Even though killing Ray Waters had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, Laurie carried it off with a certain old-world grace. He poured a scotch for each of us, asked the ladies to step outside, and then shot Ray in the chest.

If Laurie had consulted me before he started blazing away I would have urged moderation, but I wasn’t altogether heartbroken when Waters copped it. I helped Laurie dump the body at sea, and later I took Waters’ car to Mascot airport, to make it look like he’d left the country. Which in a way he had.

We went our separate ways. Time passed. I started thinking we’d got away with it.

Chapter 1

SEPTEMBER 1958

A cold Saturday night at Woolloomooloo Bay. Three men shuffled down the gangway of the SS King of Prussia, along the deserted Pier 6 and out through the gateway to Cowper Wharf Road.

I flashed my headlights, wound down my window and called out, ‘You’re late. I was getting worried.’

The man in front shook his head, kept walking, and said out of the side of his mouth, ‘The hotel, ten minutes,’ without breaking stride.

I got out, walked over to Harry’s Café de Wheels.

Jude, the old girl behind the counter said, ‘What’s on, Billy?’

I watched the three figures enter the pub across the road. ‘Looks like I’ll be having a drink.’

‘Eat something first. You should never drink on an empty stomach.’

‘Yeah, that’s what my father used to tell me. Along with, Avoid bad companions,’ I said.

‘Mine used to say, Never trust a man who doesn’t wear a hat to the races.’ She handed a meat pie across the counter to me.

I told her I didn’t want it. She insisted.

I moved over to the railing at the water’s edge. Seagulls squawking in the darkness. I took a bite, spat it out, tossed the remains into the drink. Then I pulled a couple of dexedrines out of my top pocket and swallowed them dry.

When ten minutes were up I waved to Jude, started moving off. She asked did I feel better now? I told her too right.

The pub was a storm of noise and cigarette smoke. I bought a beer, pushed my way through the crowd to the jukebox, punched in ‘Summertime Blues’.

Before the song had finished Chet Kimbrough, American seafaring gent and bad companion, tapped me on the shoulder and muttered, ‘Out the back.’ I followed him through to the ladies’ lounge. His mates were there already, in the company of three women of the night. Chet slipped the bolt on the door, took his leather jacket off. He reached under his shirt, brought out a rolled-up paper bag, dropped it on the table, said, ‘All right, fellers, give daddy-o the booty.’

Bad companion number two, a toothless Negro, grinned and took off his Canadian jacket. He put his hand into the lining, took out another bag, dropped it on the table. Then he went in under his shirt, took out some magazines, put them with the other stuff. He held up his finger like a magician, then unbuckled his belt and dropped his strides. The girls whistled. More bags taped to both legs. He carefully cut them free with a flick-knife, threw them on the table. He put his trousers back on and bowed. Then Chet and bad companion number three, a nuggety Scot with a crewcut, did the same. They all went back out to the front bar then, leaving me and Chet with the pile of reefers, Playboy magazines, 45rpm records and some paperbacks. I sniffed the reefers, flicked through the books: Sintime Beatniks, Narcotics Agent, Stripper, Jailbait, Junkie, On the Road.

I handed a roll of notes to Chet. He counted it, then nodded.

I put the stuff in my disposal store kitbag. ‘Why the big production?’

‘Customs guys on the wharf back there. See them? A guy on board ran out of cash, took some magazines to sell uptown. In a bag. Big mistake. Customs tracked him all the way to Ashwoods. They took him in, charged him.’

‘No sympathy for the working man.’

‘Nail on the head there, brother.’ He held up the roll of pound notes. ‘Hey, why don’t you hang with us? We’re going to get all messed up.’

‘Nah, I’m racing the clock. I’ve got to sell this dope faster than I can smoke it. See you next time.’

I bought a bottle of Remy, went back to the car and drove a little way up Darlinghurst Road, into a tiny back lane, to the house of Shirley Hill, artist, stripper and dabbler in the black arts.

She opened her door wearing a paint-spattered army shirt and tights, her hair tied back with a red bandanna. She said, ‘Hello there.’

‘Hello,

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