by Peter Corris
Arthur Henderson was fifty-two, not thirty-five: he was short and fair and had been a good tennis player. But he was a freelance journalist, said to be the first man to take cocaine on television (accounts differ on whether the substance he had sniffed on The Jimmie Martin Show really was cocaine), and his idea of a joke was to balance a bucket of piss over a door and sit back to watch the result.
I’d had some dealings with Henderson, but I didn’t have a way of contacting him. As it turned out, doing this was like trying to read the label on a turning record-you can almost do it but not quite. The first few calls I made got me nowhere except from one blank wall to another. There was no other course open than to add another favour to the long list I already owed Harry Tickener. Since Harry became deputy editor of The News rather than its star reporter, he sees and hears less than he used to, but still more than most. He took my call, but I had the feeling that he had at least one other phone to his ear.
‘Hi, Cliff, I’m busy. How’re you?’
‘Trying to be busy, Harry. When did you last see Arthur Henderson?’
‘Who?’
‘Artie Henderson-when did you last see him?’
‘I can’t answer that.’
‘Why not? I thought he hounded your place to flog his stuff. It can’t be that long.’
Harry laughed and gave one of his forty-Camels-a-day dry coughs. ‘I’m joking, Cliff. It’s like Philosophy. You ever do Philosophy?’
‘No, Harry.’
‘You don’t know that thing about stepping into the same river twice?’
‘No, sounds like a dumb thing to do.’
‘Yeah, well. I can’t answer the question “when did I last see Arthur Henderson” because I’m looking at him right now. He’s here trying to interest the editor in a piece on Tim Tully. Ever heard of Tully?’
‘No.’
‘Nor has the editor. What…’
‘Harry, hold onto him. I’ve got to see him. Buy him a drink.’
‘That’s asking too much, Cliff. I’ve never heard of Tully either, and I don’t want to.’
‘Do anything you like to him, but don’t let him get away.’
‘Is it life or death or money?’
‘All of them.’
Harry laughed and coughed again. ‘Okay, Cliff. He’ll be here, but hurry.’
I slammed down the phone and rushed out of the house, still buttoning my shirt. There was a white envelope lying on the doorstep; I swooped on it and crammed it into my shirt pocket as I felt for my keys. It wasn’t until I stopped at some lights that I could open the envelope. It had my name printed in block capitals on the front and inside was a thick clump of straight, black, Oriental hair.
18
The reporters’ room at The News was busy as usual with men and women whaling away at computer keyboards, telephones ringing and filing cabinet drawers shrieking. I couldn’t see Arthur Henderson when I walked in, but Harry Tickener was there. He seemed to have shrunk over recent years, but perhaps it’s just that his desks had got bigger. The surface of the one he was at now was covered with telephones, writing pads, print-out paper and a couple of gross of pens and pencils. Harry had kept up the journo’s tradition of an up-ended typewriter on his desk, although it’s doubtful that he had much use for it anymore. He also used to have a use for the pencils-to scratch at his hair-but there wasn’t enough hair left now to scratch.
He saw me coming from across the room and made a show of grabbing up some paper and running. He stood his ground though, and lit one of his Camels. When I got close enough he blew smoke in my face.
‘Any regrets?’
I waved the smoke away. ‘None. I pull my lungs out from time to time to have a look at them. You’d need a fishnet to get yours up.’ I stabbed at his thin chest. ‘With a fine mesh!’
‘Charming. You’re probably right, but my old man’s smoked fifty a day for nearly sixty years, and there isn’t a hill in North Sydney he can’t walk up. I’m a great believer in heredity. I suppose you want to know where Artie is?’
‘Right.’
‘I’m sorry; we couldn’t keep him. The stuff he had was so bad there was nothing to say. But we did you a favour. He’s so depressed he’d have headed for the pub.’
‘Shit, Harry, there’s a lot of pubs in Sydney.’
‘Artie’s a lazy bugger, he’ll have taken the Continental across the road, nothing surer.’ He was back behind his desk before he finished talking; it’s hard to hold Harry’s attention these days unless you’ve got a leaked document or a film of the politician actually taking the money. He took a paper out from under an identical stack of other papers; the total chaos of his desk is an orderly filing system in Harry’s mind. He glanced up at me dismissively.
‘Must have a drink sometime, Cliff. Or have you given that up too?’
‘No, Harry. I haven’t given it up. I’m humbled by your help and I’d like to have a drink with you. Give me a ring when you get a quarter hour off.’
He grinned, drew defiantly on the cigarette and bent his pale pink skull over his papers.
The Continental is a typical journalists’ pub with different bars suited to different purposes. There’s one for talking or reading the papers in peace, one for eating after a fashion and another for fighting. Artie Henderson was in the fighting bar. I hoped Harry hadn’t mentioned to him that I wanted to see him, because one of Henderson’s chief characteristics is suspicion. He is suspicious of everybody and everything. Most of his published articles in recent years had been paranoid conspiracy pieces with just enough substance in them to get a run after heavy editing.
He saw me, and he had money on the counter and was heading for the door, preparing to skirt around me, before I was one step into the bar. I blocked him.
‘Artie, I’d like a word.’
He tried to step around me, but he’d had a bit too much already and his reflexes were shot; I side-stepped faster and baulked him off balance. He stumbled and lurched inwards the nearest table for support. The few other drinkers didn’t even look around; it’d take six good punches and some blood to get them interested. Artie breathed hard and pushed up from the table but I pushed him down again. He was badly out of condition and went down easier and harder than I’d expected. I helped him up onto a stool near one of the pillars that divided the room. He leaned back against the pillar, and his hand searched automatically on the shelf nearby for his drink. He was in a bad way.
‘Take it easy, Artie,’ I said. ‘Just stay right there and I’ll get you a drink.’
He nodded resignedly, but I kept my eye on him as I backed off to the bar. He lit a cigarette, coughed cataclysmically and wheezed, but he stayed where he was. When I got back with a scotch for him and some red wine for me, he was breathing better and his eyes were bright with anticipation, maybe for the whisky, maybe for calamity. He put the scotch down in one gulp, sucked on his cigarette and rubbed his back where it had hit the wall.
‘I don’t want to talk to you, Hardy. You’re trouble in large doses. Jeez, me back hurts
‘Don’t be like that, Artie. I just reacted automatically to your side-step. You’ve slowed down.’
He sighed. ‘At everything; at some things I’ve bloody stopped. All right, Hardy, get us another drink and let’s hear what’s on your excuse for a mind.’
I put five dollars down by his empty glass and his pudgy, liver-spotted hand reached for it automatically.
‘You buy the drinks, Artie. The walk’ll do you good.’
He heaved his bulky body off the stool and shuffled across to the bar. His suit bagged at all pockets with the weight of assorted articles, and his shoes hadn’t been cleaned that year. If he’d had any contact with Bill Mountain recently, it hadn’t done him any financial good unless he’d already drunk it. He came back with a double scotch and beer chaser and a packet of cigarettes, all bought from my five. He put the couple of coins in change down on the shelf and gave me one of his rare smiles.
‘The
re you are, Cliff. Shocking price things are today.’
I lifted what was left in my glass. ‘Cheers, Artie. Quick trip to the grave.’
‘You always were a humorist, Cliff. What’s up?’
‘When did you last see Bill Mountain?’
He sipped his whisky and tapped the side of his head where his pepper-and-salt hair stood up untidily over his ears. ‘Dreadful memory,’ he said. ‘ Have I seen old Bill lately?’
‘Yeah. You’ll be flattered to hear he’s been writing about you.’
‘Me?’ He looked as alarmed as if he’d discovered that his fly was open.
‘You. This is a secret, but I’m telling you because I can’t see how you’d make any money out of it. Mountain’s writing a novel. He’s got a character in it who’s unmistakably you. Like Fleming and Le Carre used Dicky Hughes, you know?’
He nodded, I assume flattered.
‘Well, this character gives the hero the drum on the heroin racket.’
Artie’s eyes narrowed in a parody of cunning. ‘We did have a word or two on the subject.’
‘Right. I suppose he told you he was researching for a TV script?’
‘Exactly.’ The scotch was nearly all gone and he started on the beer.
‘But he’s gone and got himself personally involved in the business.’
‘Jesus!’
‘The less you know the better, but what I want you to do is tell me everything you told him-the names, the places, the procedures. Anything that might help me get a line on him. He’s history unless someone pulls him out of it. I don’t have to tell you that.’
‘Sure. I assume someone’s employing you, Cliff?’
‘Yeah, I’m not poking into this for fun, believe me. I assume it’s all going on around Darlo and Bondi and I know there used to be a nice phone hook-up between the customs and a city hotel we won’t mention. But I’m a bit out of touch. Put me in touch, Artie.’
I didn’t recognise the sound at first; it came from deep within his frowsy frame, and he shook like a man hanging onto a pneumatic drill. It ended in a shuddering spasm and a series of coughs that started at his ankles. His face flushed red and his hand shook violently when he picked up his glass. He got a swallow down and resumed normal breathing. It was Artie’s way of laughing; if he did it too often he’d drop dead. ‘That’s rich, Cliff, really rich. Darlo! Phone hookup! You think it’s all kids and hard cases, eh? Out of touch? You don’t even know what the bloody game is.’ His wide grin threatened to split into spasm again. I gripped his upper arm and dug my fingers into the spongy flesh until I felt him tense up in the pain.
‘Cut out the bullshit, Artie. You’ve had your laugh. Okay, I’ve got it all wrong-steer me straight.’
‘Anything in it for me?’
‘If I get a result, maybe.’
‘Hardly a promise, but I’ll trust you. I’ve got bloody little coming in. Okay, Mountain knew more about it than you, but not enough. All that sleazy stuff still goes on, always has, always will. I’ve written a bit about it
‘I don’t want your CV, Artie. Get on with it.’
‘There’s a whole new drug market opened up. Lots of professional people are skin popping, sniffing, smoking- all that. Some are weekend users and they stay that way. You’d be surprised at some of the jobs they hold down. Top people or on their way to the top. Young and youngish is what I’m talking about, but there’s some oldies too. They don’t just go down the usual places to score, d’you follow?’
I nodded. ‘So what do they do?’
‘It’s a sociological thing, really. The people with the money write the rules
‘Save it, Artie. What happens?’
‘They do it the way they do everything, old son. They hold parties.’
‘Parties?’
‘Exactly. Lots of ‘em. There’s a circuit, or a couple of circuits. Certain people get invited, and they bring along certain substances. These people don’t keep a stash, see? They don’t want to think about it during the week while they’re being managing this and executive that. Quality people with quality money for quality stuff.’
‘This is what Mountain wanted to hear about?’
‘Yep. Another drink?’
He was asking, not offering. I did want another drink and I got up to get it automatically, with my mind mostly on the scene Artie had sketched. I was half way to the bar when Artie made a bolt for it; he would have made it but Harry Tickener chose that moment to open the inward swinging door and Artie had to step back. By that time I had my hand on his shoulder again. Harry looked surprised.
‘Just off? Thought I’d join you.’
‘Where’s your desk, didn’t you bring it?’ I got a firm grip on Artie’s shoulder pad and turned him around. ‘Good to see you, Harry. Let’s all have a drink. Artie here just got the wrong door. He was looking for the bog.’
‘I need it, too.’ Artie growled. ‘Get a round, Hardy. I’ll be back in a minute.’ He shuffled off unsteadily towards the door on which some wag had altered the word to read ‘Bents’. Tickener and I sat down near the pillar.
‘Can he get out of the dunny?’
Harry raised an eyebrow to near where his hairline used to be. ‘Like that is it? No, I don’t think so. I think the loo’s down below street level.’
I got some more scotch for Henderson, the same for Harry and wine for me. I filled Harry in quickly on what Artie had told me, but I didn’t say why I’d been pumping. Harry lit a Camel and dragged on it hard.
‘We ran a story on that stuff a while ago,’ he said. ‘You must have missed it.’
‘I was probably in the middle of The Brothers Karamazov. Artie seems to be full bottle; would he have some names d’you reckon?’
‘Bound to.’
Artie came back with damp hands. He grabbed his glass and swore as it almost slipped through his fingers. But he got half of the whisky down and finished his beer. ‘That wasn’t a bad piece, Harry,’ he whined. ‘You should’ve put in a word
‘Skip it!’ I said, ‘Let’s hear a bit more about the yuppies and drugs.’
‘I told you. Parties. Everybody’s got a legitimate invitation. Hosts do the buying. Take it in turns. All kosher.’
Harry nodded. Artie nicked a Camel from Harry’s pack.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Sounds like kid stuff.’
Artie shrugged; he would have been willing to let it stand there, but Harry wasn’t. If it had been printed in The News, Harry Tickener was there to defend it. ‘Don’t you believe it,’ he said. ‘These people call themselves recreational drug users; they say they’ve got it all under control, but they haven’t, not all of them. Some of them get properly hooked like any dumb kid on the dole, and they need a supply just as badly. They’ve got the money- at least to start with. You know that, Artie.’
‘Sure.’ Harry had touched Artie’s professional pride as he’d intended. ‘That’s right, the hooked ones have to deal bigger to keep a supply, just like Harry says. Gets to be a pressure game. Harry, would you like a piece
‘No. But you can help Cliff a bit more than that, can’t you, Artie?’
‘What’s in it for me?’
‘No double dipping, Artie,” I said. ‘You’ll be seen to if I get somewhere.”
Artie could wheedle with the best of them. ‘I could do a piece on that council, Harry. I know who’s on the take from who.’
‘Whom,’ Harry said. ‘Maybe.’
‘Well, there’s a bit of a party circuit up on the North Shore, Pymble way.’
‘Names,’ I said.
‘I’ve only got two: Gamble-that’s Anthony Gamble on Lady Jane Drive. And a woman named Deirdre Kelly- Montague Street, I think.’
Harry went off to the toilet, and I wrote the names down. ‘Are they recreational or hooked?’
Henderson shrugged. He looked weary, as if the effort of parting with information without immediate financial return had drained him of energy. ‘I heard they were on the way to being hoo
ked. The number of gatherings has gone up or something. That’s the sign, see? You didn’t get this from me, of course.’
‘Naturally not. This what you told Mountain?’
He nodded.
‘Haven’t seen him since?’
‘Not hide nor hair of him.’
‘If you do, you could ask him to get in touch with me.’
He got down off his stool and hitched up his sagging trousers, fighting for a bit of dignity as Harry rejoined us. ‘I might do that, Cliff. See you, Harry.’ He walked away swaying a little and pausing at the open door to make sure he had the all-clear. Harry watched him go, and shook his head.
‘Sad case.’
‘Would that article you ran on this stuff be worth reading?’
‘You can hurt, Cliff, you can really wound. Buy me another drink and I’ll dig it out so you can see for yourself. How’s Helen?’
‘She’s up the bush,’ I said, ‘worse luck.’
19
I sat in the library next to the reporters’ room at The News, and read the article about the professional persons who used drugs recreationally. In a way, it was like reading Bill Mountain’s synopsis; the people interviewed talked freely and articulately, but they had been given false names, and it was hard to tell whether they were lying. None admitted to being hooked, and none would give any information out on how they obtained the drugs. The drugs, doses, effects and justifications for what they were doing, they would talk about ad nauseam.
The reporter presented the material straight and with an oddly incurious air, as if he had found his informants rather boring. Hard facts were few-the North Shore was one of the centres of the activity and the participants feared only two things-exposure as drug-users to their straight professional colleagues, and accidental overdose.
