by Judy Nunn
But in two strides, Jack was once again towering over him.
‘No, don’t hit me,’ Al begged. ‘Please. Please. I’ve got money. You can have it. You can have all of it. Don’t hit me again. Please.’
The Irishman leant down and grabbed him by the shirt collar and, as Al was hauled to his feet, he felt the trickle of urine down his legs.
‘No, no, please. It’s there. The black bag in the top drawer. You can have it all.’
‘I don’t want it all, you lowdown scum.’ Jack released his hold on Al and took the black zippered bag from the drawer. He opened it and upended the contents onto the top of the dresser, hundreds of pounds spilling out, notes floating to the floor. ‘I won’t have your girls working their fannies off for nothing, although Christ alone knows what pittance they get to keep for themselves.’ He counted out three hundred pounds. ‘That’s around what you nicked from Lucky’s cabin, isn’t it?’ he said, folding the notes into a wad and shoving them into the inside breast pocket of his jacket.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jack. But take it, it’s yours. Take all of …’
The Irishman’s fist once again crashed into his face, and Al felt the cartilage of his nose crumple. He started to slide down the wall, but Jack grabbed him again, by the throat this time, and held him up.
‘You’d let others take the blame, wouldn’t you, you wormy bastard? Well, I’ve a mind to kill you right here and now. I’d be doing everyone a favour.’ He balled his hand into a fist. ‘You don’t deserve to breathe other people’s air.’
As Jack Finnigan hauled his arm back, Al gave a strangled scream.
‘No, Jack! No!’ He tried to turn his head away but the hand around his throat tightened its grip. He squeezed his eyes tight shut, his face contorting as he gasped for breath, waiting for the killer blow. But it didn’t come. He waited, heart pounding, but still it didn’t come. He opened his eyes, barely able to see through the blood and tears. The Irishman remained poised, arm drawn back, fist at the ready. Waiting.
Waiting for what? Al’s mind screamed. A confession? He could have it. He could have anything. ‘I took it, Jack,’ he blubbered. ‘I took it, and I’m sorry.’ He was gagging and sobbing simultaneously. ‘I’m sorry, Jack, I’m sorry.’ The circle of urine was widening about the floor where he stood.
Jack released his grip on Al the Frenchie’s throat. ‘I tell you what you’ll do …’ he began, but Al once again started to slide down the wall. ‘No, no,’ he barked, ‘you’re not to fall. Not yet.’
It was an order, and Al clutched on to the dresser for dear life, whimpering, doing his best to remain standing, although his legs were like jelly.
‘You’ll leave, and you’ll not come back, you hear me?’
Al nodded, dribbling blood, not daring to speak.
‘As of tomorrow,’ Jack continued, ‘word will be out, around every work camp, around every town, and if you so much as show your face, I’ll kill you for the lowlife rat you are. Do you understand me?’
Al nodded again.
‘Say it, scum.’
‘I promise, Jack.’ Al the Frenchie’s reply gurgled its way out through blood and mucus. ‘I won’t come back, I swear I won’t.’
‘Good. We understand each other. You can fall down now.’
Al didn’t see the fist this time, but he felt it hit him in the midriff like a pile-driver, and he collapsed to the floor clutching his broken ribs.
The Irishman stepped back to avoid the pool of urine that was threatening his Italian leather shoes. ‘I’ll leave you now, Al,’ he said, ‘right there where you belong. Lying in your own filthy muck.’
It was ten o’clock when Jack’s Mercedes pulled off the main road and wound its way into Spring Hill. The trip to Cooma and back had cost him three hours. Three hours when he could have been making a bundle at his pontoon table. The visit to the pimp had been an expensive exercise. But he was proud of his actions. Even as he’d tipped the pimp’s money out onto the dresser, he had not been tempted to recompense himself for his loss. He would give no-one rise to accuse Jack Finnigan of thievery. Not even a lowlife scumbag like Al the Frenchie.
In the wet canteen, where the indefatigable Antz remained at his station, the men cheered Jack’s arrival. They didn’t know why he’d disappeared or where he’d gone. Even those who’d told him about the theft of Lucky’s money and the pimp being at the game had not assumed for one minute that Jack would take action. Why should he?
A bunch of the men started crowding around the pontoon table.
‘Give me a few minutes, lads, I’ll just grab a beer.’ Jack wasn’t going to grab a beer at all, he never drank when he was dealing, but he’d spied Lucky seated at a crowded table in the corner. He’d hoped the man hadn’t retired for the night – it would have cost more valuable game time finding him in his barracks.
Lucky was mildly drunk, which was unusual, he rarely had more than a couple of beers. But the men had been so outraged by the robbery that they’d all insisted upon shouting him a round. Every time he’d tried to leave, someone had insisted it was their turn, and he hadn’t been able to resist the camaraderie. He’d been relieved to hear about the pimp. Of course he’d known all along that the thief wasn’t one of them, but it had been a relief nonetheless, it had restored his faith in mankind. Well, the mankind that was the Snowy anyway, he thought a touch blearily. He was feeling very mellow in the company of his mates, but he was heartily sick of the taste of beer.
‘Can I see you for a minute, Lucky?’
‘Hello, Jack. You’re back,’ he said rather foolishly, looking up at the Irishman. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Had to make a little trip. Can I have a moment of your time?’
‘Sure.’ Lucky rose unsteadily to his feet.
‘Let’s go to the bar.’
‘Oh. Right.’ The Irishman was going to buy him a beer, Lucky thought. He really couldn’t stomach another one.
They edged through the crowd of men, Lucky wondering how he could politely refuse the shout, but when they got to the far end of the bar, Jack didn’t offer him a beer at all.
‘Got a little present for you,’ he said. And with the sleight of hand possessed only by magicians and master card dealers, the Irishman transferred the wad of notes from the inner breast pocket of his jacket to the outer chest pocket of Lucky’s shirt. No-one, including Lucky, had seen the transaction. Jack’s hands had simply flickered in the air as if he were making a gesture. ‘Three hundred quid, that’s what the pimp nicked, right?’
‘It was a bit less actually.’ Lucky was mystified. What had just happened? Something had landed in his pocket, he could feel it through the cotton of his shirt.
‘Well, it’s three hundred quid now.’
Lucky dipped his hand into his pocket, about to draw out the money, but the Irishman stopped him.
‘No, don’t,’ he said. ‘No need to advertise. We’re just righting a wrong, that’s all.’
But Lucky drew the money out anyway. He stared at it, dumbfounded, a thick wad of notes, how had it got there? God, but he must be drunk, he thought. He shook his head, further mystified as to why the Irishman should feel it necessary to reimburse him for the theft. ‘It’s very kind of you, Jack, but I can’t take it. I can’t take your money.’
He handed the wad of notes back, and the Irishman appeared about to accept it. But he didn’t. Instead, he took Lucky’s hand in both of his, and folded his fingers around the money.
‘It’s not my money,’ he said. ‘It’s yours.’
Lucky tried to protest further, but Jack wouldn’t listen.
‘It’s yours, Lucky, I promise you. I got it from the pimp. He said he was sorry. So put it away, all right?’
‘You got it from the pimp?’ Lucky’s look of incredulity was bordering on comical, and Jack grinned his flashy grin.
‘Indeed I did, and he was most keen to give it to me.’ The Irishman’s grin faded as quickly as it had appeared.
‘He’ll not be showing his face around here again, you can tell your friends that. I’ll have no thievery at a Jack Finnigan game.’ Then he gave Lucky a comradely pat on the shoulder. ‘Now the men are impatient and the cards are calling, if you’ll excuse me.’ And he headed off to the pontoon table, leaving Lucky clutching the wad of money and staring after him in amazement.
Jack Finnigan was pleased with the turn of events. True to form, his actions had not been as altruistic as they’d appeared to others. They never were, for there was an element of self-interest in everything Jack did. And what was wrong with that? He was a businessman, after all. Certainly, when he’d taken off after the pimp he’d been in a towering rage: the scum had damaged his reputation, even threatened his livelihood. If word got out that Jack Finnigan’s gambling events attracted thieves to the work camps, he’d be banned. Jack had wanted to kill the lowlife scum bastard.
But, during the drive into town, he’d realised that the episode could prove an invaluable public relations exercise if he went about it properly. And he had. Bugger the money he’d lost during the three-hour visit to Cooma, he now thought, the pimp had done him a favour. Lucky was a man well-respected throughout the camp, one to whom the others listened, and he would tell the men what had taken place in just the right way. He would tell them that Jack Finnigan had taken care of the pimp, that he’d returned the money quietly, without seeking praise, and that he’d banned the scum from ever showing his face again. All of which would get back to the bosses – word travelled like wildfire in the camps.
I’ll have no thievery at a Jack Finnigan game. It had sounded good, the Irishman thought, and it would sound good to the authorities too, when they heard it. He must remember to bandy the line around a little in case Lucky forgot to quote him – the man had had a few drinks.
Cooma’s pubs were the hub of the community. Townsfolk, Snowy workers, shearers and farmers alike all flocked to the pubs, and each had its own unique character. The Prince of Wales was big and showy, dominating Sharp Street. The Alpine, further up the road, offered fine accommodation in its ‘Humela House’, attracting the Snowy administrators and engineers, and on the opposite side of the main street, the ever-popular Australian, known affectionately as ‘the Aussie’, remained a favourite with everyone.
But it was Dodds Family Hotel, just a block away in Commissioner Street, that held the record in beer sales. Of all the Cooma pubs, Dodds, with a regular weekly delivery of forty kegs, outsold its closest rivals by a good five kegs a week, irrefutable proof of its ranking in the popularity stakes.
Dodds was a family hotel in every sense of the word. It was raucous, certainly, as every Cooma pub was, but the bar was warm and welcoming, the restaurant boasted good food, and there was a singalong around the piano in the lounge after dinner. Dodds was a reflection of the Duncan family who owned and ran it.
Bob Duncan was a tough, hardworking man with a dry sense of humour that endeared him to his patrons. He and his equally hardworking wife, Rita, had four children, and it was Rita Duncan herself who was one of the pub’s main attractions. Rita was a devastatingly pretty, effervescent woman who treated everyone as family. She was, furthermore, a virtuoso on the piano and led the evening singalongs with infectious charm. Bob considered ‘Reet’, whom he loved very dearly, worth her weight in gold.
‘Took her a while to get used to being a publican’s wife, though,’ he’d say, and Rita would laugh. Bob liked to dine out on the watermelon story. It had been in the early days at their pub in Lismore when, during the height of midsummer, Bob had been aghast to discover his young wife handing out platters of watermelon to the customers. When she’d protested that it was such a hot day and watermelon was cooling, he’d said, ‘So’s beer, love. That’s why they’re here, to drink beer. I don’t think the watermelon’s a good idea, Reet.’ He’d laughed. ‘If you want to give them anything, give them salted peanuts,’ and he’d ragged her about it ever since.
Lucky arrived at Dodds in the mid-afternoon. It was two days after his two-up win and he was intent upon shouting the bar as he’d promised, but on entering the pub’s entrance hall with its grand granite staircase leading to the upstairs accommodation, he didn’t turn right to the bars, but disappeared into the main lounge to the left, in search of Bob Duncan. He found him in the dining room to the rear of the lounge, discussing the menu with the new chef who’d arrived on the train from Sydney that morning.
‘Would you look after this for me, Bob?’ Lucky handed the publican the envelope in which he’d put the two hundred pounds he intended to bank.
‘Sure, I’ll shove it in the safe.’ Bob regularly looked after workers’ money. Sometimes a heavy drinker would hand over his entire pay packet, in which case Bob would dole him out some spending money for the night. Come morning, when the man thought he’d lost the lot or been robbed, Bob would reproduce the cash, still intact in its pay packet. Lucky was not one of the heavy drinkers who needed to practise such caution, but Bob had heard about the two-up win.
‘Do you want me to bank it for you?’ he asked – he did the banking for his favourite regulars too.
‘If you wouldn’t mind, yes, thanks, I’d appreciate it. I had a win at two-up,’ Lucky grinned, ‘a big one.’
‘So I heard.’ Bob hadn’t been about to say anything, but as Lucky had proffered the information … ‘I heard about Jack Finnigan too. They say the pimp left town in one hell of a mess. Go on through to the bar, I’ll just pop this upstairs.’
News travels fast, Lucky thought as he crossed back through the main lounge towards the saloon bar.
He wasn’t wrong. Pietro and several others from Spring Hill were already in the bar, and all the talk was of Jack Finnigan, as every new arrival was filled in with the story, the townsmen and the men from Spring Hill each telling their side.
‘You should have seen the pimp, he could hardly walk, the hookers were carrying him out of the pub,’ one man said.
Al the Frenchie had had to wait all night for the girls to return from work, and his ignominious departure in the early hours of the morning had been witnessed by many.
‘His face was pulp,’ another added. ‘One of the hookers had to drive.’
‘That’s what you get for crossing Jack Finnigan,’ a worker from Spring Hill said. ‘Jack won’t have thieving at his games. And he gave the money back to Lucky on the quiet, without even expecting so much as a thank you.’ The man noticed Lucky’s arrival. ‘Isn’t that so, Lucky?’
‘It is.’
‘There’ll be no thieving at a Jack Finnigan game!’ the man announced in a true imitation of the Irishman, and several of the other Spring Hill workers gave a cheer. ‘That’s what Jack said, isn’t it, Lucky?’
‘That’s right.’ Those had been the Irishman’s very words, Lucky recalled, but he’d said them in private. Lucky had not quoted the man verbatim when he’d told the others what had happened, and he wondered how the phrase was now being bandied about.
‘Now there’s a man of honour for you, bejaysus,’ a thick Irish brogue said in his ear, and Lucky turned to meet the approving grin of Peter Minogue.
Peter Minogue was arguably the most famous and certainly the most highly paid waiter in Cooma. He was another of Dodds’ attractions, and a close friend of Jack Finnigan’s. Along with their Irish heritage, the two had much in common. Like Jack, Peter was a strong man – on the palm of one hand he could carry several trays of full beer glasses, one tray balanced on top of the other. And, like Jack, he was a showman. Peter drove flashy cars, and he liked to entertain the men with his darts skills, splitting a match three times, or landing the darts with lightning speed between the boldly splayed fingers of young Robert, the publican’s fourteen-year-old son. He regularly forgot to collect his wages from Bob Duncan, making far more money than he could spend in tips from patrons who willingly paid for the service and entertainment he provided.
‘Jack’s a true Irish gent, that’s for sure,’ he now said, picking up the thr
ee trays that sat on the bar and raising them showily with one hand to shoulder height. ‘There’ll be no thievin’ at a Jack Finnigan game!’ he stated loudly for the benefit of the entire assembly. Then he gave a wink to Lucky. ‘’Tis a fine statement indeed,’ and he sailed off to the lounge where the heavy tippers were waiting to applaud his entrance.
‘Drinks are on me,’ Lucky called to the bar, and as the men cheered both him and Jack, Lucky thought what a clever man Jack Finnigan was. It had been Jack himself who had bandied the phrase about, he realised. Peter Minogue had obviously guessed as much too – his signal had been unmistakable. The wheels had been set in motion, and Flash Jack Finnigan was swiftly becoming the stuff of legend.
An hour or so later, Lucky left to call on Peggy and, early that same evening, the two of them returned to Dodds where they joined Pietro and Violet in the dining room. The four had dined together on previous occasions, Violet most impressed to be seen on an equal social footing with her former schoolteacher.
‘I think it’s time you called me Peggy, don’t you?’ Peggy had smiled on the first occasion when Violet’s conversation had been peppered with ‘Miss Minchins’, and Violet, far from being intimidated, had made sure that she said Peggy’s name very loudly when there was anyone she knew within earshot.
She no longer did so. These days there was an aspect to Peggy Minchin which was of far greater interest to young Violet Campbell than the elevation of her own social status. Peggy Minchin and Lucky were lovers. She could see it in Peggy’s face. Previously, she had found the thought of her former school mistress in a ‘relationship’ a source of fascination, but now, as Violet looked at Peggy across the dining table, she knew that Peggy Minchin was in love, in every sense of the word.
‘You look beautiful, Peggy,’ she said. Her schoolteacher had never looked beautiful before, but these days she did. And especially right now. Had they just made love? Violet wondered. Was that why? She envied Peggy.
‘Thank you, Violet,’ Peggy answered briskly. She didn’t look beautiful at all, she thought, but she was aware of the girl’s scrutiny, and she was a little unnerved. Was it really that obvious? Less than an hour ago, she’d been in a state of sexual delirium, her naked body locked with Lucky’s, and Violet seemed to sense it. ‘That’s very kind of you to say so.’
