I rang Clay, woke him and filled him in. ‘I’m bringing him to your place,’ I said. ‘You have things to talk about.’
I drew up outside Clay’s house in Erskineville. Clay was standing in his pyjamas and dressing gown at the front gate waiting. Gary grabbed his duffel bag, seemed to think about shaking my hand, didn’t, and got out. I waved and drove off.
* * * *
I waited a couple of days, making use of the 4WD to do a bit of carting. My daughter Megan had moved into a flat in Dee Why and I helped her to stock it with some furniture I didn’t need. Then I rang Clay and arranged to return the Pajero and the gear he’d lent me. I handed him the keys and dumped the rest on the floor of his office.
‘I drank the scotch,’ I said.
‘Of course. What do I owe you?’
‘I’ll invoice you. Your kid’s got a hard head—I bruised my knuckles. How’s it going with you two?’
‘Not bad. We’re talking. I even had lunch with Harriet the other day.’
‘Don’t tell me I’ve ...’
He laughed. ‘No, but it all feels a hell of a lot better. I have to thank you, Cliff.’
‘Any flak from St James?’
He smiled. ‘Flak, eh? Still taking the piss. No, not a squeak. Is there anything dangerous about DTS, d’you reckon?’
‘Only to the bank balances of people silly enough to get into it.’
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Corris, Peter Page 19
