The Story of Danny Dunn

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘Gidday, old fella!’ Danny called, trying to sound cheerful. ‘If you can’t talk, just nod your head.’

  ‘I can talk,’ Bullnose said slowly, ‘I musta had me hand over me mouth and nose to keep out the smoke when the meter board zapped Sammy and the flash got me face.’ He withdrew his right hand from under the blanket to show the bandage. ‘Yer gunna go after them mongrels, ain’t ya, Danny?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Danny said quietly. ‘Yeah, I’m going to do that, Bullnose.’

  ‘Sammy . . . he wouldn’t wanna die fer nuthin’.’

  ‘I know, Bullnose. We can talk about it when you’re a little better.’

  ‘Gabrielle picked these roses for you and Samantha bought you a lollipop,’ Helen said softly. ‘She chose a raspberry flavour and assured me it was your favourite. When I asked her how she knew, she said, “Easy, because it’s mine.” Come to think of it, in your bandaged condition a lollipop on a stick is a very practical choice.’ Helen placed the roses on the metal cabinet beside the bed. ‘I’ll see if I can find a vase.’

  After she’d left, Danny took the chair beside the old man’s bed. ‘Have the police been to see you yet?’ he asked.

  ‘Nah, youse’re the first. Nurse says they usually leave it a day unless you’re about to cark it.’

  ‘Okay, but understand that it won’t be the Balmain mob – Larry Miller and the boys you know from football – so I want you to listen to me carefully, Bullnose. Tell the truth, but only answer their questions, understand? Don’t volunteer any information.’

  Bullnose nodded. ‘But if they ask me exactly what happened, t’explain like?’

  ‘Trust me, they won’t. But now listen, mate, I want you to remember every question they ask, in the order they ask them. They may even try to verbal you. I don’t think so, but they might. Everything they ask and say, even among themselves, as well as your answers. Do you think you can do that?’

  Bullnose made a small disgusted sound in his throat. ‘You know me, Danny. Memory like an elephant.’

  ‘Remember, tell the truth, but don’t volunteer anything on your own. If anything, play dumb, okay?’

  ‘I am dumb, Danny,’ Bullnose said quietly. ‘Sammy were the smart one.’ His eyes welled with sudden tears. ‘We’s bin mates sixty-three years, since I was six and he were seven. We done Gallipoli and then Flanders, Ypres, Passchendaele. It were a Frenchy sheila taught him t’massage first, then he done a course when we come back and worked as a masseur for a few years. He was gunna be a physiotherapist. He was that clever, he done one year, passed an’ all, then the Depression come and he couldn’t go on with it. I done bricklayin’ and he done that.’ Bullnose dabbed at his brimming eyes with a bandaged hand. ‘I’m sorry, Danny . . . fuckin’ meter board. I told him t’leave it be – we would’a got outta there safe. Silly bugger wanted t’save them people screamin’ out the back, and —’ He started to sob.

  Helen returned holding a vase and saw immediately how upset he was. Placing it carefully on the metal cabinet, she set about arranging the roses, deliberately making small talk while the old man collected himself. ‘Gabrielle came racing home from swimming training this afternoon, terrified she wouldn’t have time to pick these . . . Pink because she’s a girl and yellow because it’s your favourite, she said . . . Samantha says if you don’t like the lollipop to give it back, but she knows you won’t because its raspberry . . . but if you don’t, really don’t like it, she’ll ask her grandma to give her one of those Anzac biscuits she knows you like.’

  Bullnose had recovered sufficiently to give Helen a wan smile. ‘You tell ’em both thanks, Helen. Tell Gabby, thank you for the pink and yella roses – they’re bonza! Ask Sam how did she know that raspberry is my favourite. Tell ’em I’ll soon be back, but they gotta look after the garden for me in the meantime and not forget to turn the compost heap. They won’t like that.’ He laughed. ‘Gabby says it’s where the flowers go to poo and Sam asked why do we let them poo in our backyard? That little scallywag, Sam.’ Bullnose chuckled. ‘She told Sammy he could have one of her gold medals to wear around his neck ’cos she won’t be able to wear them all after the 1968 Olympics, but only if he lets her use the Victa lawnmower now.’

  Danny shook his head and smiled indulgently. ‘She’s a worry all right.’

  The ward sister entered, white on white on white, all of it somehow starched and angled; even her nose seemed sharp on her stern face. Clearly nothing had changed in hospitals since the twins were born, certainly not the bossy attitude of the nursing staff. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to go now. It’s time to change the patient’s dressings. Say goodnight to your guests, please . . .’ she checked the clipboard at the end of the bed, adding, ‘Mr Daintree.’

  On the pavement outside the hospital, walking to where they’d parked the car, Danny suddenly stopped and turned to Helen. ‘Darling, Primo’s is only a few minutes’ drive from here. What say we have dinner in town? Brenda won’t mind putting the kids to bed, and we’ll be home before ten.’ He pointed. ‘Look, there’s a phone box, a sign that we should. We can call Mum now.’

  ‘Darling, that would be lovely, but you must be exhausted after last night. Are you sure?’

  ‘Hey, look who’s talking. You’ve been up just as long as I have.’

  ‘No, I cheated. I went to bed after you left for the office and then only had to go in for one lecture this afternoon, first-year students, simple stuff I can do in my sleep.’

  ‘I can sleep tonight,’ Danny said, ‘and we won’t be late. I want to make it up to you for being such a shit last night. Dinner at Primo’s will, I hope, be a reasonable start to an apology. What say?’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart, I’d love to. But I’m not really dressed for it and we don’t have a booking.’

  Danny grinned. ‘I’ll greet the maître d’ with the “universal handshake”, as Franz’s dad calls it.’

  ‘What if it doesn’t work?’

  ‘In that case, we’ll be witnessing a genuine miracle. We meet all the requirements: we’re sober, you’re beautiful, I’m wearing a suit and tie, and we’re both Caucasian.’ Danny paused. ‘Most importantly, a magic quid will have been transferred from one palm to another.’

  ‘And I left my good lippy at home,’ Helen moaned.

  When the date of the inquest was announced, Danny immediately dictated a letter to Keri Light, the new legal secretary he shared with Franz, addressed to the coroner’s office seeking leave to appear on behalf of Mr Bullmore Nosbert Daintree. Both these unfortunate Christian names had quickly been converted in the schoolyard to Bullnose, the moniker that had served him well for almost seventy years.

  A week later Keri, sitting at the front desk while Amanda, the receptionist, was at lunch, called through to say, ‘Mr Dunn, I don’t know if this is a joke, but a Mr Lawless, who says he’s from the attorney-general’s office, is on the phone.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. Put him on.’ He heard Keri giggle before she made the transfer. ‘Good afternoon, Nick. This is a surprise. What can I do for you?’

  Nick Lawless was an outspoken civil servant, regarded by some lawyers as a man who often abused his position. He’d served under five state Labor ministers and there were those among the legal profession who believed he regarded himself as the de facto attorney-general. Danny reasoned that, blessed or cursed with such a surname, he was more or less forced to prove himself, and they’d always had a cordial, if not chummy, relationship.

  ‘Danny, what’s this I see? You’re listed as appearing for one of the victims in the Balmain boarding-house fire? I thought battered wives and kids were more your thing . . .’

  Danny forced a small chuckle. ‘Well, yeah, I suppose so, Nick. It’s just that the man works . . . er, worked for me as a part-time gardener.

  I want to see that the poor old bugger is looked after, that’s all.’

  The civil servant’s
tone softened noticeably. ‘Heart on your sleeve again, eh, Danny? When are you going to learn that the poor will always be among us? You can’t have the Jew boy earning all the dough while you go in to bat for the little people.’

  Danny winced. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me, Nick?’ he asked, hoping he sounded sufficiently ingenuous.

  ‘No, son. We were just a tad concerned when a lawyer of your reputation bobbed up on the inquest list, that’s all.’

  ‘Are you sure? I sense you’re worried about something.’ Danny didn’t want to appear too naïve or Nick Lawless would smell a rat. He was arrogant but no fool.

  ‘No, nothing, mate,’ Lawless answered with a chuckle, far too old a hand to be wrong-footed. ‘Heffron’s under a bit of pressure, taking over so unexpectedly after Cahill died. He still feels he’s on probation. The Minister for Housing thinks he should have been the chosen one, so he wants a show of strength over this . . . er, boarding-house fire. When we saw Nifty Dunn on the list . . . well, there’s one or two people got a little antsy. We don’t want a shit fight just at the moment.’ Another chuckle followed. ‘Mate, what can I say? Usual big boys’ games.’ He paused. ‘Righto then, if you’re just looking after this old bloke, I guess that’s okay.’

  Danny realised it was all bullshit, but it was quality bullshit and he would have expected nothing less from the senior civil servant. ‘Well, as a matter of fact I’m pretty busy at the moment, Nick. I thought it would be a fairly open-and-shut case, all over in a day or two. I’d just like to see that the old bloke gets a fair suck of the sav.’

  ‘Thanks, Danny. Leave it to me; I’ll pass that on. The coroner, old Harry Prout, is on the verge of retirement. I’m sure he doesn’t want the newspapers all over this one. Nor does my boss, ha ha.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose that ever serves a useful purpose,’ Danny replied, thinking how useful a newspaper exposé might be in the case, and that perhaps he should give someone a discreet call. ‘Nice to talk with you, Nick.’

  Danny put down the phone. He remembered Half Dunn’s ‘every dog has his day’ advice. You’ll keep, Lawless, he thought.

  Danny walked through to Franz’s office. ‘Just had Lawless from the attorney-general’s office on the phone. Wanted to know why I was on the inquest list.’

  ‘Got the wind up?’

  ‘Hopefully I managed to reassure him it was simply good old Danny doing another pro bono.’

  ‘Not the sort of guy you’d invite to your son’s bar mitzvah,’ Franz remarked.

  ‘Oh, you’ve noticed?’

  ‘Bastard doesn’t do a whole lot to hide his anti-Semitism.’

  ‘Franz, I suspect even if I can get the coroner to refer it to the attorney-general for trial, Riley will have his arse well and truly covered. We need to know more about him: his social position, standing in the community, friends in high places, associates, family – that sort of thing. Our man from Vaucluse, Bryan Penman, just might be useful. Do you think you could approach him? It’s not appropriate for me to do it.’

  ‘Why? Because you got him off a murder rap? You think you’d be putting him in an awkward position?’

  ‘Yeah, kind of. Puts him under an obligation.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll talk to my mum and dad.’

  ‘You can be sure if things get too hot, Riley will have someone lined up to take the rap. His sort always does. Besides, it’s standard practice.’

  Franz gave him a straight look. ‘Danny, I know how badly you want Riley, how long you’ve waited to nail him, but don’t be blinded by the need for revenge.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Danny asked, a little defensively.

  ‘Treat it like any other case. Remember Old Sharp’s advice – there’s many a slip between mug and lip, so don’t be the mug.’

  ‘Hey, mate, that’s a bit close to the bone! You think I could be emotionally blinded? Jesus! First Helen, now you!’

  ‘Two very sensible people making the same observation, it seems,’ Franz said coolly. ‘Treat it the same as any other case.’

  ‘But it isn’t the fucking same! Eight people are dead. Eight people have effectively been murdered!’

  ‘See what I mean? You’re on your white charger and tilting at windmills. You haven’t proved that anyone has been murdered. I may only be a conveyancing solicitor, but as I understand it, this is an inquest into the cause of an accident, not a murder trial. Right now Nick Lawless is talking to somebody who’s talking to somebody who’ll talk to Riley’s mob and tell them Nifty Dunn is representing Bullnose at the inquest. I don’t for one second believe you allayed his suspicions.’ Franz paused. ‘No, that’s not quite fair. You probably did. But Lawless is as cunning as a shithouse rat. Besides, you’re a pretty high-profile lawyer. He’ll pass the word around as a matter of routine, and by this afternoon Riley will have his lawyers briefing the best available barrister in town.’

  Danny was silent, drumming his fingers on Franz’s desk, thinking, then finally he said, ‘Okay, maybe you’re right. What are you suggesting?’

  ‘I’m suggesting I don’t contact Bryan Penman. Nobody gossips like the very rich. Initially Riley mustn’t be seen to be your target. You first have to prove criminal neglect: that the fire was an accident waiting to happen, that the meter board and the wiring were faulty and that the owners were aware of this and neglected to do anything about it. Even if you’re successful, that doesn’t necessarily get you to Riley. They’ll have a scapegoat – the manager probably.’

  ‘Lenny Green, yeah, I’d anticipated that. My job will be to establish a direct and admissible link between the cause of the fire and Riley.’

  ‘I don’t like your chances, Danny,’ Franz responded.

  Danny ignored this. ‘We need to get Green to testify that he informed Riley of the danger and that Riley ignored his advice.’

  ‘If a conversation such as that ever took place,’ Franz said, sceptical.

  ‘It took place, or it will have,’ Danny said, almost as a throwaway line. ‘Green is definitely the key. They’ll persuade him that the inquest will be a whitewash and the most he’ll face is a rap on the knuckles.’

  ‘And your job is to persuade him otherwise?’

  ‘Well, not exactly my job, someone else’s. I’ve called Bumper Barnett.’

  ‘The hastily-retired-on-a-full-pension Kings Cross detective sergeant?’

  ‘The same. He comes recommended by Perc Galea.’

  ‘But if you can’t talk to Bryan Penman, how can you approach Galea for help? He’s one of your clients, too.’

  ‘Galea is different. The criminal world runs on dishing dirt.’

  ‘And high society doesn’t?’ Franz exclaimed, surprised. ‘It’d be good if Lenny Green has a criminal background, would it not?’

  ‘Probably better if he doesn’t. We don’t want the court automatically regarding him as a mendacious ex-crim. Bumper will, I hope, put the fear of God into him.’ Danny reached over and lifted the gold Parker pen from its marble and bronze snout. Franz referred to the pen as the Bar Mitzvah Boy’s Burden, claiming he’d received twenty-three identical pens on the day he turned thirteen. Danny tossed it from one hand to the other, then said carefully, ‘Mate, I’d be really grateful if you acted as my sounding board in this. Perhaps even sit in court with me, act as my instructing solicitor. You and Helen might be right – I want him too much. Always dangerous with my . . . er, personality.’

  ‘Sure. The debating team together again, eh?’

  Two days later Bumper Barnett attended a briefing with Danny and Franz in the spare office they referred to as the boardroom. He reported what he’d managed to find out about Lenny Green, and then they settled down to discuss tactics.

  Danny was a big man himself, over six foot, but next to Barnett he appeared merely average. The ex-policeman was close to six foo
t nine, and his shoulders seemed almost half that measure. He carried a beer gut that would have put Half Dunn to shame when was in his prime. This abdominal bulwark, rotund and rock hard, was the source of his nickname and served as a formidable weapon. His huge stomach took the place of a police truncheon or a pair of fists. He would literally ‘bump’ crims into submission, working them into the corner of a room where he’d repeatedly bump them until they confessed or collapsed. An added advantage was that they never had a mark on them to show the severe beating they’d received. ‘I swear I never laid a hand on him, Your Honour.’

  In his day, Bumper Barnett couldn’t be called an honest cop, but then he couldn’t be called a corrupt one either. He’d acted as bagman in the Cross and Darlinghurst area, personally delivering the weekly take from the brothels, sly-grog operators, SP bookmakers and gambling joints to the safe in the premier’s office, to which only he and the premier had the combination. In return he’d received a small stipend that the premier referred to as his weekly bonus. It was never going to make him a rich man.

  He was respected by the major crims because he never used the information they gave him for any purpose other than the one he’d told them about. He kept his word and never doublecrossed them or accepted a personal bribe. He was fearless and respected no man above another; he did things his own way, accepted what he couldn’t change and served the general community conscientiously, so that no honest citizen had any reason to fear him and most criminals had a great many reasons to do so if Bumper decided to come after them.

  He came unstuck leaving a brothel late one Saturday night, where he’d gone to collect the bagman’s share of the night’s takings. A young hoon on the pavement was beating up one of the girls from the establishment. Bumper grabbed him by the shirtfront and gave him a bump that sent him careening into a parked car, breaking his shoulder and several ribs.