Free Dead Point by Peter Temple Page B

‘You pay for a late lunch.’
    Dodging drug dealers and their customers, we walked to a Lebanese place in Smith Street where they knew me.
    Seated in the window, I said, ‘How’s the film business?’
    Boz shook her head. ‘Shithouse. I’m thinkin of givin it away. There’s a bloke called Sewell moves a lot of art and antiques, wants to pack it in, sell the business. Problem is I can’t work out what I’d be buyin.’
    ‘How’s that?’
    ‘It’s about ninety per cent goodwill, no contracts or anythin, just customers he’s had for twenty years. They could take one look at me and say so long Maryanne.’
    ‘You know that number? Tell him you want to go through the books. Work out the percentage of turnover from each of the regular customers. Thengo and see them and ask if they’ll carry on hiring the firm if you buy it.’
    She looked at me, fork poised. ‘I could do that?’
    ‘If he says no, walk away. How old’s this bloke?’
    Through the window, a few metres away, I could see a boy of about thirteen, a thin boy, face sharpened by the street, peachfuzz on his chin. He was someone’s child, lost into the world like a puppy into an open drain, now waiting for something, someone, agitated, scratching, licking his lips, rubbing his small nose. The person came, older, bigger, stood close to him, obscured him.
    ‘Fifty maybe, around there,’ said Boz.
    The boy was gone. Two girls, older, late teens, dirty hair, faces pierced in three places, were on the spot, heads moving, looking in different directions. One clutched a plastic bag.
    ‘You’ll need a restraint of trade in the contract,’ I said.
    ‘Pardon?’
    ‘How old are you?’
    ‘Am I asking a stupid question?’
    ‘No. I’m just losing touch with ages. I need a baseline.’
    ‘Thirty-six. A week ago.’
    ‘Happy birthday.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    Her eyes were the colour of wet slate.
    ‘Restraint of trade. It stops him selling you thebusiness and then starting a new one in opposition to you. He’s young enough to try that.’
    ‘Jesus,’ she said, ‘I know fuck-all about business.’
    ‘Do the looking at the books bit,’ I said, ‘then come and see me about the contract. I’m cheap.’
    ‘McCoy says living opposite your office is a risk.’
    She’d been told the story.
    ‘McCoy likes to generalise. He’s had one unfortunate experience in the street. No-one forced him to throw his chainsaw into a passing vehicle.’
    She paid and we walked back to Charlie’s in halfhearted rain. I went around to the driver’s side of the van with her. Her hair held drops of water. She brushed a hand over her scalp, dispelled the moisture. ‘Got any other libraries to put in, I’m your person,’ she said, getting into the cab. ‘I like your libraries.’
    ‘The person of choice. You will be that person.’
    She looked down at me. ‘Jack,’ she said, ‘not to fuck about, I suppose you’re taken.’
    So plain a question.
    ‘At this moment in time,’ I said, ‘no.’
    ‘I’m the same. Well, give me a ring. Business or social.’ She started the engine. ‘Here’s looking down at you, kid.’
    I watched her take the top-heavy old van around the tight corner, stood for a while, thinking. Boz.
    No. The world was already too much with me.

At the office, the answering machine was signalling me.
    Jack, it’s Morris. Listen, I want a letter to Krysis. The neighbour says the bastard’s storing stuff in the garage again. Tell him he’s trespassing and we’ll kick his arse. Today, Jack, do it today. Cheers
.
    Morris, father of Stan the publican.
    Jack, Morris again. I forgot to say the prick’s pushed the offer up another thirty grand. I told him not interested. He says he wants to talk to you. Tell him your instructions are he should piss off and stop wasting my time. Okay? Cheers
.
    Ditto. Someone wanted to buy his two adjoining properties in Brunswick, a more than generous offer as I understood it, but Morris couldn’t contemplate life