Taking Care of Business ch-28

by Peter Corris

  ‘I’m trying to start a community bank,’ he said. ‘It’s the only way we’re going to survive out here. They’ve done it in other places and we can do it here, I reckon. Do you know anything about community banks, Cliff?’

  ‘I read something about one in Bendigo or somewhere but I was skimming. Safe to say I know nothing about them.’

  I was treated to a half hour rundown on the theory and practice of community banking and the benefits it could bring to a depressed rural area. Typical of Jacko, he knew his subject. I remembered how he read up on farm management before he quit the big smoke.

  I finished my drink about the time he finished talking. ‘You’ve got it by the balls,’ I said.

  ‘Internet. Marvellous thing. You on it?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘That’s right. I tried to find your website. How can you conduct a business without being online?’

  ‘I manage. So what’s the problem? Not enough takers? You want me to scare people into coming in with you?’

  The enthusiasm that had been in his voice ebbed away. ‘No, ‘course not. The problem is there’s someone trying to stop me.’

  ‘Stop you how?’

  ‘You name it-threatening notes and phone calls, sabotage of equipment, killing stock, spreading rumours…’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like that I was drunk when Shirl got killed. Like that I molested Debbie and that’s why she left.’

  Debbie was Jacko’s daughter, who I knew had gone to Adelaide. I didn’t know why. ‘That’s ridiculous. Who’d believe that?’

  He slammed his tumbler down on the table so that the glass top cracked. ‘Shit! They don’t have to believe it. It just has to get around.’ He looked at me and grinned. ‘The word is I’m violent.’

  I nodded.

  ‘I also got kicked out of the police force for corruption. See what I mean? People see Vic Bruce turning a blind eye to everything. Why would I be any different?’

  ‘I get it. But, mate, you live here. You must know everyone for miles around. You must have some idea who’d be behind it.’

  He shook his head. ‘Too many to name. Tod Van Keppel? He’s the head of Western Holdings and chairman of the big producers’ committee. They’re trying to buy up the little men. There’s Shirl’s family and friends. Plus I’ve had run-ins with various people over the years. It’s part of country life.’

  ‘Have you talked to the copper?’

  ‘He’s useless. Just serving out his time. Have another drink. I’ll put something in the microwave. Steak and kidney pie do you?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He went to the kitchen and I poured myself another scotch and added some of the ice cubes and water. Jacko was still moving with the same vigour he’d always displayed but he was looking old and tired. There was a lot of grey in his hair and the lines on his face were at least partly from worry and tension.

  I was swilling the drink around when Kevin came stumping in through the back door. I raised my glass. ‘Your dad was going to offer you a drink.’

  He sneered at me, picked up the bottle, uncapped it and took a long swig.

  ‘Tell him thanks,’ he said and went out the way he’d come in.

  I had to wonder about Kevin.

  Jacko came back with two heaped plates, a bottle of tomato sauce and some cutlery. He looked at the uncapped whisky bottle.

  ‘Kevin?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Dunno what I’m going to do with that boy if I can’t get this bank idea up. He was fine when he worked in the bank. Gone to the dogs since. Dig in, Cliff.’

  The massive hotel sandwich had taken the edge off my appetite but I ate as much as I could so as not to offend. Jacko drank his soda water and I made the whisky and water last through the food. It was pretty tasteless and needed the tomato sauce. Jacko ate even less than me and looking at him I realised that he’d lost weight. He was about the same height as me, 184 centimetres, and had fought as a middleweight in his late teens. He’d go welter now, easily.

  ‘Coffee?’ Jacko said.

  ‘Maybe in a bit. What d’you want me to do, Jacko?’

  ‘What you do for a living. Investigate. You can have a look at the sabotaged machinery and photos of the dead stock. I can show you the notes and I’ve got recordings of the phone calls. You can talk to the people I’ve mentioned and see if anything occurs to you. Sort of sniff around.’

  ‘I can do that, I suppose. But this’s foreign territory to me. I’m not sure that I can come up with anything. Just suppose I do suss out who’s responsible. What then?’

  Jacko rubbed the grey bristles on his lean jaw. ‘I’d feel like shooting him, but I suppose I’d try to sort out his objection, get him onside. It’s so obvious that a community bank’s what’s needed here.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be obvious to the big boys, would it?’

  ‘It could be if it’s managed right. We could live and let live. It works in other parts of the country.’

  ‘What if it’s someone who’s not against the idea but just hates your guts? Would you step aside and let someone else head the thing up?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that, but I guess I would. It’s the idea that matters, not me.’

  It was the sort of answer I’d have expected. He hadn’t changed from the straight-as-a-die character he’d always been. ‘You’d better fill me in on your financial situation.’

  ‘I’m going to pay you.’

  ‘I don’t mean that! I mean what sort of pressure are you under money-wise-mortgage and all that? How much time’ve you got? How badly has this… campaign damaged your business?’

  ‘Sorry, mate. Shouldn’t have jumped in like that. I haven’t got a mortgage. Uncle Joe owned the place outright. I’ve borrowed from time to time for equipment and stock but nothing much. When the bloody bank said it was going to close I cleared my overdraft. I’d be buggered if I was going to deal with a bank in Sydney’ He leaned forward.

  ‘That’s the whole point. Those central office blokes don’t know anything about what it’s like out here. You get good years and bad. People help each other, at least they used to. That’s the sort of… commodity those bean counters can’t understand.’

  It occurred to me that Jacko’s sound financial position might be a cause of envy and have triggered the problem. I asked him about his employees.

  ‘Only three, plus Kevin, who’s pretty well useless these days. Old Harry Thompson’s been here since Uncle Joe’s time. He can still do a day’s work. Then there’s Syd Parry and Lucas Milner. I suppose you’d call Lucas the head man. Aboriginal. Best man with stock for miles around.’

  Maybe a race issue as well, I thought. There were plenty of possibilities, too many, but I agreed to do whatever I could to help.

  Jacko thanked me, made a pot of coffee and I spiked mine with some scotch. I was weary and was pretty sure I’d sleep well but a nightcap never hurts. We were winding it up when there was a grinding crash outside.

  The food and drink had slowed me down and Jacko beat me to the door, switching on a light as he went through. The area in front of the house was floodlit. Kevin had smashed the ute into a gum tree and was sitting slumped in the driver’s seat.

  Jacko ran out, opened the door and reached for him.

  ‘Don’t touch me, you bastard,’ Kevin yelled. ‘Leave me alone, you fucker.’ He scrambled out, lost his balance and had to lean on the hood of the car. There was a gash on his forehead spilling blood down his face and onto his shirt. He tried to swing a punch at Jacko but missed by a mile and sagged back.

  ‘Kev, son, I just want to help you. I…’

  ‘Help me? You can help me by selling this excuse for a farm and getting us out of here. I hate this place. I hate you…’

  His shoulders jerked and he burst into tears. Jacko moved towards him again but Kevin fended him off and staggered away in the direction of the washhouse. He stumbled but managed to stay more or less upright. Jacko looked helplessly after h
im and then turned his attention to the ute. I joined him and together we tugged at the crumpled radiator and mudguard.

  ‘No harm done,’ Jacko muttered. ‘I’m more worried about him.’

  ‘I’ll have a look at him.’

  Kevin had stripped off his shirt, wet it under a tap and was wiping blood from his face. The cut was seeping now more than running and didn’t look too deep. He was still very drunk and having trouble remaining upright.

  ‘You all right, Kevin?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  I took him by the shoulders and sat him down hard on the edge of the bath. His cigarettes were in his shirt pocket and his lighter was on the floor. I got one out, stuck it in his mouth and lit it.

  ‘Calm down,’ I said. ‘You’re not the first kid to get some bad breaks.’

  ‘The fuck would you know?’

  ‘Where’d you get the booze? I thought you said you didn’t have any.’

  He squinted through the smoke. ‘None of your fuckin’ business.’

  ‘You’re right. If I was you I’d have a shower and drink a gallon of water. And you’ll still feel like shit in the morning.’

  I left him there and went into the house. Jacko was standing in the sunroom with the whisky bottle in his hand. He shook his head and capped it. ‘Wouldn’t help, would it?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘That’s another thing those arseholes don’t know about-the effect all this shit has on families. I know what you’re thinking, Cliff. But it couldn’t be Kevin.’

  I examined the threatening notes which had been placed near Jacko’s front gate. They were word processed and accurate as to spelling and grammar, but it doesn’t take much education to write things like ‘Drop your plans or else’. I looked at the photographs of the dead animals, but a dead sheep to me is just something on the way to being chops as a dead cow is a T-bone in the making. And a dead horse is one I won’t lose money on at Randwick. Jacko had retrieved the bullets. All I learned from them was that a heavier calibre weapon had been used on the cows and horses than on the sheep.

  There was no point in going undercover in Carter’s Creek. Every man and his dog knew who I was and why I was there. I didn’t even try to make myself agreeable. I figured that people would talk to me whether they wanted to or not, because anyone who didn’t would come under suspicion. As a strategy it worked pretty well. I phoned the Western Holdings office and got an appointment with Tod Van Keppel without any trouble.

  I rolled up to the elaborate gate with a tankful of Jacko s petrol, spoke my piece to the intercom device and the gate swung open. Easy as pie. In contrast to the rundown look of the Brown farm this place was spick and span. The fences looked immaculate, hedges were trimmed and the grass was well watered. The buildings-barns or whatever the big ones were-and sheds had fresh coats of paint and every shining galvanised iron roof serviced a large water tank.

  I drove a couple of kilometres past all this operational efficiency to a sprawling ranch-style building that seemed to double as a residence and office. The road looped around in front of it with a dozen parking places marked out in white paint. The parked vehicles, a couple of 4WDs, a Tarago van, a ute, a station wagon and a gleaming silver-grey Mercedes, were all newish and well maintained. Dusty and travel-stained and with its second-hand roof-rack, Glen’s Pajero looked shabby beside them.

  I followed a sign in the form of a finger with the word ‘Office’ printed on it in a Gothic script around the side of the building to a set of steps. The glass door with a louvre blind on the inside carried a sign reading ‘Please enter’ in the same script. I did, and stepped into air-conditioned comfort-thick, pale carpet, cool white walls, comfortable-looking chairs and a large reception desk. The woman behind the desk was thirtyish, blondish and good-looking.

  ‘Mr Hardy,’ she said. ‘Please sit down. Mr Van Keppel is running a little late. He’ll see you in ten minutes. In the meantime, coffee?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I wanted to see if she made it herself. Thought not. She pressed a button and a few minutes later another woman appeared carrying a tray with a coffee pot and all the fixings. She put it on the low table in front of me, poured a cup and lifted the lid on silver vessels containing milk and sugar.

  I said, ‘Thank you,’ again and felt as if I should tip her.

  Almost as soon as I took a swallow the receptionist said, ‘Mr Van Keppel will see you now. Please take your coffee in with you.’

  I’m too old a hand to fall for that. Balancing a cup in one hand is no way to meet someone you want to be forceful with. I replaced the cup on the tray and went through the polished teak door. The office was surprisingly small and surprisingly tasteful. I’d been expecting something Texan in style, but it was more modest-standard size desk, filing cabinet and bookshelf. No wet bar in sight, no conversation pit. It was about twenty notches up on my office in Darlinghurst but I felt comfortable in it. Watch yourself, Cliff, I thought. That’s how he wants you to feel.

  Van Keppel was a medium sized man with thinning sandy hair and an outdoors look-weather-roughened skin, faded grey eyes and work-enlarged hands. He came around the desk and we shook. Strong grip, but not too strong.

  ‘Sit down.’ The accent was South African touched with something else, maybe Australian. ‘I know you’re working for Jack Brown, looking into the trouble he’s had. I agreed to see you because I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea if I hadn’t, but…’ He spread the big hands. ‘I don’t know how I can help you.’

  ‘I take it you could buy Jacko out?’

  That surprised him. ‘Is he thinking of selling?’

  I smiled. ‘No, I just wanted to see how the idea struck you.’

  He nodded and didn’t say anything. He was good. A people manager.

  ‘Would a community bank be a thorn in your side?’

  ‘It’d depend on its policies and its size. But I would think not. We could get along.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘The larger operations.’

  ‘Who are well organised.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be tidier if you mopped up the small-timers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have helped the Carter’s Creek bank to stay open?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘We bank in Sydney.’

  ‘No feeling of obligation to the area, to the community?’

  ‘Western Holdings sees itself as part of the global community, Mr Hardy, and-’

  ‘Which is no community at all.’

  He went on as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘-and our obligation is to our shareholders.’

  And that was about that. We batted it around for a few minutes without me scoring any runs. We shook hands again and I left. The coffee had gone, which was a pity. I’d have drunk it cold. It was good coffee.

  I talked to old Harry Thompson, Syd Parry and Lucas Milner but got nothing useful from them. They all seemed fond of Jacko and worried about their jobs. None was particularly interested in the community bank idea one way or the other. They took it in turns to drive into Cobar to bank and seemed quite happy with the arrangement. Thompson and Parry were single and occupied fibro sleep-outs in a paddock behind the farmhouse. Milner lived with his wife and child in a house he’d built by the creek a kilometre away. Jacko had made a subdivision for him and he owned the acre block freehold. When I asked him if this was his country he smiled.

  ‘No, Mr Hardy. I was brought up in Redfern. I came out here ten years ago to get away from all that shit.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  He rolled a cigarette, lit it and blew smoke. ‘I mean all that political shit. I believe in a fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work and that’s all I fuckin believe in.’

  Over the next few days I drove around the district talking to various people. I had a chat to Sergeant Vic Bruce, who’d heard some talk about the threats to Jacko but didn’t seem v
ery interested.

  ‘Town’s dying, Hardy.’ He laughed, signalling a joke coming. ‘And I’m dying to get out of it.’ I guessed he’d used the line a few times before.

  Roger and Betty Fairweather, the parents of Jacko’s late wife, were guarded. Without actually saying so, they implied that they blamed Jacko for their daughter’s death. But I got the feeling that it wasn’t a strong emotion, more an expression of loss than an accusation. Her two brothers, who’d owned a smallish farm carved out of the original property, had recently sold to one of the big operators and moved away. They’d gone before the threats started.

  I was running out of suspects. I kept an eye on Kevin but, apart from reluctantly doing some desultory work on the property, he spent most of his time in the pub drinking with his mates. He had a motive-the hope that his father would sell up. But as he seemed to be relying on Jacko to stake him in some way and didn’t have the gumption to get away on his own, it seemed unlikely he’d have been able to mount the campaign.

  I mostly steered clear of the pub, especially when the old Bedford truck that belonged to Kevins mate Jimmy was parked outside, and that was most of the time. I didn’t fancy another run-in with Jimmy. But I did manage a talk over a beer with Ted Firth. I pumped him a bit, asking about word processor users and people who might oppose the community bank idea. I had another of his wife’s massive sandwiches, but otherwise I got sweet f.a.

  Jacko seemed to perk up although I told him I wasn’t making progress. It seemed he was and apparently he’d had a good response to a call for a meeting in town in a couple of days time to discuss the bank proposal.

  ‘I’ve got an offer of state government support,’ he told me after we’d demolished another of his microwaved dinners and I was working on a scotch and water. ‘Well, a sort of expression of interest, you might call it. But it’s something, and maybe I can swing some of the waverers with it.’

  He’d told me how the bank could be funded on the basis of the value of the properties the shareholders held and how capital could be raised and invested. That sort of talk bores me and I’d barely listened but I gathered that those coming into the scheme would be staking their futures on its success.