Tom could put on an educated accent when he wanted to, when he had to, but he was a boy from the western suburbs, a bogan, and he'd never finished high school. He'd made a fortune from his band and still got royalties from the records. Tom Falloway was a name to conjure magic with, even now. Despite the drugs, all the first-class plane trips round the world, all the expensive hotel suites and bottles of French champagne, the money spent on whores of both sexes, and on groupies of both, a lot of the money had stuck to his fingers. He'd invested shrewdly, with all the suspicion and caution of a western suburbs boy. He'd bought property—a house here, a flat there, a office, at first small buildings then bigger, and step by step had built a property portfolio which meant he could, had he wanted to, have stopped work. The rents were more than enough to live on. He spent less than a quarter of his income, drove an ancient beat-up Holden, and allowed his wealth to accumulate.
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