Gone Fishing by Susan Duncan

get close enough in a water taxi to suggest he’d be better off in a nursing home. ‘Locking him up would kill him,’ Ettie told the nurse one day when she nobbled her at The Point. ‘The community will take care of him.’
    â€˜So,’ says Artie, slumping on plumped orange floral cushions, his yellow T-shirt riding up his back to reveal a roll of pasty white skin, ‘no hot date with Kate tonight?’
    Sam takes a slow sip, feels the burn in his throat, the spreading warmth in his stomach. ‘None of your business, Artie,’ he says quietly.
    â€˜Ya’r right, of course. Forgive me if I lose me sense of perspective occasionally. Not much entertainment around for an old bloke whose arse is nailed to a boat.’ Artie sighs heavily.
    â€˜Spare me the self-pity and try the heartstring tango on some other sucker. You’ve been flat-out shooting the breeze with Amelia all day if the condition of your usually, er, homey boat is anything to go by. You’re a nosy old bastard. That’s the truth.’
    Unoffended, Artie grins and taps the side of his nose with a finger that’s nowhere near as clean as his clothes. ‘Just tryin’ to keep abreast of daily events,’ he says. ‘You’re drinkin’ my prize rum like orange juice, mate.’ He lifts the bottle in a question.
    Sam holds his empty glass up at eye level then slams it on the table upside down in the negative. ‘A bunch of blue-collar thugs in shiny suits reckon they can steal Garrawi Park from the community,’ he says. ‘And correct me if I’m wrong, Artie, but that bottle looks suspiciously like the one I gave you for Christmas so I reckon I’m entitled to drink it any bloody way I please.’
    â€˜Simmer down. Just complying with me duty of care. You in charge of a barge and all. Garrawi, eh? Heard the scuttlebutt but couldn’t credit it.’
    â€˜I’m going to fight them, Artie. I’m going to fight them even if I bleed to death in the process. Not sure how to go about it. That’s the biggest problem facing me right now. Feel like a tiger looking around a big empty cage for somewhere to sink his fangs.’
    The old man uses the strength in his saggy-skinned arms to shift further back on the banquette until he rests against the bulkhead. He nods at Sam, points at his glass, out of reach now. Sam slides it across the table to him. ‘In me own day . . . Now, now, Sam, relax. I’m not about to give you me entire life story, even though a drop of this amber rocket fuel is enough to set an old man down the sometimes melancholy path of memory. But I’ve fought me share of battles. Ran a union once, one of the tough ones, back in the days when Jack Mundey was king. ’Course, forty years ago, there wasn’t any other kind.’
    â€˜How old are you, Artie?’
    â€˜What’s that got to do with the price of rum?’
    â€˜Just curious.’
    â€˜Bullshit. You think times were different then, don’t ya? Well nothing changes, mate, and I’ve been around long enough to know that for a definite fact. And me age is none of your business. If you don’t mind me quotin’ someone sittin’ right here in this cabin.’
    Sam holds up his hands. Surrendering.
    Artie hitches his trakkie daks with the underside of his forearms, like he’s scratching an itch. ‘Them silvertails didn’t have much time for union members. Thought we were riff-raff and they could bully us into workin’ our guts out for the privilege of livin’ on the breadline.’
    â€˜Hard days, eh?’ Sam says, fiddling with his empty glass, almost tempted to go for one more slug to see him through what he senses will be a drawn-out soliloquy.
    â€˜That was the point, mate. One of the most prosperous times in history.’
    â€˜So what did you do?’
    â€˜We lit spot fires. One after the other. Just as one