Billy found himself caught between a rock and a hard place. While he would have preferred not to work with Casper, an outright refusal would have been unthinkable. Besides, he wasn’t at all sure that Casper’s henchmen wouldn’t come after him if he proved refractory.
Casper Friendly was a man in his sixties, almost ten years older than Billy, which made him old for a street alcoholic. Thin as a twig, he had been a fringe identity around Darlinghurst as long as anyone could remember. The pension office records had him registered as Casper Friendly, though neither of these names was correct. Someone, way back when the cartoon had first featured in Saturday afternoon matinee shorts, had named him after Casper the Friendly Ghost. This had been modified over time to his present name.
The original nickname, it seemed, was arrived at because he was an albino as well as a quarter-caste Aborigine and he resembled someone with bleached eyebrows and hair suffering from a severe dose of sunburn. To add to his overall paleness, he only ever wore white cricket gear. In moments of sobriety he would explain that his grand-daddy had been a member of the first Aboriginal cricket team to tour England in 1868, and wearing cricket gear was an honour bestowed upon his family by the elders of his tribe and had something to do with their secret men’s business. Like Sam Snatch buying the pub with his windfall and savings, it was generally accepted that this wasn’t true, but veracity has no priority among the homeless and nobody cared, so Casper was free to claim anything he liked.
Billy finally completed drinking the second scotch and made his way through to the beer garden, where Casper sat with the black man. The Aboriginal albino waved over to him. ‘Hey, Billy, where’s you fuckin’ bin, man?’ Casper indicated the man beside him, ‘We bin waitin’ here since fuckin’ openin’ time!’
Billy ignored the question, drunks don’t keep time and it was pointless telling Casper that he never arrived before nine-thirty. ‘Good morning,’ he said formally, looking at a point somewhere between both men, the accepted etiquette among the homeless.
‘Yeah, gidday,’ Casper said absently, pointing at the black man beside him, ‘This is me good mate, Trevor.’
The Aborigine nodded, but didn’t offer his hand or look directly at Billy, ‘Ow ya goin?’
‘He come from out Wilcannia way,’ Casper volunteered, ‘From me own tribe.’ Casper turned to the Aborigine beside him, ‘What’s your last name again, mate?’
‘Williams,’ the man replied. He was dressed the way Marion had described, though she hadn’t mentioned his red woollen tartan shirt with the short sleeves rolled country-style well above his biceps. The Akubra he wore had seen all the drought and rain there’d been over the past twenty years and Billy could see where the stirrup iron had worn a mark on the side of the Cuban boot closest to him.
‘Yeah, that’s right, the Williams mob, real big in them parts of the Darling River. I had an auntie was a Williams. Bloody good woman.’ Casper laughed, ‘Real cranky, had a backhand send you across the fuckin’ room, no worries, mate!’
‘Nice to meet you, Trevor. Long way from home.
Stockman, are you?’ Billy asked, knowing that Casper had probably invented his tribal connections to the bloke from the bush.
‘Yeah, mostly, done a fair bit of fencin’, some railway fettlin’, worked in the mines up Broken Hill way . . .’ His voice trailed off.
‘What brings you to Sydney?’ Billy now asked.
‘He’s had a spot of bother, needs your help,’ Casper cut in, not letting Williams explain.
Billy nodded, it was more of the same. He hoped it was something straightforward he could deal with quickly.
‘Yeah, mate, legal,’ Casper continued. ‘I told him about you being a big-time lawyer, you know, how you got Sam Snatch off five times, lotsa others, like that hood in the Cross, the bloke who worked for Abe Saffron that topped that stripper with a cleaver and fed her through one o’ them restaurant meat mincers to hide the evidence!’ Casper laughed. ‘No fuckin’ body, yiz got him off extra quick.’
‘The law doesn’t always get it right, it was a technicality,’ Billy replied.
‘Yeah, well, never you mind, you got the bastard off, didn’t ya?’ Casper turned to Williams, ‘If Billy O’Shannessy took the case, you knew the bloke was fuckin’ guilty, no risk!’ Casper roared with laughter, ‘That right, ain’t it, Billy?’ He leaned back slightly and, grinning, pointed at Billy’s chest, ‘But yiz always got them off, didn’t ya? Every time.’
‘Steady on, Casper, I lost a good few over the years.’ Casper Friendly ignored Billy’s protest, ‘You lookin’ at the best in the biz, mate. They don’t come no better.’
Williams glanced at Casper and then at Billy, but remained silent. Like many blokes from the bush, he seemed naturally taciturn and talked only when it was absolutely necessary.
Billy grew suddenly concerned. Casper was half-cut but his elaborate build-up and the mention of one of the more squalid cases in his legal career didn’t suggest this was routine business. ‘Did you say you had a legal problem? Broken Hill would be a whole lot nearer to Wilcannia than Sydney, I dare say there are good lawyers available there.’
‘Nah, fuckin’ trouble’s down here, mate.’ Casper turned to Williams. ‘That’s right, hey, Trevor?’
‘Yeah, me daughter.’
At that point Marion came into the beer garden. Billy remembered Snatch had asked her to stay interested in the blackfella. ‘Watch your language, Casper, or Mr Snatchall will be out,’ she warned.
‘Language! What I fuckin’ say?’ Casper looked mystified. ‘All I said was Billy here is an ace fuckin’ barrister.’
Despite herself Marion laughed, then smiled winningly at Williams, ‘Sorry I didn’t introduce myself to you before, busy time. Shirley, who usually serves out here, was late coming in. Welcome to the Flag Hotel, from out of town, are you?’
Williams, taken by surprise, didn’t know how to respond. Averting his eyes, he said, ‘Yeah, miss, Wilcannia.’
‘That’s nice,’ Marion said, not listening, or perhaps not knowing where Wilcannia was. ‘Hope we’ll see more of you, Mr ...?’
‘Williams, miss.’ The black man had still not looked up.
‘You must visit me at Marion’s Bar, Mr Williams. People from out of town are always welcome.’
Billy knew that Marion would no more welcome a type like Williams to her cocktail bar than she would Casper Friendly. Or, for that matter, had it not been for his special relationship with Sam Snatch, Billy himself. And if the Aborigine had approached her bar on his own and without her knowledge of the fortune he carried in the pocket of his moleskins, she’d have soon enough sent him packing with a flea in his ear. Aboriginal stockmen were not, in her experience, either cross-dressers or transvestites. The big come-on clearly indicated to Billy that Sam Snatch had cut her in on the deal.
Marion, of course, was well aware of the effect she was having on the black man and now she glanced down at the two empty glasses resting on the metal table and smiled. ‘You boys havin’ a drink or just here for the fresh air?’ she growled in her gravelly voice. She didn’t wait for an answer, ‘What’s it to be, same again and one for Billy? Whose shout?’ Marion knew the drill. With derelicts, you collected the money first or a newly arrived drink could be down the hatch before the recipient admitted to being unable to pay for it.
Casper dug into his filthy cricket longs and appeared to be fumbling for change, the top half of his over-large cricket trousers a sudden whirl of activity. Then, with his hands still in his pockets, he shrugged his shoulders. This surprised Billy, Casper always had money and, if he was with a potential client, he would spend liberally. This must be one of the rare occasions Casper was skint.
‘I’ll get it, miss,’ Williams offered politely and produced the notorious stash. Peeling off a fifty, he handed it to Marion. Billy had to admit, from the look of it, there must have bee
n three or four grand in the roll, maybe more. Surely no one in today’s world could be sufficiently naïve to keep it all together like that. It said something about the values still existing in the bush.
Marion waved the fifty-dollar note, ‘You boys gunna drink this out?’
Casper nodded, not asking Williams, ‘Can’t think of nothing better to do with it.’
Billy glanced over at the stockman, who nodded, ‘Yeah, righto, miss, scotch again.’
‘Well then,’ Billy said, looking up at Marion, ‘it’s sufficient to buy a bottle. Why don’t you bring us the bottle, Marion?’
Marion turned her shoulder slightly to emphasise the curve of her breasts, ‘Nah, sorry can’t do that, Billy, house rules, more than me job’s worth. It’s drinks by the tot out here. You can have a bottle but I’d have to charge the bar price per nip, thirty nips to the bottle.’
Billy remained silent long enough for Marion to say, ‘Well, scotch all round then?’
Billy looked up, meeting her eyes with his own, ‘Considering the special circumstances, perhaps the bottle-shop price for a bottle of scotch can be made to prevail for our guest, whom you have so very cordially welcomed and who has shown himself to be a serious drinking man. One who might like to return to this hostelry frequently while visiting the metropolis.’
Marion smiled, understanding that Billy wasn’t going to help her do Snatch’s dirty work, unless she did the right thing. ‘Very well, on this one occasion I shall be prevailed upon,’ she mocked back at him.
Billy smiled sweetly, ‘Very kind of you, Marion, and Casper apologises, he simply doesn’t recognise he’s using explicit language, no offence meant.’
‘None taken,’ Marion shot back. ‘However, under the circumstances my explicit advice to him is to stop or he will be prevailed upon to leave the premises.’ She removed the two empty scotch glasses, ‘I’ll bring you fresh glasses with the bottle. You’ve got an hour before Shirley lights the barbecue.’ She left, and Billy observed Williams looking at her hungrily as the cheeks of her satin-covered bottom responded to the clip-clipclip cadence of her stiletto heels on the paving bricks. It was a cheap thrill and nobody did it better than Marion.
Casper waited until Marion had entered the pub. ‘See what I mean? Bloody silver tongue, best in the fuckin’ business!’ He grinned, showing three stumpy yellow teeth in an otherwise empty set of gums, ‘You done good getting us the bottle, mate.’
Marion returned shortly afterwards with a bottle of Red Label and three glasses. She handed the change to Williams and pointed out to him that the bottle was sealed. She broke the seal, poured a nip for each and set the bottle down on the table.
‘Righto, enjoy yourselves. Like I said, you’ve got one hour.’ She turned towards the stockman and, arching her right eyebrow slightly, said, ‘You’re most welcome to visit me at Marion’s Bar, Mr Williams.’
Billy had difficulty controlling his mirth. Marion was being about as subtle as a blow on the head with a sledgehammer, but she knew her business and Williams looked up at last. ‘Yeah, thanks, miss,’ he mumbled.
Marion turned to go. ‘Be good, gennelmen,’ she said. Williams couldn’t take his eyes off her, following her progress until the last glint of black satin disappeared into the darkness of the pub.
Billy picked up his glass, anxious to cover the embarrassment he felt at being a part of the scam. Surely Williams must realise that he was being conned, that the Marions of this world were well beyond his reach. On the other hand, he might think she was a prostitute and he certainly possessed the kind of money to turn any whore colourblind.
Billy raised his glass, ‘Cheers and thank you, Trevor, whatever your problems, may they soon be resolved.’
‘Bloody oath! Billy here fix yiz up quick smart,’ Casper exclaimed.
The three men sat silently drinking for some moments. Then Williams put down his glass and looked directly at Billy, ‘You don’t look like no top barrister to me, mate.’ He turned to Casper and back to Billy, his eyes steady. ‘What’s the game, eh? What you two mongrels up to?’
Casper looked at Billy, then at Williams, his yellow eyelashes blinking furiously. ‘Hey, wait on, Trevor,’ he chuckled, ‘we’re yer mates!’
‘Bullshit,’ Williams replied, taking a sip from his glass. ‘Yiz no mates of mine.’
‘Hey! Hey! Don’t be like that,’ Casper called out, ‘What we done to you?’
Billy looked up, surprised. Both men were well on their way to being drunk and obviously Williams had been slowly building up a head of steam. Casper had probably latched on to him as he got off the train at Central, seeing him as a bushie ripe for the plucking. Now the stockman thought he was about to be the victim in some sort of prearranged scam between the albinoand this other drunk who was being passed off to him as a lawyer. He was right, one way or another, he was being conned. Billy didn’t entertain the slightest doubt that Casper’s agenda, like that of Sam Snatch, was to facilitate the departure of a generous portion of the stockman’s earnings either into his own pocket or down his gullet.
‘Exactly right, Mr Williams,’ Billy said quietly. ‘It’s been years since I took a case and, as a matter of fact, I lost the last three by being drunk and incompetent.’ He shrugged, ‘I’m on skid row same as Casper here, one of the ever multiplying fringe dwellers with a bottomless thirst. Whatever your problem, unless it is a spot of simple legal paperwork, you may be quite sure there is nothing I can usefully do to help you.’
‘Jesus, Billy, the poor bloke’s fuckin’ desperate! It’s his little daughter!’ Casper exclaimed, still trying to rescue the situation.
Billy gave a small, rueful laugh, ‘Casper, with me as his lawyer, our friend’s situation would only get progressively worse.’
Williams rose suddenly from the table, kicking back the metal chair with the heel of his riding boot. ‘Righto, then, I’m off!’ He turned to Billy, ‘Maybe you’re a fair dinkum lawyer, maybe not, but yer mate’s a fuckin’ dingo!’
‘No, mate, we both are,’ Billy said, ashamed.
‘Hey, wait on, brother!’ Casper protested, grabbing at Williams’ arm. ‘Don’t lissen to him! We’re mates, same tribe, man! Darling River! Me auntie!’
Williams pulled his arm away and Billy thought he was going to punch Casper. ‘Fuck off, I ain’t no brother of yours, you half-peeled bludger!’ He marched off, the sound of his Cuban heels echoing across the brick-lined courtyard quite differently from Marion’s stilettos. They both watched as Williams disappeared into the darkness of the pub’s interior. From the rear, with his straight back and slightly bandy legs, Billy thought he looked like a bad guy about to enter the pub for a shoot-out in one of those old black-andwhite Western movies they used to film in Spain.
Billy hoped like hell Williams would leave the Flag Hotel. He might be tempted to accept Marion’s invitation to stop off at her bar. If he did, then Sam Snatch would have his stash in the pub safe before nightfall, volunteering to keep it for Williams until the last dollar, with the help of every barfly in the Woolloomooloo area and a bit of dodgy accounting, had supposedly disappeared down the stockman’s throat.
‘Casper, he’s right, you’re an unprincipled bastard!’ Billy said, moving his chair backwards and reaching for the handle of his briefcase.
Casper seemed unabashed by the insult, ‘Wait on, Billy! Have another drink, mate, bloody near full bottle t’go. Jesus, did you see that fuckin’ stash? Why’d yer spoil things by tellin’ him yiz was no fuckin’ good no more? We could’ve took some of that loot offa him, no fuckin’ risk.’
Billy shook his head, ‘Even pissed, which he wasn’t by local standards, the black bloke would have beaten the living crap out of both of us.’ He rose, knowing he was already getting the taste for the scotch. He must leave, it was now or never.
‘C’mon, siddown, yer haven’t finished yer fuckin’ drink!’ Casper persis
ted. In the parlance of a drunk, this was the worst possible indictment.
Billy was sorely tempted, but knew if he finished the glass in front of him he’d follow with another and yet another. Casper may have been unsuccessful with his scam but the scotch bottle was still two-thirds full, a reward in itself. He winced inwardly, desperately reminding himself that an urgent part of his daily routine was still to be kept. He needed to remain relatively sober for Operation Mynah Bird and he knew if he allowed the day to get any further out of hand he’d find himself in the drunk tank tonight. He reminded himself of the terrible humiliation he always felt when he woke up in the company of twenty-six drunks sleeping it off in a windowless dormitory. The drunk tank always meant that once again he’d failed and was one step closer to disaster.
‘Casper, I don’t want your booze and I don’t want your business, you’re an embarrassment.’
Casper spread his arms wide and pointed to the bottle of scotch, ‘Hey, brother, it ain’t my grog, the blackfella paid for it! I’m a fuckin’ drunk, you’re a fuckin’ drunk. You’re talking shit, we’re already all the embarrassment there is, man!’
Billy had to admit Casper might have a point. He watched as the albino swallowed his scotch in one gulp. Banging the empty glass down on the table in front of him, he smacked his lips and reached out for the scotch bottle, filled Billy’s glass and held it out to him. ‘Garn, win some, lose some, no offence, mate.’
Billy didn’t bother to reply. Holding firmly onto his briefcase, he crossed the beer garden and, to avoid meeting Sam Snatch, took the exit that led directly onto the street through a one-way revolving iron mechanism known locally as the ‘Grate Escape’. This was because it was traditionally used by waterside workers to make a hasty exit when news arrived that a cranky wife armed with a rolling pin was on her way before her husband’s entire weekly wage packet disappeared into the publican’s pocket.
Matthew Flinders' Cat Page 6
