Free Darlinghurst Road by T.C. Doust Page A

do some
exceedingly dumb things. Gary was a chemist and he worked for a big
pharmaceutical company. Standing six feet seven and built like the
proverbial brick shit-house, Gary was a very unlikely transvestite.
Dressing up outrageously with his friends and hitting the gay
nightclubs was his way of letting off steam. It was more a just bit
of weekend fun for him than a lifestyle but his fun included
sniffing Ethyl Chloride for a high.
    Like most adult shops, we sold over-priced
aerosol cans of the stuff with generic labeling like “video head
cleaner.” If you wanted to know the chemical properties, the
toxicity and just about anything else then Gary could tell you all
about it but just like a doctor or nurse who uses drugs, still he
did it. He came in with a friend one weekend, after a few minutes
chatting, Gary bought a can and put it in his pocket. I served
another customer and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the hand
reach across my counter. As the other customer left, Gary picked up
a cloth that I had been cleaning a glass counter top with.
    I knew, I just knew exactly what he was going
to do and I moved quickly to stop him but was too late. By the time
I came out from behind the counter, Gary had sprayed the rag and
taken a very large sniff. Reflexes kicked in and I stepped back
just as he fainted. Flat on his back, dress up around his waist,
this six foot seven drag queen looked up at me and with an
embarrassed look said: “shit.”
     
    Max
    Max was an old time Private Eye straight out
of a cheap detective novel. Some guys talk about it but Max had
done it and had plenty of battle scars to prove it. When I met him,
Max was all but retired and trying to live the quiet life although
that must have been hard for a guy with over fifty years of working
the streets of Sydney. He still had his Private Investigator's
license and would occasionally do a job for old friends or a good
cause. It was never actually said but I did get the impression that
Max had also made his share of enemies over the years because, even
in retirement, he kept a low profile and a loaded Walther handgun
never too far away.
    Early in his career, Max learnt a lesson that
he would never forget “never and I mean never take a client with
you on a job no matter what.” It was the late nineteen fifties, Max
was still pretty green and had just opened his own one man
detective agency.
    Divorce cases were common because, unlike
now, there was no such thing as no-fault divorce and Private
Detectives where often hired to obtain evidence of infidelity. As
Max explained it, in practical terms that meant tracking down the
cheating party, catching them in the act and snapping a photograph.
More often than not, this was done at a cheap hotel and it had to
be done quickly. It meant listening at the door, waiting for the
right moment then kicking the door in, taking a picture of the
startled couple and then getting the hell out real fast. The latter
was important because once the guy recovered from his shock and
realized that the detective had the only copy of the evidence,
there was a possibility that he may try to recover it. The job was
about collecting evidence not confronting anyone and sometimes, for
the cheater, there was a lot at stake if that photo made it into
court.
    The client was a young woman and she sobbed
all the way through the interview. Max had to stop asking questions
to console her and when he accepted the job, she begged to go with
him. He told her no but she just kept on crying and said that she
had to see it with her own eyes before she could accept it. As the
tears flowed, Max started to break down. If he had been a man of
more experience, then he may have stood his ground but he did not
want to deny her the closure that she seemed so desperately to
need.
    Max tracked down the husband and his
girlfriend to a small hotel in the city then called his client. She
arrived, they went upstairs, Max readied his camera, waited for his
moment