Fat, Fifty & F<li><li><li>ed!

by Geoffrey McGeachin

  ‘It’s risky, but better than a low-level hover and then jumping out,’ VT said.

  Jack nodded in agreement. ‘That’s how I knew he was out after Saigon fell. Saw him offloading people onto a carrier deck and then flying his Huey over the side. It was live on TV. Held my breath until he bobbed up after the chopper went under.’

  Just after dawn, with the floats fitted, VT took the Huey up and tentatively settled it on the ocean about a hundred metres from the boat. Jack was circling in the rubber duckie. Just as the rotors stopped moving, the left-hand pontoon broke away and the helicopter tilted over to one side.

  ‘Shit!’ Faith said, watching through binoculars from the bridge.

  VT leapt clear and began to swim towards the rubber duckie. Martin, standing on the rear deck, saw Jack stand up suddenly and begin firing his pistol in the direction of the swimming man.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he yelled up to Faith.

  ‘It’s a shark!’ she yelled.

  There was a flurry, a white shape twisting, and then blood in the water as VT scrambled into the inflatable boat. The two men hugged. The rubber duckie circled the blood-stained patch of water and Jack leaned over the side. Several minutes later, the boat was scudding back towards them, bouncing over the waves. Faith tied the line off and steadied the craft as a soaking VT came back on board. A slick grey triangle lay in the bottom of the boat at Jack’s feet.

  ‘Don’t normally hold with eating shark fin because they driftnet ’em. Got this one fair and square, though.’

  They manoeuvred the huge fin onto the deck. Jack was smiling broadly. ‘Len’s chef is Cantonese. We can probably work out what to do with this between us.’

  ‘You think Len and the others would have been okay?’ Martin asked.

  ‘They’ll be fine. I had Max keeping an eye on them with a starlight scope from his cruiser until we were long gone. He was going to pick them up just before dawn.’

  VT pointed. The Huey was half submerged. Suddenly the second pontoon came away and the helicopter went under. They stood silently for a few minutes.

  Faith was the first to speak. ‘Breakfast, I think. And then we need a plan.’

  ‘I agree about breakfast,’ Jack said, ‘but we’ve got fifty million bucks. Why do we need a plan?’

  ‘Fifty-one,’ Martin said.

  ‘Sorry, mate. Our gold is US dollar value. You’ve only got the South Pacific peso. We may have to put you two deadbeats on the oars.’

  ‘Give them a big enough boat and they always turn,’ Faith said in mock disgust.

  ‘However, we do have a slight liquidity problem, Martin,’ Jack went on, ‘so I suggest we swap half a million of your cash for one of our million gold.’

  ‘Sounds great to me,’ Martin grinned, ‘but I think one of us is getting screwed.’

  Jack adopted a serious tone. ‘We need someone on deck at all times to keep an eye on the crew and the gold, so any screwing will need to be done to a schedule.’

  ‘Right,’ Faith said. ‘Jack, the galley. VT, deck watch. Martin, you’ll be coming with me. How’s that for scheduling?’

  The three men looked at her. Six eyebrows raised.

  ‘What can I say? Piracy on the high seas sharpens my appetite.’

  thirty

  Macau, the oldest European settlement in Asia, was colonised in the sixteenth century by the Portuguese. Situated on the Chinese coast near the Pearl River estuary, it reverted to Chinese rule in 1999. Now the once-sleepy enclave was sleepy no longer. The pre-handover construction boom saw the completion of an international airport and bridges linking the outlying islands of Taipa and Coloane, and Macau was now a tourist destination on a par with Hong Kong. The arrival of four Australians by boat, even if it was a very large boat, made little impression.

  The four newcomers lived on the boat and quickly settled into a casual lifestyle of exploring the markets and back streets and sampling the local cuisine, with its unique blending of Portuguese, Indian, Malay, African and Chinese influences. On several evenings each week they could be found in restaurants like the Litoral, A Lorcha or Solmar, dining on African chicken, chilli-garlic prawns, grilled Portuguese sausage, and red bean, pork and vegetable stew. One of the foursome always ended the meal chatting in the kitchen with the chefs.

  Several months later, they bought the Pousada do Estoril, a rundown, two-storey, six-bedroom hotel with a tiny bar and a small dining room. Located off Avenida Almeida Ribeiro, the hotel was part of old Macau. All the original interior fittings were carefully removed and stored and the building was quickly demolished.

  The locals waited for the next high-rise to appear. It didn’t. A car park was excavated and then the original Pousada do Estoril reappeared. Three storeys now. The original art deco bar, a beautiful dining room with eight tables for two and one table for four, a state-of-the-art kitchen, four magnificently appointed guest rooms, two private residences on the third floor and an exquisite rooftop garden. Elegantly framed black-and-white photographs decorated the walls. The pictures documented a unique journey by campervan up the east coast of Australia.

  The bar and restaurant opened as ‘Jack’s’. The bar was too small for the cool crowd, so they left it alone. The restaurant had one sitting per evening, five evenings a week. Bookings and confirmations were made only by email. There was no written menu. The food was sublime. Jack’s kitchen brigade was the best. The waiters were attentive yet almost invisible. The barman mixed a sensational classic Manhattan and refused all orders for ‘silly, fluffy cocktails’. The guest rooms were always taken, even though they were never advertised and had an unlisted phone number. Within a year, the hotel and restaurant had blended seamlessly into the Macau scene.

  Only one untoward incident occurred, the accidental death of a drunken tourist who apparently tripped outside the building very early one Sunday morning. The fall to the pavement snapped his neck and fractured his jaw. Eyewitness reports that the man had been attempting to scale the building and had fallen from near the top were quickly discounted by local police. A report of an empty shoulder holster was also amended: the item was actually a security pouch for travel documents and credit cards.

  The police took a statement from a guest in the hotel, a gentleman who was visiting Macau with his family. Since he was a police officer in Australia, his version of events was accepted, as a professional courtesy, by local detectives. According to his statement, unable to sleep he had been on the rooftop terrace in the early hours of the morning and had witnessed the entire incident. Senior Sergeant Colin Curtis was pleased with the quick resolution of the investigation since it allowed him to continue with a very pleasant family holiday. The only downside was that he was unable to join his children parasailing as he had coincidentally broken his right hand on the night of the incident.

  After two weeks in cold storage, the unclaimed body was finally identified by representatives of the Australian consulate. The dead man, Albris Smith, a 53-year-old former public servant, was from Runaway Bay on the Gold Coast and had been on a Magic of the Far East package tour. Returned to Australia for burial, his casket was briefly delayed at Sydney airport by the arrival of overseas dignitaries and media heavyweights attending the state funeral of Arthur Leonard Barton.

  The eulogy was delivered by the prime minister, who praised Barton’s achievements and selfless dedication to his country and community over many years. It was a tragedy, therefore, that he had died alone in a senseless, single-vehicle road accident on the Sunshine Coast. Rumour had it that he had selflessly spent the afternoon entertaining two underprivileged teenage girls at the Wet and Wicked theme park, and later aboard his recently acquired luxury motor cruiser. Eyewitness reports of a second vehicle’s involvement in the fatal car crash were quickly discounted by police and investigators from a special agency within the government.

  Elsewhere on the Sunshine Coast that week, old diggers at the annual Rats of Tobruk reunion warmly welcomed the participation of a former enem
y, a visiting one-time Afrika Corps NCO who held the Iron Cross and also possessed a wonderful singing voice. Thus the veterans were able to sing ‘Lili Marlene’ in English and also enjoy it in the original German.

  In a spirit of camaraderie the president of the veterans’ group persuaded the local car-rental firm to waive the insurance excess on some minor panel damage to their guest’s vehicle when he returned it at the end of his stay. Former Unteroffizier Rollo Kleindorf, Panzer Grenadiers, was most appreciative.

  Within days of the funeral, Barton’s business empire was absorbed into the holdings of a major US-based international media conglomerate, and the non-media assets were rapidly sold off.

  The prime minister expressed an opinion that the move to overseas ownership and control of Barton’s newspaper and television interests was something his government could live with and he was re-elected shortly afterward for another four-year term.

  *

  On a balmy Saturday evening the roof garden at the Pousada do Estoril was set for a dinner party for four. Jack was fussing over the barbecue. VT relaxed on a chaise longue with a dry Martini and several auction catalogues from dealers specialising in early Chinese cloisonné ware. Biggles was snoozing at his side. Martin leaned on the edge of the balcony, sipping a gin and tonic.

  Faith was due back from Hong Kong, where she had been for several weeks, the first of which was spent in a private hospital recommended by her reconstructive plastic surgeon. Martin looked down at the vibrant street life. This was certainly a long way from Burrinjuruk.

  Jack joined him at the balcony rail. ‘Hope she’s on time, mate,’ he said, ‘the coals are about ready and those ribs are marinated to within seconds of perfection.’

  The two men looked out over the bustling night traffic of the city. Taxis and private cars, horns blaring, competed with motorbikes, scooters and pedicabs for space on the narrow streets. ‘Not exactly the kind of retirement you were expecting, eh Marty?’

  ‘You can say that again.’ Martin shook his head. ‘It’s like a dream, except the dream part is the first fifty years and the real bit is the last twelve months.’

  Jack swigged on his beer. ‘I can relate to that. It’s true love, Martin. That’s what makes it real.’

  ‘Becoming a romantic in your old age, Jack?’ Martin teased.

  ‘Nah, just a pissed old poof barbecuing ribs on his romantic rooftop hideaway in the mysterious East.’

  ‘Barbecuing ribs for the love of your life, Jack, that’s got to be something special.’

  Jack looked over at VT. ‘He is pretty cute, isn’t he? I guess I was always a sucker for Asians – and don’t you say a fuckin’ word, Martin Carter, and take that smirk off your face. You’ve been spending way too much time with Faith and her dirty mind and she’s corrupted the finest blackboard monitor class 3C ever had.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to say a word.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Jack took another pull on his beer. ‘You know, you’re looking good, mate. And I mean that in a strictly non-gay way. Lost the gut, got a bit of muscle tone going, touch of a tan.’

  ‘Cholesterol’s normal too,’ Martin said, ‘and I’m off the blood-pressure drugs. Armed robbery, sudden death and crazy librarians are obviously good for my health.’

  ‘Some prescription all right, that woman,’ Jack chuckled. ‘You’ve been missing her quite a bit, eh mate?’

  ‘Too right,’ Martin sighed. ‘Phone calls aren’t the same, but it’s how she wanted it.’

  Faith had insisted on spending the time alone in Hong Kong. She wanted to come back to him with no bruises and no bandaging.

  ‘You know, you two make quite a couple,’ Jack said. ‘The boys in the kitchen always talk about how you hold hands when you go out walking.’

  Martin laughed. ‘I’m still scared she might run away.’

  Jack raised his beer in a toast. ‘Beware of your belonging,’ he said.

  Martin joined him in the toast. ‘Beware of your belonging indeed,’ he smiled.

  ‘So how’s the Belle Chance coming along?’ Jack asked.

  The Belle Chance was a 42-foot, Cheoy Lee-built clipper that was being restored in Macau’s best boatyard. ‘Going well,’ Martin answered. ‘Another few weeks for the rigging and sails, some sea trials, and then we take off.’

  ‘Me and VT will miss you both,’ Jack said, moving over to the barbecue. ‘It’s not going to be the same.’

  Martin joined him and the two men inspected the coals. ‘It’s not like it’s forever, mate. We’ll just keep going till we’re sick of sailing, or sick of each other.’

  Jack poked at the coals with the tongs. ‘I can see you getting sick of sailing, but I won’t leave a lamp in the window for the other. Anyway, just remember, your apartment is here whenever you want it.’

  ‘I know,’ Martin said. ‘Thanks, mate.’

  ‘You two can go home if you want to, you know,’ Jack said. ‘Those new passports I got you are the real thing. Me and whoever’s running the government now have agreed to let sleeping dogs lie. You’d call it a gentleman’s agreement, I suppose. Not that either side really qualifies.’

  ‘We might go back one day,’ said Martin, ‘but right now I’m liking things just as they are.’ He settled into a chair and propped his feet up on the railing.

  Jack grabbed a couple of beers from the bar fridge and handed one to Martin. ‘Nice for you having Colin around for a couple of weeks, despite that early-morning unpleasantness.’

  Martin twisted the cap off his beer. ‘His family seemed to have a good time,’ he said, ‘thanks to you and VT showing them round.’

  ‘We aim to please,’ Jack said. ‘And Col really reckons the powers that be back home made a million-dollar bank heist and a dead bikie just disappear?’

  ‘Seems like it. He says it’s like it never happened. The bank staff and security guards got extremely generous compensation packages, and the Albury wallopers accidentally shredded every single one of their files.’

  ‘Politics and money, mate,’ Jack said, shaking his head. ‘And they reckon war is a dirty business.’

  Martin stopped drinking mid-swig. ‘Oh, and I just got an email from Col – the ex buzzed off with one of her sleazebag truckie boyfriends, who eventually dumped her and the kids at some low-rent back-of-Bourke roadhouse. She and the girl are waitressing and the boy’s a kitchenhand. And it’s in a satellite blackspot – no access to broadband.’

  ‘And they tell ya good things don’t happen to bad people,’ Jack laughed. They clinked bottles and Martin glanced at his watch. ‘So tonight’s the big unveiling, eh?’ Jack asked. ‘I bet they look terrific.’

  ‘You do realise you’re talking about the breasts of the woman I love,’ Martin said with mock outrage.

  ‘Oh, come on, Martin,’ Jack laughed, ‘we all love her. You love her, I love her, VT loves her and Biggles loves her. And we’re all gay. Except for you.’

  ‘Biggles is gay?’ Martin choked on his beer.

  ‘Camp as a row of tents,’ Jack said. ‘Raging.’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’

  ‘Think about it, mate. Ever see him hump her leg?’

  Martin stared at Jack. ‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘what a world.’

  Biggles had woken up at the mention of his name. He wandered over to the two men and poked his nose out between the balcony rails. He gave a low growl, then yelped.

  ‘Hello, here’s trouble,’ Jack said, leaning over the balcony.

  Martin scrambled out of his chair and leapt to the railing. His heart was pounding.

  On the street below, Faith had just stepped out of a cab and was paying the driver. Her hair was shorter and blonder and she was wearing an elegant black slip of a dress with a red cropped jacket. She looked fantastic. Martin gave a wolf whistle. Faith looked up and laughed.

  He smiled right down to his socks. That was the package he loved. That face. That laugh. That woman.

  ‘Piss weak, Martin,’ Jack scoffed. ‘Here’
s how you do it.’ He brought his fingers to his lips, gave a long, loud slow whistle, then leaned over the edge and yelled, ‘Hey gorgeous, show us ya tits!’

  Faith smiled sweetly and opened her jacket, flashing the low-cut top of her dress.

  Martin stared. ‘Crikey,’ he said softly.

  Jack stared. ‘Struth, Martin, I may have to rethink this whole being-gay thing.’

  Biggles barked and wagged his tail.