t you admitting that you’re representing the other three plaintiffs?’
‘Who says I am?’
‘I’m not quite as stupid as I look,’ said Maserov.
‘Someone needs to get you a mirror.’
‘Hey, I’m not the Supreme Court Prize winner who’s now Kasimir’s life coach.’
‘The two aren’t mutually exclusive.’
‘That’s debatable.’
‘I’ve got to ask you, Maserov, are you fucking with Hamilton?’
‘I’m just trying to survive. Why are you so interested in Hamilton?’
‘Why were you so interested in finding me?’
‘I wanted to talk to the lawyer representing the women suing Torrent Industries.’
‘They’re not going to settle.’
‘They’d be insane not to and you know it . . . For the right offer.’
‘Do you have the authority to make an offer?’ Betga asked. Maserov suddenly realised he didn’t know the answer to that question. ‘You don’t have that authority, do you?’
‘I’m not the client,’ answered Maserov after his momentary hesitation.
‘Exactly who are you, Maserov?’
‘I’m a Second Year at Freely Savage who’s trying to get to the bottom of these Torrent Industry sexual harassment cases.’
‘You want to make them go away.’
‘Preferably, otherwise we’ll win them in court but it will be ugly . . . for everyone.’
‘A Second Year; they wouldn’t . . . Hamilton wouldn’t normally let a Second Year anywhere near this. What the hell happened to Featherby?’
‘What happened to you? Seriously, Betga, I mean no disrespect but when I was at law school, just as you were finishing, people were paying good money for your notes; Betga on Contracts, Betga on Trusts, Betga on Tax. This isn’t a negotiating tactic. You’re right, I’d need instructions from Torrent Industries before I could make any kind of offer and, anyway, technically you don’t have the authority to be negotiating on behalf of any of them other than Carla and she’s got a problem with you that’s at least the size of any my wife has with me. But I want to know . . . as someone who admired you from afar. What the hell happened to you?’
Betga took a sip of his Czech beer, licked the foamy residue off his top lip and stared downward in the direction of his brown brogues in a manner Maserov could already tell was uncharacteristic of him.
‘Hamilton,’ said Betga.
‘What?’
‘Hamilton,’ Betga repeated.
‘What about Hamilton?’
‘You asked what happened to me. The answer is . . . Hamilton.’
‘What did he do?’
Betga sat for a moment without speaking, looked around the room and sipped his beer again.
‘I tell you what,’ Betga began, ‘are you able to come back here tomorrow night?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘If you can get authority to negotiate on behalf of Torrent Industries, you come back here tomorrow night at eight. Then we can talk. You tell me what you did to Hamilton and I’ll tell you what he did to me.’