"He's
a cockroach." She lit another cigarette, and blew the smoke upwards
where clouds were billowing against the nicotine-stained ceiling. "Always
scurrying about in dark places. Hiding from something or someone, that's
what I reckon."
I've
introduced myself as a journalist, doing an article on The Cockroach,
for 'The Morning Sun', and I have a rolled-up paper with me, which she
seems to accept as identification. In fact, I'm a Private Investigator.
In my pocket, disguised as a glasses case, I have a digital camera.
My client is a hell-raising MP who has been making a lot of fuss about
paedophiles recently in State Parliament. The cockroach is a judge,
and I've followed him to the Bum Steer Bar, a gay haunt in the Cross.
The
Cockroach is wearing a dark suit and tie and drinking soda water. He's
found a shadowy booth and buried himself in the corner. Alone. Betty,
which probably isn't her real name, or sex, is the barmaid.
"I
take it he's a regular?"
"Sure.
Most nights. But that's no secret. It's well known that he's gay."
"So
what's his problem? He's not here for the drinks, and I don't think
he's enjoying the music. Is he waiting for someone?"
She
nods, drips ash on the bartop and wipes it up.
I
look around the bar. Someone I recognise is near the stairs. A bent
copper.
"What's
up those stairs?" I ask.
"Rooms.
For sex. For druggies, but he's not a druggie." She shrugs her
shoulders and looks back towards the cockroach and sneers. "Watch
this."
I
follow her eyes. The cockroach emerges from his cavity and head down,
does a dash towards the stairs at the back of the bar. I leave my stool
to follow him. He speaks for a moment to the bent copper, who turns
towards me. The copper's gun glints under his jacket, as the metal catches
a flash from my camera and he moves towards the toilets under the stairs.
I start up the stairs after The Cockroach.
There's
no lights beyond the landing. The corridor is full of closed doors.
I peer into the gloom. Empty as far as I can see, but I can hear a scuffling.
Missed him again. I slap the newspaper in my hand.
Downstairs,
I see the copper stuffing a wad of fifties into his wallet. I track
him outside, keeping my distance. In the lane, it's raining. A group
of young boys follows him as he re-enters the bar by a back door. They're
wearing green garbage bags, bare legs, bare feet - and shivering. I
wonder if their parents know where they are.
On
the wall opposite is an ad for insect spray: "When you're on a
good thing, stick to it."