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tables, giant hands reaching out to test the clamps.
    ‘You don’t give up the other thing, it gives you up,’ I said. ‘Who are these tables for anyway?’
    ‘Politician, some politician.’
    ‘What’s the name?’
    ‘I forget. David, some David.’
    ‘David Fitzgerald?’
    ‘Fitz, that’s right.’
    ‘He’s the Deputy Premier.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘Doesn’t the Deputy Premier expect the master himself to make the furniture?’
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    Pure scorn in the look. ‘Buy a Chippendale, you think Mr Chippendale made it with his own hands? Artist’s studio this? You notice not? Customer wants four little tables the same, asks nicely, lets me do it my way, he gets them. Now that I think, you tell Rembrandt, that “Night Watch’’, I’ll take four of them, you got them too probably.’
    ‘Seeing myself as being like one of Mr Chippendale’s or Mr Rembrandt’s helpers, that cheers me up,’ I said. ‘Do you think they got paid award wages?’
    ‘Only if employed by the business,’ said Charlie. ‘People walk in off the street, waste Mr Chippendale’s time, won’t go away like a cat, cost Mr Chippendale money, come and go as they please, those they don’t get any award wages. Those they should be grateful for anything they get. Air to breathe.’
    ‘I can see the force of that view,’ I said, making a final delicate pass with the scraper. ‘I think this one’s done.’
    ‘Think?’ Charlie said. ‘You have to know.’
    He took the scraper out of my hand and went over to where the burnisher was lying on a workbench.
    ‘I’m off for breakfast,’ I said. ‘Then I’ll finish up. Cam’s picking me up at ten.’
    Charlie didn’t look at me. ‘Gambling,’ he said. ‘I blame myself.’
    ‘You can do that,’ I said, ‘or I can blame you.’
    6
    ‘Winter’s comin,’ said Harry Strang. ‘Need a bit of fat to see you over the winter. Fat’s bin scarce.’
    We were in Harry’s study, Harry behind the desk designed and made by Charlie Taub, a piece of furniture that elevated the joining of wood to a breathless height. Behind me, the mahogany bookshelves rose five metres, the walkway for the upper shelves reached by four sliding teak and brass ladders. Behind Harry, I could look through French windows across a brick terrace to a deep garden. A stand of four mature maples was scarlet against a high, dark hedge.
    Lyn, the robustly sexy Mrs Strang, came in, escorted by Mrs Aldridge, Harry’s housekeeper through thirty years and three marriages. Cameron Delray, Harry’s lean and taciturn offsider, and I followed Harry’s example and stood up. Lyn had the silver teapot and the bone-china tea-set. Mrs Aldridge had the accompaniments: small, perfect chocolate eclairs, warm shortbread the colour of melted butter.
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    ‘One of each for you, Mr Strang,’ Mrs Aldridge said. ‘And no more than one.’
    Lyn made a fist, a fair-sized fist, and touched Harry’s cheek with the knuckles. ‘Listen to the lady,’ she said.
    When they had gone, Harry poured tea. He took four eclairs and three shortbreads.
    ‘They mean well,’ he said. ‘Used to dream about stuff like this when I was ridin.’
    I took milk. Harry took lemon. Cam added hot water. We ate and sipped in silence.
    Then Harry said, ‘Now. Business. Jack, had a talk yesterday. Fellow called McCurdie.
    Grows somethin or other, dabbles in the cattle out Echuca way. Come via Tony Ericson.’
    He bit off half an eclair, looked at the plump layered remains, put them in his mouth.
    His eyes closed. ‘Hmm, lovely. Why does the Lord put bad in with the good? Anyway, this McCurdie. Bit slow but then a lotta the Woops only got one gear forward. Cam’s run the ruler over him. Cam?’
    Cam was looking out of the French window. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘before this year he had nothing for years and he wasn’t ever Bart Cummings. But the strike rate’s not bad. Five years ago, run three horses, sixteen starts for three, two, three. Year before, bit better.
    Four