âTwo black limousines headed East on Union Streetâ, and continued on even as I closed the cover on the opening line of Robert Mapplethorpeâs biography. This aforementioned thought occurred to me. I opened the book again, expecting the wheels of the limousines to be clattering across a wooden jetty, headed to a dire drop. Brakes lock up, tyres slide across the freshly cut guts of the fishermanâs catch. Perhaps the limousine balances on the end of the jetty, precariously waiting for justice to make her verdict: into the East River? Or rebalanced to safety by burly fisherman pushing down on the boot? Instead, after the opening line of the Robert Mapplethorpe biography â isnât his name delicious... wouldnât you order it for breakfast â the author looked inside the limousine, to find, surprise, surprise, our protagonist: Robert Mapplethorpe. (at Collingwood, Victoria, Australia)