your girlfriend?’
‘What girlfriend?’
‘The singer, Del, is that her?’
‘Yeah. Well, sort of, but . . .’
‘Anyway, that doesn’t worry me. I think monogamy’s really out.’
‘Stereo’s here to stay, for sure. But me and her are through anyway.’
‘Not on my account, I hope. I think everyone should just do what they want to do, follow their heart’s desire. Don’t you think so?’
’Yeah, that’s the principle I’ve always tried to live by.’
‘I better get back to work. Coming for a drink on Friday?’
‘Yeah, probably, maybe. See you.’
I headed down to Mr Ling’s.
I started making like an investigator. I took a ferry across to Manly to see an old pal of Fay’s, a single working woman named Judy. She couldn’t tell me much about Fay’s disappearance, other than she hoped I found her. That afternoon I drove to Kensington, saw another friend of Fay’s, a married woman named Cath. Keen to help but she had no clue.
Driving back to East Sydney I was pulled over in Anzac Parade, booked for speeding and failing to give a hand signal. I’d been driving at twenty-five miles an hour, in a straight line. So much for the grey Holden disguise and the bodgie registration. Or maybe it was a coincidence. Just to be sure, I gave the cop my real licence. He grinned the whole time he was writing out the ticket.
There was one name left on the list, Michael Keogh, a ‘fairy’, according to Rodney. He worked at Dymock’s Bookstore. I found him easily enough, working behind the counter in the non-fiction section. I told him what I wanted, he said he couldn’t talk here but he was going to lunch in half an hour, he’d be at the Harris Coffee Shop.
Where the other two had nothing much to report, Michael Keogh had too much—hints, insinuations, veiled references. I asked him was Rodney on the up and up. He said there was a lot more to him than you first saw, you know. How about Judy and Cath, were they what they seemed? Was anyone what they seemed? he said. Was it possible Fay had another bloke stashed away somewhere? With Fay anything was possible, truly.
Well, where did he think she might have racked off to? He couldn’t say, but one thing was for sure, if Fay didn’t want to be found, no way was I going to find her. I thanked him and gave him my phone number, asked him to ring if he heard anything.
That afternoon I went to the address Irving had given me in Elizabeth Bay, Fay Small’s flat. It was in a large block which faced the water, but her flat was on the other side of the building. It had already been relet. The new tenant, a sales rep, didn’t know anything about the earlier occupant. Did any mail ever arrive for her? Nothing, he said. I went to Kings Cross post office to try the obvious: had she left a mail redirection order? She hadn’t.
I rang Irving that night. The phone was answered by a girl, or young woman. I asked was Rodney Irving there. Sure, she said, hold the line please. He came to the phone. I wanted to ask him who the chick was but he saved me the trouble by saying straight up that she was his daughter, Pauline. I didn’t know he had a daughter, I said. Yeah, from his first marriage.
I told Irving what I’d done so far and asked him how he felt about me making inquiries at Victory Press. He told me to do whatever I thought necessary but it would be better from his point of view if I didn’t let on to the mob at Victory that I was working for him. But how should I act towards him when I visited, pretend not to know him? Oh, that won’t be a problem, he said, he’d left Victory two months ago and gone into business for himself.
I got a few more details from him then finished up saying, ‘I feel I should be up front with you—right at this moment, the cherchez la femme business doesn’t look all that terribly promising. I mean, if you want to call it off, I’d understand.’
He was silent a moment, then spoke quietly. ‘Please stay with it. Other than you, I am without allies in this.’
Next morning I made the scene at Victory Press. It was in a back street in Chippendale, behind Cleveland Street. Big place, with the printing works on the ground floor. I went upstairs to the office. There were half a dozen blokes at desks scattered around the room. They were smoking, talking into telephones. No one so much as glanced my way. I told the girl at the front desk I’d like to speak with the manager. She asked me to wait.
I sat down, picked up a magazine, an engineering trade paper. After a couple of minutes the boss came out, apologised for making me wait, introduced himself as Cec Lewin and asked what he could do for me. I told him I was trying to contact Fay Small. Well, he said, she wasn’t there any more.
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