Thompson waited out the front of the café wearing black jeans, a black short-sleeved button-up shirt. Aimee was working but saw him, nodded her head, smiled. He smiled back, sat on the small brick fence, lit a cigarette. He had half-finished it when she came out. She said, ‘Got a spare one?’
He took the packet from his front pocket. Shook out a Marlboro Light, she took it, he lit it for her with a purple Bic lighter.
‘Where to?’ she asked him.
‘I thought the Goldfish Bowl, then a surprise.’
‘I like surprises.’
They walked, not speaking, across the flyover to Kings Cross. The Goldfish Bowl was the local name given to the front bar at The Crest Hotel. It sat in the triangle where Darlinghurst Road crossed Victoria Street and split across each other. The front bar was three-sixty-degrees
