was not of the customer-service generation trained to say: ‘How may I help you?’ Indeed, Mrs Davenport addressed callers in the manner in which a boarding school headmistress might speak to a teenage girl whose underwear drawer has been found to contain a choke-chain, a studded leather bra, two dozen condoms and a photograph of the chaplain, naked and handcuffed to a bicycle.
‘Jack Irish,’ I said. ‘Cyril decent?’
‘Mr Irish, this office has spent much of today engaged in an unsuccessful endeavour to contact you,’ she said.
‘The intelligent office,’ I said. ‘I’ve been reading about that. Very edge of the technology. But, I ask you, Mrs Davenport, will there still be a place in commerce for the old-fashioned warmth radiated by such persons as your good self?’
‘Putting you through,’ she said. ‘Mr Wootton, Mr Irish.’
‘Listen,’ Wootton said, ‘I’m just off to meet the persons expected, sworn statements needed today. Persons wish to catch flight home early tomorrow. Your friend wants to present the other side with the two statements tomorrow afternoon.’
‘My friend?’
‘The client is now represented by Andrew Greer.’
Andrew was my former partner, a friend from law school.
‘What happened to Cataneo?’
‘Skiing accident, I gather.’
‘Skiing? Where do you find snow this time of the year?’
Wootton coughed. ‘Exactly.’
‘Encouraging. Why doesn’t Drew do the statements?’
‘In Sydney until midday tomorrow.’
‘Cyril,’ I said, ‘in this matter, I’ve swum in the blue-green algae, snorkelled the solid-matter ponds. Get someone else.’
He sighed, the sigh of a man who has just seen the get-out chance in the eighth miss the start by six lengths.
There was a silence. ‘I have a professional responsibility to my client to act with the utmost expedience,’ said Wootton eventually.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Professional responsibility to the client. Crass of me. Still rooting that hairdresser client whose hubby did a runner with the Tattslotto win? The man you suggested I needn’t hurry to find? Or not find?’
Much longer silence. In the background, men were making playground noises.
‘Jack.’ He was on the verge of saying Please. I couldn’t let that happen.
I sighed. ‘When?’
‘Flight’s due in at 4.30. Say 5.45 tops. Mrs Davenport’s staying on.’
‘Gee, that’s an inducement.’ I paused. ‘I’ve got something I want you to do for me.’
He paused. ‘My dear fellow, you have only to ask.’
‘My,’ I said. ‘By the way, your responsibility is to be expeditious. Expedience you wouldn’t have any trouble with. Second nature.’
8
I was sitting in Wootton’s chair with my feet on his leather-topped desk when the foursome arrived: Tony Ulasewicz, Wootton, the two hookers from the Gold Coast.
‘My lawyer, Jack Irish,’ Wootton said. ‘Jack, meet Sylvia Marlowe and Carlette Foley.’
I stood up and shook hands. Sylvia looked achingly like the late Audrey Hepburn on mild steroids. Close to my height in short heels, clear, direct grey eyes, straight and shiny dark hair, almost no make-up, skin like eggshell. She was wearing a two-button pinstriped short-skirted suit, no blouse and her excessively long legs were bare. I took her to be the ex-ballet dancer. Carlette, on the other hand, looked like a pentathlete: short and wiry, cropped red hair, freckles, wide-legged stance, baggy black pants, tight sleeveless black top showing muscled arms. She radiated health and fitness; all she needed was a number written on her bicep in felt-tipped pen.
‘Tony you know,’ said Wootton. ‘Tony flew down with the girls.’
‘With the what?’ said Sylvia, looking at Wootton. She was half a metre higher, stronger and much, much prettier.
Wootton smiled, ran the side of his index finger along the underside of his clipped moustache. In the silence, you could hear a small abrasive sound. ‘Hah,’ he said. ‘Excuse the old-fashioned
‘Jack Irish,’ I said. ‘Cyril decent?’
‘Mr Irish, this office has spent much of today engaged in an unsuccessful endeavour to contact you,’ she said.
‘The intelligent office,’ I said. ‘I’ve been reading about that. Very edge of the technology. But, I ask you, Mrs Davenport, will there still be a place in commerce for the old-fashioned warmth radiated by such persons as your good self?’
‘Putting you through,’ she said. ‘Mr Wootton, Mr Irish.’
‘Listen,’ Wootton said, ‘I’m just off to meet the persons expected, sworn statements needed today. Persons wish to catch flight home early tomorrow. Your friend wants to present the other side with the two statements tomorrow afternoon.’
‘My friend?’
‘The client is now represented by Andrew Greer.’
Andrew was my former partner, a friend from law school.
‘What happened to Cataneo?’
‘Skiing accident, I gather.’
‘Skiing? Where do you find snow this time of the year?’
Wootton coughed. ‘Exactly.’
‘Encouraging. Why doesn’t Drew do the statements?’
‘In Sydney until midday tomorrow.’
‘Cyril,’ I said, ‘in this matter, I’ve swum in the blue-green algae, snorkelled the solid-matter ponds. Get someone else.’
He sighed, the sigh of a man who has just seen the get-out chance in the eighth miss the start by six lengths.
There was a silence. ‘I have a professional responsibility to my client to act with the utmost expedience,’ said Wootton eventually.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Professional responsibility to the client. Crass of me. Still rooting that hairdresser client whose hubby did a runner with the Tattslotto win? The man you suggested I needn’t hurry to find? Or not find?’
Much longer silence. In the background, men were making playground noises.
‘Jack.’ He was on the verge of saying Please. I couldn’t let that happen.
I sighed. ‘When?’
‘Flight’s due in at 4.30. Say 5.45 tops. Mrs Davenport’s staying on.’
‘Gee, that’s an inducement.’ I paused. ‘I’ve got something I want you to do for me.’
He paused. ‘My dear fellow, you have only to ask.’
‘My,’ I said. ‘By the way, your responsibility is to be expeditious. Expedience you wouldn’t have any trouble with. Second nature.’
8
I was sitting in Wootton’s chair with my feet on his leather-topped desk when the foursome arrived: Tony Ulasewicz, Wootton, the two hookers from the Gold Coast.
‘My lawyer, Jack Irish,’ Wootton said. ‘Jack, meet Sylvia Marlowe and Carlette Foley.’
I stood up and shook hands. Sylvia looked achingly like the late Audrey Hepburn on mild steroids. Close to my height in short heels, clear, direct grey eyes, straight and shiny dark hair, almost no make-up, skin like eggshell. She was wearing a two-button pinstriped short-skirted suit, no blouse and her excessively long legs were bare. I took her to be the ex-ballet dancer. Carlette, on the other hand, looked like a pentathlete: short and wiry, cropped red hair, freckles, wide-legged stance, baggy black pants, tight sleeveless black top showing muscled arms. She radiated health and fitness; all she needed was a number written on her bicep in felt-tipped pen.
‘Tony you know,’ said Wootton. ‘Tony flew down with the girls.’
‘With the what?’ said Sylvia, looking at Wootton. She was half a metre higher, stronger and much, much prettier.
Wootton smiled, ran the side of his index finger along the underside of his clipped moustache. In the silence, you could hear a small abrasive sound. ‘Hah,’ he said. ‘Excuse the old-fashioned
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