He went to the Trawler’s Arms. No thought behind the decision, just that it was the first pub he came to. Alcohol had never helped him much before, but millions swore by it, so maybe he just hadn’t tried hard enough.
A dozen or so men were sitting at the tables, a couple of lone drinkers at the bar. Mick was behind the bar again, serving a red-faced man in a ‘Keep Australia White’ T-shirt. That had to hurt, but there probably wasn’t much choice when you were a middle-aged man with a prison record and a family to feed.
Mick came over to Caleb as he sat. ‘Becomin’ a regular.’
Caleb tried to think of the correct response, then just nodded.
‘What’ll you have?’ Mick prompted.
‘Um, a beer.’
A frown for that, but Mick pulled him a pint of VB and placed it on the bar.
‘Enjoy,’ he said and went to serve another customer who’d decided that drinking in a pub at one o’clock on a Sunday afternoon was a good life decision.
Caleb downed most of the beer in one go but didn’t hold out much hope. He needed something stronger to sear this ooze from his brain. Whisky, bleach, acid – just saw open his skull and pour the stuff in.
‘I know you’re not good for me.’
Smart woman. Very smart. She’d even known how pointless this case was. Because it was pointless. He’d known from the start exactly how pointless it was. It wasn’t going to bring Portia back; it wasn’t going to change what he’d done, or ease the tightness in his chest. But sometimes there wasn’t any choice. Sometimes you had to stand behind a bar and serve racist arseholes so you could feed your family, and sometimes you had to investigate a pointless fucking case so you could just. Keep. Moving.
Mick was back, polishing an already clean glass. ‘You right there, mate?’
‘Sure.’
‘While I’ve got you here. About Aunty Eileen. Don’t go getting the gunyan riled up about Jai and the Copperheads – it’s bad enough for her as it is.’
‘Don’t worry, Kat’s already read me the riot act. Just look out for Aunty Eileen, will you? If she knows what happened to Jai, she might be in danger.’
Mick squinted at him. ‘’Course I’ll fucken look out for her – she’s family.’
Family.
An uncomfortable thought wormed its way into his brain. Seven months ago, this man had clasped his shoulder and called him cuz, told him that he’d always be family.
‘That woman I asked you about,’ Caleb said. ‘Portia Hirst. You sure you didn’t know her?’
‘So you didn’t send her to me?’
‘No. D’you need it in writing?’ Mick was looking around for someone else to serve. It wouldn’t take him long.
Quick, the conversation with Ant’s dealer – the name of the man who knew Blondie and drank in the Arms.
‘Do you know a guy called Johnno?’
Mick was good. He didn’t blink, didn’t look away, but his posture had an exaggerated stillness. ‘Know a few Johnnos. All of them shy.’
‘This Johnno drinks here regularly.’
‘Mate, go home. You are seriously out of your league with these guys.’
‘Yeah? In what way?’
Mick heaved a sigh and wandered to the other end of the bar. Got busy rearranging the three clean glasses on the sink.
Caleb scanned the room. Judging by Mick’s reaction, either Johnno or one of his mates was currently in the pub. Old bloke at the bar, two lone drinkers, three tables of men. The old bloke would be the best bet for information. Caleb crossed to him and put a ten-dollar note on the bar, kept his finger on it. ‘Beer’s on Johnno. You know him?’
The man’s lips barely moved. ‘Window.’
The table at the window was occupied by a scrawny man with a large bushy beard. He was wearing baggy jeans and a too-big black T-shirt, as though he’d once been much larger. A leather jacket was hanging over the back of his chair. Caleb didn’t need to check to know that it had the image of a large yellow snake on it.
That beard was going to make things difficult. More than difficult – impossible. So drop it, drop everything. Just get in the car and go back to Melbourne. Try not to drive into a tree on the way there. Plenty of places to do it: that first bend out of the Bay, or that long stretch of road before Geelong. Foot hard on the accelerator, the wheel firm in his hands, a moment of fear and then nothing.
Breathless. Icy arms gripping his chest and squeezing his lungs.
He crossed to the table. ‘Johnno?’
The man raised his head, peering at Caleb as though looking into a bright light. Bloodshot eyes and pasty skin, the smell of ammonia and ancient sweat. His beard moved, exposing tombstone teeth. A short sentence, two words. Go on? Piss off?
Mick moved into Caleb’s line of sight, putting a good shine on a bar that had never been clean.
‘I’m looking for a blond guy,’ Caleb said. ‘Big bloke, has a bit of a sore knee.’
Johnno’s mouth opened like a bear’s maw, then closed again. Fuck, not a single word.
‘I didn’t catch that. Can y–’
Johnno stood, toppling his chair to the floor.
Scurrying movement: men leaving, men coming closer. Noise blared as someone turned up the music.
Johnno pulled out a flick-knife.