White Dog by Peter Temple

studies,’ he said. ‘What about law and hairdressing. Law and podiatry. Law and Hopi Indian ear candle therapy, law and …’
    The youth arrived with our first course: slices of chicken breast stacked with things in between. Standing in a puddle of balsamic vinegar sauce.
    ‘They used to fan the food around the plate,’ Drew said. ‘Now they give you mounds, you have no idea what to do.’
    ‘Wreck it,’ I said.
    We wrecked, we ate.
    ‘Plus,’ said Drew, ‘I’ve never seen the point of pine nuts.’
    ‘It’s about texture,’ I said. ‘Get you to the footy this week?’
    He put his head to one side, gave me the sympathy look designed to lull prosecution witnesses. ‘Saints play Carlton,’ he said. ‘For the Saints, I have nothing but contempt. For Carlton, I reserve a special loathing.’
    ‘You wouldn’t care to umpire the game?’ I said.
    Walking up Collins Street to a tramstop, a cab pulled in ahead of me to discharge a passenger. A business lunch, I thought. Transport to and from would be billable.
    ‘Smith Street, Collingwood,’ I said to the driver, whose hairs were arranged across his scalp like swimming lanes. He was writing something on a pad. ‘Know where that is?’ I said, gently.
    ‘Think I’m off the fuckin boat, mate?’
    ‘I assume nothing,’ I said.
    ‘Fuckin Smith Street,’ he said. ‘Talkin to an Abbotsford boy, mate. Born and bred.’
    ‘Good,’ I said. ‘So you’ll have a rough idea.’
    The driver sulked until the Spring Street lights, when he said, ‘So. What’s your team?’
    ‘Saints,’ I said.
    ‘You poor cunt,’ he said, immensely cheered. ‘Still, Carlton on Satdee, even your girls got a chance. Poofs Carlton.’
    ‘Carlton,’ I said. ‘Possibly.’
    I passed the leaden afternoon in paperwork, attending to legal matters, writing letters of inquiry and impotent threat, itemising bills for small services performed. In the dusk, the air cold and damp, I walked to the post office, a place now without a hint of gravitas, and consigned my missives to the steel bin, no doubt the only lawyer in the country who posted his own letters.
    On the way back, I passed a woman retching dryly, and, in the alley, two boys grabbing and snarling, both pale and pinched, chapped lips and flaking skin, noses leaking.
    It was after eight, I was home, behind the label of the Maglieri, deep in a melancholy reverie, not listening to Abdullah Ibrahim, once Dollar Brand, when the bell rang. I went down the narrow and dangerous staircase, more perilous now, and opened the door with caution.
    A big man in dirty jeans and T-shirt, no hair to speak of, a beard or a painful shave coming on.
    ‘G’day, mate,’ he said.
    ‘Len,’ I said. We shook hands. I always expected to come away with splinters in my fingers.
    ‘Time again,’ he said. ‘Christ knows why you buggers need fires.’
    Melbourne cold was a joke to Len. He was from beyond Avoca, Melbourne was like Bali to people from beyond Avoca.
    The old Ford truck was backed in, wheels against the kerb, ready to unload the last two cubes of redgum, dry, split small. It came in autumn and in mid-winter, heavily discounted courtesy of a horse owner for whom Harry Strang had managed a sizeable coup.
    I sat on the stairs and watched Len and his offsider, a silent ginger youth, unload and stack in the recess beneath me. We talked football. There was no point in trying to help. These were pros, you got in their way. When they were finished, Len said, ‘The boss says thirty bucks will be fine.’
    Money paid, thanks said, hands shaken, I was halfway up the stairs when the phone began to ring. I made haste.
    ‘A shortness of breath?’ said Drew. ‘Is this a bad time? Or is awkward the word?’
    ‘Just getting wood,’ I said. ‘Downstairs.’
    ‘My instinct confirmed. I’ll be brief. The party’s father wants words, contacted me directly. From my position, that’s … what is the word?’
    ‘Awkward,’ I said.
    ‘Exactly. Ever