by Peter Corris
‘Have to be tough’, he said. ‘What did you do before the war, newspaper work?’
‘No, I was a boxer—tents and stadiums.’
‘Ideal’, he said.
I was given a list of eight names with addresses and a file on each person. Eight young men, eight different kinds of trouble. My job was to nursemaid them, to find them jobs and places to live and keep them from being violent and dishonest. It was an experimental programme, funded for six months at a time, and I had to put in monthly reports on my clients. In the first couple of months I’d made one trip to the South Australian border to bring back one of the kids, whose idea of fun was to steal a car, drive to Mount Gambier, wreck it and drive another one back. I got to him before he’d wrecked the car. I found two of them jobs, gave driving lessons to one, and did what I could for the rest of them. That night I had two problems needing attention. I finished the beer and went out into the rain to catch a tram to South Melbourne.
The old ex-army barracks huddled near the lake; the mud and the discomfort of them—the wind whistled through cracks and they were subject to electrical failures—brought back memories. I tramped through the drizzle and felt the old shoulder wound stiffen.
Rusty Fenton greeted me with his wide, white smile.
‘You hear about Lionel, Charlie?’
‘Yeah, I heard. If you can beat one Jap you can beat them all.’
Irony wasn’t Rusty’s strong point. ‘Me cousin’, he said. He danced in his singlet, shorts and sandshoes, flicking punches. ‘I’ve got the blood.’
‘Lionel must have a thousand cousins’, I muttered. I shook water off my coat on to the rough board floor and watched Rusty dance and punch. He was light-skinned, with incongruous reddish hair. I liked him. I moved up, blocked one of his punches and claimed him. I clipped him on the chin with a left as I thought of my promise to his mother to look after him. Rusty had stolen cars and narrowly escaped a GBH charge; he was keen on boxing and this was my way of reaching him. His mother hated boxing; she was a fat, complacent woman who doubted that my influence on Rusty would be a good one. I felt I was performing a balancing act as far as Rusty was concerned, but I particularly wanted to succeed with him.
‘Three rounds with you in a minute’, I told him. I went to the partitioned-off locker area to strip. Lucky Cafarella was sitting there smoking a cigarette.
‘Sparring, Luck?’
He blew smoke contemptuously. ‘No, waiting.’
‘Who for?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘Why don’t you piss off and leave him alone.’
Cafarella grinned, and I knew better than to argue with him. He had only girls and money on his mind, and he was incapable of talking about anything else. He had a dark, thin face under a tumbling mop of hair. His whispy moustache, white suits and sleek accessories made him a glamorous figure at the Lakeside Athletic Club. Five of the kids on my list had joined the club; Cafarella wasn’t on anybody’s list, probably because he was smarter than most.
I had no doubt as to who he was waiting for, Solly Rockman and that meant trouble. Rockman was one of my biggest headaches; he was a tough Jewish kid whose father was the black sheep of a very prosperous family. Rockman was intelligent and a promising footballer for South Melbourne under 19s. He came to the club and boxed for fitness; he’d spent three years in reform school for knifing a school-teacher.
I changed into boxing gear and went out to the gym, hoping to head Rockman off. Fenton grabbed me and wrestled; Rockman strode through to the lockers. I sparred with Fenton and a few of the others, and felt how smoking had shortened my wind and beer drinking had put fat on me. Rockman did a bit, lackadaisically and left with Cafarella.
‘I wonder what they’re up to’, I said to Rusty who was doing sit-ups while I held his feet.
‘Find out if you like, Charlie’, he grunted.
‘How?’
‘Follow ’em.’
The remark didn’t surprise me, the kids betrayed each other in subtle ways all the time. He meant it, but I treated it as a joke.
‘No’, I said. ‘Get dressed, and we’ll talk about this six rounder over some coffee.’
The rain had stopped and we tramped a mile to the bright lights of St Kilda. We got cappuccino, Dusty Springfield was on the juke box, and I lit a guilty cigarette.
Rusty sipped noisily. ‘Is it a big difference, a six rounder?’
He’d had two four rounders at Festival Hall and won them. He’d gone six two-minute rounds at a suburban stadium, but his next fight was at West Melbourne, and it was six threes.
‘Bloody oath it is’, I said. ‘Especially if he’s any good and keeps you moving. You could be buggered at four.’
He looked hurt. ‘I can train ten or twelve, you know that.’
‘Training’s not fighting like wanking’s not fucking.’
‘More fun’, Fenton grinned.
‘Yeah, but harder work.’
We discussed tactics and the referee for a bit. I noticed that he put two heaped spoons of sugar in his coffee and I asked him if he had any weight trouble.
‘Bit’, he said.
‘Knock off the sugar, and do four miles a day, every day.’ I was thinking that I should take the advice myself.
‘Right’, he said.
It was cold on the tram up Bourke Street towards Fitzroy; it was only April, so it was a foretaste of things to come. I missed Sydney, but I was determined to stick it out for a year. Keep them all out of trouble for a year and get myself off the grog, I thought. Then I might give Brisbane a go. Meanwhile, Rusty had given me an idea.
At six o’clock the next day, I was sitting in the department car I was entitled to but seldom used. I liked the trams, and hated driving; but I couldn’t follow Lucky Cafarella in a tram. His irridescent blue Falcon was parked across the street. I’d resisted the temptation to bring along some brandy and I’d thrown away my cigarettes. It was going to be nervy work, and I decided to let my nerves take the full strain.
Cafarella sauntered out at around seven o’clock, wearing a dark suit and a light poplin coat hung about with straps and buckles. I followed him while he stopped for a bottle and cigarettes and then drove to Richmond. Cafarella picked Solly Rockman up from a small house in a narrow street, and then drove to a parking area east of Melbourne University where they stopped for a good hour. I waited in my car getting cold and imagining the bottle being passed and the cigarettes being smoked.
I’m a nervous driver and Cafarella was a good, confident one so I had trouble keeping him in sight as he roared back to the city. He went into Lonsdale Street and up the ramp into the Silver Circle car park, although there was plenty of parking space on the street. I waited for them to walk out but they didn’t. After an hour or so the Falcon boomed out on to the street again and Cafarella retraced the route—back to Richmond where he dropped Rockman and then back to Lucan Grove, St Kilda. He parked the car carefully, and locked it like a man not intending to go out again. I waited an hour and then drove home.
The next day I met Ernie Evans in Young & Jacksons and nursed a beer for an hour. After discussing Rose’s prospects again I described Cafarella’s movements to Ernie.
‘What do you make of it, Ern? Two young blokes in a car park for an hour?’
‘Not very hard to work out, Charlie. They’re going to do the place over. You ever see the security in those places? Hopeless. They go in, take care of the blokes on duty, wouldn’t be more ’n one or two. People leave all sorts of things in their cars, bags, purses, cameras, all that. Then one of them drives his car away, making sure he gets his ticket and the other pinches the best car in the place. Change of plates and they’re interstate in a few hours.’
‘Sounds as if you know a bit about it.’
‘It’s happened often enough. What’re you going to do, Charlie?’
‘Don’t know. Talk to Solly, I suppose.’
Rockman didn’t come to the club that week and I knew he wouldn�
��t welcome a visit at home, so I went off to see him play football.
Moorabbin was one of the worst places I’d ever seen, so far from the city and a great big nothing. I went out there by train, and Caulfield was the last place on the line that seemed to have any life. I joined the crowd that tramped in the bitter wind to the football ground. I’d seen Australian Rules on television once or twice, but it was a mystery to me. Rockman was playing when I got there; he was in the play a lot and got frequent cheers for his efforts. There were five points between the teams when Rockman jumped high and took the ball in the air in front of his goal. Then the siren sounded and the crowd fell silent as he went back to take his kick. The ball passed between one high post and a low post beside it, and the crowd groaned.
‘Bloody Jew boy’, a man near me said.
The players jogged off and I waited near the dressing room exit for Rockman. After half an hour he came out with his head hung low.
‘Bad luck with the conversion’, I said.
‘What the fuck does that mean?’
I fumbled. ‘You know, the last kick. I don’t know what you call it.’
‘Call it a sitter’, he said bitterly. ‘What’re you doing here anyway?’
‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Make a fucking appointment for me, then.’
‘Not like that, informal. Come and have some coffee.’
‘Fuck coffee. I want a drink.’
We walked past the railway station and some shops to a big, impersonal pub. Most of the drinkers were watching a race on television in the bar. I ordered beers, and Rockman sneered when the drinks arrived. He bought a scotch.
‘Cheers’, I said.
‘Look, Charlie, I’m not in the mood for a cheery ale. I’m getting pissed, starting now. What’s on your mind? You better tell me while I can still focus.’
‘Lucky Cafarella.’
He sipped the whisky and took a swill of beer. ‘Yes?’
‘You think he’s pretty smart, don’t you?’
‘Smart enough. He doesn’t run himself rooted on a football field.’
‘Not so smart’, I said. ‘I know about the garage.’
He gaped at me, and covered up quickly by drinking. ‘Garage? What’re you talking about?’
‘The Silver Circle. The one you’re going to knock over.’
‘Who says?’
‘Never mind. Point is, Cafarella’s leading you straight into trouble.’
‘He seemed to regain his confidence. He tossed back the whisky and finished the beer. ‘Want another, Mr Thomas?’
‘No.’
‘I think I will.’ He was cocky suddenly and I knew I’d slipped somewhere. He ordered two beers and a scotch, and when they came he slapped his forehead.
‘Oh, sorry, you said no. Never mind, drink up.’
What the hell, I thought, they’re only sevens.
‘You’ve got it wrong’, Rockman said. ‘Lucky’s not going to rob his own uncle’s fucking car park.’
‘Uncle?’
‘Sure, his uncle owns the place. Lucky goes there to do a bit of business for him from time to time. I’ve been with him.’
‘What’s the uncle’s name?’
‘I dunno. Kornblum or something.’
‘Kornhlum?’
‘Yeah. Lucky’s Italian on one side and Jewish on the other. Didn’t you know that?’
‘No.’ I was deflated, and Solly smiled a winner’s smile. He seemed to have got over the football blues. He stroked the dark stubble on his cheeks. ‘Well, it’s been nice, but I’ve got to run. Going out. You going out tonight, Mr Thomas, sir?’
‘No.’
He walked out, and I finished the beer and bought another. Italian on one side and Jewish on the other, I thought, he’d do well in New York. He’ll probably wind up with his own car park—Lucky Cafarella’s car park, Jews welcome, eye-talians welcome, no blacks.
It was all true: Morris Kornblum was the proprietor of the Silver Circle and the brother of Fortunato Cafarella’s mother, Sylvie. I did my job: I visited, talked to employers, gave advice; and was in Rusty Fenton’s corner for his six rounder against Terry O’Reilly who was the son of a former state champion.
O’Reilly creamed Rusty, never let him get set to find the range or pace, beat him to the punch, out-manoeuvred him for the whole six. The big contingent of Gippsland Aborigines who’d turned up to see Rusty was quiet. He was in tears after the fight.
‘Everyone loses a few along the way’, I said. ‘Doug Brown beat Dave Sands twice—out-pointed him clean.’
‘He made me look silly.’
‘His Dad did, not him. He knows too much, that’s all.’
‘You reckon I can improve?’
I looked at his smooth, eager face—a few bruises that’d worry Mum, but nothing to speak of. The cuts and thickening would come later if he kept on with it. If he didn’t, it would be hot cars and hot girls again. I worried about it.
Melbourne surrendered to winter; grey skies loomed over the city all day and the wind cut through my clothes. Rain lashed faces and darkened buildings. It was miserable; I burned coal in the grate in my room in Fitzroy and coughed. I had debts in Sydney, I had to watch my money. I stopped smoking, but by late afternoon fingers were plucking at my sleeve and flies were buzzing in my brain and I had to drink.
Rockman came to the club very rarely. One night he turned up in a sports car which he locked carefully before going into the gym. He looked back at it proudly.
‘Nice car’, I said.
He shrugged. There were marks on his face from his football and heavy bruises on his legs. He did a little stiff training and left looking sour. There’d been no reports of thefts at the car park, but I wondered about the car.
After one of these sessions I was longing for a drink, when three of my kids approached me. Steve Kimonides, Russell Power and Ian McDonald had their hair slicked down from the shower and wore good-boy expressions.
‘Can we have a word?’ McDonald’s accent was thick Glasgow; he was lantern-jawed, nuggety and had done three years in reform school for breaking and entering.
I nodded, and thought what an odd trio they made. Kimonides’ handsome face was tight with strain; he was six months into a drug cure; Power was husky and cheerful, a little simple and he’d been easily led into an attempted service station hold-up.
‘We want you to approach the government for us.’ McDonald said.
‘Christ, what about?’
‘We want to fight in the army, you see.’
‘We want to fight the communists, the chinks’, Kimonides said.
‘Veet Cong’, McDonald said thickly.
‘Same thing’, Kimonides said.
‘You’re crazy’, I said. ‘I was in the last one. It’s bloody awful.’
‘My Dad was in it, too’, Power said.
‘My Dah was killed in it.’ McDonald looked at Kimonides. ‘In Greece.’
‘I lost a good mate in Greece’, I said.
‘You were in it’, Kimonides said. ‘We want to be in it, too.’
‘It’s a bad war. It’s all wrong. We shouldn’t be there at all.’
‘We want to go’, McDonald said.
‘What’s stopping you?’
‘Criminal records. You can’t get into the army with a record’, McDonald said, his accent even thicker. ‘We want you to put in a word, say we’re straight now, and that.’
‘Do you realise the feeling against this war? Look, it can’t be won. People are going to gaol over it.’
‘Cowards’, McDonald said.
‘It’s what me Dad wants’, Power said.
‘Your father wants you to go to Vietnam?’
‘Yes.’
‘Shit. I can’t believe it.’
‘Bugger his father’, McDonald snarled. ‘Will you do it; yes or no?’
I wondered at their motives—on the face of it, McDonald wanted to emulate his father, Kimonides might want to get into the Saigo
n heroin trade and Power would always follow the leader. I tried to remember my own motives for going to war and couldn’t. Did I regret going? I didn’t know.
‘I’ll do what I can’, I said.
I spoke to the department officer and he said there was no chance. ‘Put it on their files, though’, he said. ‘It’ll be a plus for them. You can tell them that.’
I did, with apologies. McDonald spat on the floor and walked away. Kimonides looked dreamy, Power didn’t seem to really care. I went after McDonald, who could build his frustration into violence.
‘Ian’, I said, ‘enlist anyway. Change your name. Keep the details vague. I knew blokes in the army who took four years to learn their names. I’ll cover for you if anything comes up.’
The struggle was visible on his raw-boned face. ‘Thanks’, he said awkwardly. ‘Thanks, I’ll do it.’
Rusty was booked to fight on the Rose-Tamoaka bill. In a rare show of responsibility, the promoters had demoted him to the four rounders; still, he was delighted to get the fight.’
‘It’s against some foreigner’, he told me. ‘Jeez, I thought they’d drop me after O’Reilly.’
‘Don’t kid yourself. It’s because you’re an Abo. Lionel’s made it fashionable—enjoy it while you can.’
‘Dragovic; what kind of name’s that, Charlie?’
‘Yugoslav. Tough buggers, some of them.’
He worked like a demon and was very sharp. His only problem was his mother, who didn’t want him to take the fight. He came to me, close to tears.
‘She won’t listen’, he said. ‘She doesn’t understand.’
‘I’ll talk to her.’ I phoned Mrs Fenton, and made an appointment to see her at home in Alphington the following evening.
It was May, but this wasn’t one of the bleak days. The sky was yellowish and streaked pale blue, rather than grey. The appointment was for half past five and I decided to walk there. I calculated I’d be with her for an hour drinking tea; that’d take me past the six o’clock horrors and I might be able to get through the day without a drink.
I walked out along Alexandra Parade as it got dark and the early evening traffic streamed past. The river was slow and muddy as ever, but some of the old Victorian buildings looked well in the fading light.
