Free Cooking the Books by Kerry Greenwood Page B

coming adrift—trackies, polo shirts, T shirts, they were all filthy and falling apart. The bodies underneath were malnourished, white and skeletal. Their hair was long and they reeked of cheap wine and dirt. But their eyes, oh, their eyes were glittering, and I felt that I had strayed into one of Dante’s less pleasant Circles of Hell. I wanted to run away. But I had volunteered so I stayed.
    Daniel walked easily into the encampment and leant on the boathouse door. The eyes examined him. Not a cop, not a social worker, not someone coming to do them either good or harm against their will. Not another drunk who might fight them for their bounty. Not, in point of fact, important, and they soon looked away from him. A man in a partly destroyed suit half stood and asked him, ‘Want a drink, mate?’
    ‘Looking for Spazzo,’ he said clearly.
    ‘Over there,’ said the suit. ‘Him and Pockets got lots of wine,’ he added, and sank down to his seat again in the contaminated dust.
    Daniel hoisted himself off the wall and sauntered slowly to the other gathering. The little fires dotted the river bank. I knew from recent museum research of middens that the local Aboriginal people had built little fires like this at about this time of year, to feast on mussels and dance away the Big Heat. How surprised they would be at their replacements. Disgusted, too, I expect. These camps knew no gods except Alcohol.
    Daniel repeated his request for Spazzo at the next fire and found him. He was a thin, small, hairless man in old track pants, reclining on a pile of wine boxes like a pasha and very pleased with himself. He had a wide and toothless grin, surprisingly like that of a baby. Daniel accepted a plastic cup of wine from him and sat down on his heels to talk. Spazzo was happy. He was afloat on a sea of Yalumba Autumn Brown and sinking fast.
    ‘You’ve got lots of wine,’ observed Daniel.
    ‘Lots!’ gurgled Spazzo. ‘Lots ’n’ lots.’
    ‘Where did it come from?’ asked Daniel.
    ‘Bought ’n’ paid for,’ said Spazzo with dignity. ‘By my mate. My good mate,’ he elaborated.
    ‘It’s good to have a mate like that,’ said Daniel. ‘What’s his name?’
    ‘He’s got lots of wine,’ said Spazzo. ‘Lots ’n’ lots of wine.’
    ‘And his name? Tommo, was it? Big bloke, red hair?’
    ‘Nah,’ replied Spazzo scornfully. ‘Tommo’s got black hair. Pockets’s got no hair. Pockets’s me mate.’
    ‘The mate who gave you lots and lots of wine?’
    ‘Pockets did,’ agreed Spazzo.
    ‘Perhaps if I ask him he’ll give me lots of wine, too,’ sug- gested Daniel.
    Spazzo was too happy not to feel regret in crushing this delightful dream.
    ‘Nah, he’s got no more,’ he said sadly. ‘Said we had to make this lot last. Said to keep some for tomorrow. But where can I keep some wine with all these bastards ferreting through the bushes? Better drink it all now,’ said Spazzo, gulping down some more. The sweet scent of the fortified wine combined with the human stench was making me nauseous.
    ‘Where can we find Pockets?’ asked Daniel gently.
    ‘Dunno. They might know,’ said Spazzo, waving an uncoordinated arm in the direction of downriver. We went that way, past the little fires. I was sweating like a pig. Plump persons seldom tolerate heat well.
    Then we found Pockets. He was reclining on a throne made of wine boxes. He was a bald, skinny man in a grey dustcoat which some amateur hand had sewn with extra pockets, hence the name. He had a bunch of papers in his hand and was perusing them by firelight through pickle-bottle glasses. Cryptic crossword puzzles, mostly filled in faultless calligraphy. And in biro. I was instantly reminded of an ex-boss of mine. Same glasses. Same squint. Pockets caught sight of me and began to rise, which was courteous of him. He managed to get to his feet and then sagged down. Daniel helped him to rebuild his seat and lowered him into it.
    ‘Lady,’ said Pockets in a cultured