Pride's Harvest

by Jon Cleary

  “Where’s Trevor? He’s not here yet?”

  “No, he rang to say he had a meeting with Max Nothling. Probably to do with the cotton farm, now the Japanese bosses have arrived.”

  “Probably,” said Malone, trying to sound convinced.

  Clements took the children off to the sideshows, a rich uncle bursting to splurge. Malone fell in between Lisa and Ida, feeling that sense of pride that is common to most men when they are escorting two good-looking women; even the least conceited of men can’t help such a vanity. Both women were smartly, without being over-dressed; casual elegance, Malone thought, might be the phrase. He himself would never trouble the ghost of Beau Brummel; he saw no reason why his wardrobe should not last as long as, say, his teeth or his hair, both of which were still in mint condition. Yet he never stopped admiring Lisa for always being well-groomed. Walking between her and Ida, he felt the day becoming better by the minute. Somehow, tonight he would find somewhere to make love to Lisa.

  “What are you looking so pleased about?” Lisa could sense the sex rising in him as plainly as if he were walking about naked.

  “Nothing. I’ve just decided to keep my mind empty for the rest of the day.”

  “Good,” said both women and each of them squeezed his arms.

  They strolled through the happy crowd. The merry-go-round spun its wild-eyed horses to a wheezy waltz and the spruikers at the stalls sang their siren songs in raucous voices that would have made a flock of cockatoos sound musical. The autumn sun beat down out of a cloudless sky and the smell of hamburgers, hot dogs, meat pies and greasy chips hung in the still air. There was death, too, in the air but no stranger would have known it and the locals looked as if they had forgotten it. Malone tried his best to do the same.

  They passed a stall and Fred Strayhorn raised a bamboo ring to Malone and gestured he should try his luck to win a kewpie doll for the ladies. Malone grinned and shook his head and Lisa said, “Just what I need, a kewpie doll. I thought they’d stopped making them.”

  “This is a very old-fashioned carnival,” said Malone. “Soon there’ll be nothing like this left.”

  “I think the Governor-General’s just arrived,” said Ida. “Let’s go over to the course. Russ can bring the children over when he’s had enough of spending his money on them. Look at him! He’s getting into a Dodgem car with Tom. He’s not very agile, is he?”

  “He’s working on it,” said Malone, laughing so freely that both women looked at him. He excused himself and went back to Strayhorn.

  “Changed your mind, Mr. Malone?” The old man had had someone trim his hair and his beard; he looked almost handsome. He fingered the beard when he saw Malone glance at it. “I was gunna shave it off, but the girl who cut my hair, she told me not to. She looks after me and the elephants. She said all old fellers should look distinguished, we owe it to the young.”

  “She’s right. I’ll try and remember that when I’m long in the tooth . . . Are you going to face up to Chess Hardstaff this afternoon?”

  Strayhorn looked at him shrewdly. “What’s it to you, Mr. Malone?”

  “I’d like to be there to see it.” He couldn’t keep the mind empty, no matter how much he might try.

  “Righto. If I decide to do it, I’ll give you the nod.” He spun a bamboo ring in his gnarled, scaly hands. “I don’t think it’s gunna make much difference to what happened seventeen years ago, but. That’s all ancient history now.”

  “So is what happened back in the thirties, when he and his dad ran you out of town.”

  Strayhorn shook his head. “Ah no, Mr. Malone. That’ll never be ancient history, not with me.”

  He turned away to sell some rings to a couple of youths and their girls; Malone left him and caught up with Lisa and Ida. The former looked at him curiously.

  “What was that all about?”

  “Ancient history,” he said, and she knew enough not to ask any more questions about the bearded old stranger.

  They went into the racecourse, into the paddock enclosure, which was the only section where admittance was charged. The small grandstand was almost full, but Sean Carmody stood up and waved to them to come up and join him where he had kept seats for them. The paddock, a trim green sward at city racecourses, was a dust bowl here; but it had not deterred the women from dressing up. This was the meeting of the year, to be celebrated. The wealthier, more social couples might go down to Sydney for the big meetings; or even further south for the Melbourne Cup, the feast day of St. Bart and St. Tommy and other Heaven-bound trainers and jockeys. The locals, however, the ones content with life in and around Collamundra, chose this day to bring out their George Grosses and their Covers, to tramp their Maglis and Jourdans through three or four inches of dust; hats were worn, though not by all, and some even wore gloves, reminding Malone of photos he had seen in his mother’s collection of old, yellowed Sydney Mails. The women were given a certain grace by what lay about their feet: they drifted above a thin brown mist of dust like models in a couturier’s nightmare. Some of the men wore their best suits, all trousers brown up to the knees no matter what the colour of the rest of the suit; but most men, sensibly, wore moleskins and tweed jackets and elastic-sided boots; most of them, Malone saw, were conservative enough to wear ties. Whatever they wore, the aim was to show that the Collamundra Cup was a special occasion.

  Dr. Bedi was there, elegant as a plump, brightly plumaged bird in a rich blue and cerise sari; she had the sense to stay out of the dust and remain seated in the grandstand. And Narelle Potter was there, too, gliding through the dust in a champagne-coloured knit that showed off her figure; she put on a dark sour look as an accessory when she looked up and saw Malone. She glanced past him and nodded and smiled at Sean Carmody and walked on towards where the horses were being saddled for the first race.

  “Who’s the lady with the figure?” said Lisa.

  “Narelle Potter,” said Malone. “Our hotel-keeper.”

  “She’s bandy.”

  “It’s an occupational hazard with her,” said Ida, smile thick with artificial sugar. “And I don’t mean her hotel-keeping.”

  “I hope she doesn’t make your bed,” Lisa told Malone.

  Just along from the Carmody seats the Governor-General was settling himself into a cane chair in the tiny official section that had been roped off. With him were Gus Dircks, political smile working so hard it sometimes seemed to be coming out of the back of his neck; and Chess Hardstaff, looking and acting more like the G-G than the actual man from Canberra. He was still standing several minutes after the vice-regal representative had sat down, dipping his silver head in slight nods to greetings from people all around him. The Governor-General, a little man in a grey homburg that sat on his head like a tea-cosy, gestured peevishly to the chair beside him and at last Hardstaff sat down. It would probably be the last time the G-G would visit Collamundra, at least while Chess Hardstaff was alive.

  The horses were now out on the track for the first race, breaking away from the strappers leading them out of the gate and beginning their canter down to the starting barrier.

  Malone said, “I thought there might have been some Kooris acting as strappers. They’re supposed to be good with horses, aren’t they?”

  “Kooris?” Carmody looked at him quizzically, but made no further comment on Malone’s use of the word. It was obviously not one he himself used; but then, like Fred Strayhorn, he was an old-timer, a generation that, without meaning real offence, had used words like “blackfellers” and “darkies.” Malone decided that he would not use “Koori” again, realizing that it might sound affected; even patronizing, to the Kooris themselves.

  “There usually are some of them out here, working as casuals,” said Carmody. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen any of them at all out here today. Some of them might come up to the bookies to make a bet, but they don’t mix. They usually stay together down there at the far end of the straight.”

  Malone made no mention of the gat
hering they had seen in the blacks’ settlement this morning. He turned his attention to the first race, which an announcer, his voice crackling over a faulty public address system, said was about to start. Everybody looked across to the far side of the course, where the starting barrier was obscured behind a thin screen of trees.

  Suddenly: “They’re off!”

  But only one horse came out from behind the trees, galloping flat out at once, pulling hard as its jockey tried to jerk its head in and slow it down. It swept round the far side of the course, round the bend and down the straight, still pulling hard as its jockey tried to control it. The other horses had now come out from behind the trees, but were standing still, they and their jockeys staring after the runaway like dancers in a ballet where one of the corps had suddenly run amok.

  The runaway’s sides were a lather of foam; it went past the grandstand, its eyes wild and its mouth gaping, hell-bound for only the God-of-Bent-Bookies knew where. The crowd fell about laughing as the horse disappeared round the far curve, heading down the track again for the distant barrier, where the other horses patiently awaited the return of the stoned prodigal.

  “False start!” crackled the announcer and it was difficult to tell whether it was static or laughter that was breaking him up.

  Carmody wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. “Doped to the eyeballs! They’ve given him too much!”

  “It was Mulga Lad!” Ida was a shaking mixture of laughter and surprise. “It’s one of Trevor’s!”

  “Trevor’s been got at,” said her father. “Someone’s double-crossed him.”

  “Someone’s double-crossed me,” said Lisa.

  “Why?” asked Malone, the police mind working again.

  “I don’t know. I heard a bookie say he was thirty-three to one and that sounded like a good price to me, a bargain. So I backed him.”

  Malone looked at her lovingly, his momentary concern put at rest; then he looked past her at Carmody. “Normally she’s the level-headed one in the family.”

  “I wish I’d known you’d done that,” Ida told Lisa. “I’ll give you your money back. I don’t think Trevor thought it had a chance—it was probably the trainer who nominated it for the race and paid the fee. Trevor’s other horse, Go Boy, is the favourite. He’s two to one on.”

  “Who’s the trainer?” said Malone.

  “A boy named Phil Chakiros, his father is—”

  “I know him,” said Malone; and marvelled at his own lack of surprise. The skeins around here seemed to be as interwoven as those in a Chinese string puzzle.

  “They’re off!” yelled the PA system.

  “What—again?” said a voice behind Malone.

  The horses came out from behind the screen of trees, bunched in a moving floral bouquet, the jockeys’ colours bright even at a distance. This first race was a maiden handicap; all these horses were scrubbers. They were the bottom end of a long line of descendants from the legendary Byerley Turk and other Arab stallions of the seventeenth century in England, the product of equine sperm that had finally run out almost to piss. They galloped with no enthusiasm, they had little or no desire to finish in front of another horse; if they had pricked their ears before they had started it was only because a bush-fly had stung them. They gave meaning to the term “horse sense:” winning might be the name of the game to football coaches and other egomaniacs, but these awkward nags knew better. They raced now with the jockeys shouting at them to get a move on, at least to put on a show; but no horse showed any inclination to break free to a clear lead, they were egalitarian, none wanted to show he was any better than the others.

  Then, abruptly, a horse did break clear: it was Go Boy, the favourite. He came round the bend into the straight a good two lengths in the lead. Malone, using the spare set of binoculars Carmody had brought for him, could see the jockey looking anxiously over his shoulder and shouting, as if to urge the others to make a race of it and not leave him out here in this undemocratic position. The other horses, however, despite their jockeys’ efforts, weren’t interested. They plodded along, intent only on getting past the post and going home.

  Then Mulga Lad, still foam-decked, came out of the pack. He caught up with Go Boy and the two horses came down the straight locked together. Malone, binoculars to his eyes, saw the favourite’s jockey pulling hard on the reins, almost standing straight up in the stirrups to get more leverage. The two horses came to the winning post: they didn’t exactly flash by it, but they did go past it. Mulga Lad was a neck in front, covered now in more foam than a blocked drain; Go Boy, mouth wide open from the pull on the bit, was a disgraceful second. Twenty yards past the post Mulga Lad went down head first, throwing his jockey; the boy, who must have been expecting it, did a professional tumble and picked himself up at once, dodging to one side as the other horses came cantering through. Mulga Lad lay still, obviously dead.

  Everyone in the stand and the enclosure had begun to laugh; but now they were abruptly quiet. The race had been a joke; but it was no joke to kill a horse. They were country people and only an absolute bastard would treat a horse that way.

  “Why did they let him run?” said Malone.

  “You’d better ask the stewards that,” said Carmody. “Ray Chakiros is the chief steward.”

  Another skein woven. “What’ll they do?”

  “They’ll take a swab and send it down to the lab in Sydney. By then all the bookies will have paid out and be long gone. None of them are locals. Go down and collect your money, Lisa.”

  “I can’t. I couldn’t bear to win money on a horse that died for it!”

  Ida said, “Go and collect, Lisa. Otherwise, it’ll be only the bookies who win. For all we know, some of them were probably in on the scam.”

  “What’ll happen to Trevor as the owner?” said Malone. “Both horses were his, and the favourite wasn’t trying. Down in Sydney that jockey would get at least twelve months.”

  “Trevor will be okay,” said Carmody. “Nobody would ever suspect him of being a party to anything as blatant as that. Young Phil Chakiros will be the one they’ll question, him and the two jockeys. And whichever bookie was in it with them. Go and get your money, Lisa.”

  “I’ll get it,” said Malone and took the ticket from Lisa, got up and went down to the betting ring. He had seen Chess Hardstaff stand up, face livid, and he wanted a closer look to see how the president of the turf club had taken this crude scandal. Even in a nation of gamblers, whose patron saint was a bushranger, it was not the sort of thing to be staged in front of the Governor-General. Though the Queen, a racing enthusiast, far away in Buckingham Palace, might laugh if ever she got to hear of it. She knew her Aussie subjects.

  Hardstaff had come down from the official box and had reached the bottom step of the grandstand when Malone paused in front of him. “Nice start to the meeting, Mr. Hardstaff. Is it going to get better?”

  Hardstaff, eyes sharp, saw the betting ticket in Malone’s hand. “Did you have a bet on the race?”

  “I backed the winner. Pity he won’t win any more races.”

  “How did you know what to back?”

  “Oh, I think I’ll keep that till the inquiry, in case I’m called. There’ll be one, I suppose?”

  “Did you know something?”

  “Nothing. I just bet on suspicion. It’s a police habit.”

  Hardstaff gave no answer to that. He brushed by Malone and went over towards the saddling paddock, where Ray Chakiros was snarling at his son. Malone glanced up at the Governor-General, who looked as if he were praying for a national emergency that would call him back to Canberra within the next couple of minutes. At least there the scandals were never so out in the open, they might politically kill an opponent but never in front of a grandstand crowded with voters. One Governor-General, sure, killed a government, but there had been no betting scam on that.

  Out on the track a truck had already appeared and was dragging the dead horse down to the far end of the straight. In the small bett
ing ring the bookmakers were wiping tears from their cheeks: it was difficult to tell whether they were from laughter or for the dead horse. Malone presented Lisa’s ticket to a nuggety, walnut-faced man who could have been an ex-jockey. He was one of the game’s battlers, not one of your expensively-suited bookies who had the rails stands at Randwick and Flemington. He wore jeans, a turtlenecked sweater and a hat whose brim had been greased by years of thumbing. He had the sort of eyes that had never been innocent, he would have winked knowingly at his father the first time he had been put to his mother’s nipple.

  He scrutinized the betting ticket, then Malone. “I don’t remember you, sport. Where’d you pick this up?”

  Malone looked at the man’s name on the bag hanging like a leather sporran in front of him. “We haven’t met, Mr. Gissop. I’m Detective-Inspector Malone.”

  Gissop’s face went pale under his deep tan. “Look, sport, I didn’t have nothing to do with that out there—” He nodded out towards the track. “I’d never kill a horse—Christ, I love „em like me own kids—”

  “I’m from Homicide,” said Malone, enjoying every moment.

  “Jesus, mate, look, I told you—You’re from what? Homicide? You’re investigating a dead horse?”

  Malone laughed, let the bookie off the hook and collected Lisa’s winnings. He went back towards the grandstand feeling a little better. If he was still alive the day the world ended, he hoped he would find a laugh somewhere amongst all the wreckage.

  He went up a different set of stairs, saw a vacant seat beside Dr. Bedi and dropped into it, taking off his hat. She smiled, her big dark eyes glistening with amusement. It struck him that she was one of the few people he had met since coming to Collamundra who looked totally relaxed.

  “You’re always a gentleman, Inspector? Taking your hat off to a lady?”

  “I always thought there was supposed to be more gentlemen in the bush than in the city.”

  “Not around here. Not to me.” She was still smiling as if unperturbed by the lack of respect shown to her. “But then Indian men are no better. Worse, perhaps. Unless one is a rich old maharani—then they bow and scrape like men everywhere.”