by Peter Doyle
Next summer Mullet has another dope crop ready for market. Bigger this time. Plus he has a couple of friends up there who now have crops of their own. Terry and I drive north to collect, come back and sell out in quick time.
Early in 1972 I get a call from Fred Slaney. He wants to talk, says it’s important. We meet at Bar Reggio in East Sydney.
“Your name has come up,” he says.
I don’t say anything, wait for him to go on.
“Drug Squad.” He waits for my response. I make none.
He goes on. “Something hush-hush they’re up to, in league with the Federal boys.”
“What do they want with me?” I say.
“They’re looking at that surfie feller, Jackson.”
I nod. Wait again.
He looks at me, realises I’m not going to offer anything more.
“Who I hear has become a mate of yours,” he says. “There are hippies everywhere up the North Coast now, did you know that? On the dole. All of them growing pot. Not just a plant or two out by the chook shed, either. Large scale, some of them. Drug squad was told to get involved. They’ve got helicopters and everything.”
“Is Mullet in line for a pinch?”
“His name’s been mentioned. And yours with it. Someone’s gobbing off. Nothing planned, far as I know. But they’re watching.”
I nod, take a sip of my espresso.
“The Federal blokes do things their own way. If they decide to go for you, they’ll prepare a thorough case. If they can’t catch you redhanded, they’ll look elsewhere. At your bank accounts, for example.”
“Yeah?”
“If there’s dough there you can’t explain, they’ll use that as part of their case – it’s circumstantial evidence, but juries fucking hate anyone with secret funds. And if that doesn’t work, they’ll get the tax department to go for you. Who are worse.”
So far my share of the proceeds has gone in payments to the Combine, or as support to Eloise and the kids. Plus I’ve reinvested in the next crop. But I have a modest nest egg – not enough to pay off the gangsters, but too much to lose – sitting in a bank account under a bodgey name. The others I guess would have considerably bigger bank accounts than mine.
Terry and I drive up to Mullet’s for a council of war. Anna comes along, and I bring the young bloke for a bit of a holiday. We spend a few days relaxing chez Mullet. Neither Mullet nor Terry is too fussed about the police attention – it’s old news up there. There have been cops everywhere for the past year.
But Terry is naturally cautious, and takes the warning seriously. We’ve covered our tracks well enough as far as the growing and distro goes, but we need to clean our money, he says. Legitimate investment is the way to go, he reckons.
It so happens that Mullet is a more than fair photographer. He’s good at capturing those glassy, backlit waves, and his photos help sell his magazine articles. Recently, he’s graduated to film, and now he proposes we slide a few dollars into a surfing movie. Always popular, he says, and surfies will back up again and again for their favourite films. With even just so-so luck we’ll probably at least get our investment back – as bright, shiny, newly – and legally – earned money. And who knows, we could get lucky. Terry and Anna figure they’ve nothing much to lose. I’m indifferent, but even the slim chance of a big payday down the track is enough to tip the balance.
So Surfie Walkabout gets made. Big waves, small waves. Famous breaks, unknown breaks. Trippy rock music when there’s no surf. A little judicious female toplessness. And there’s something new in Mullet’s film, too –a thinly veiled dope subplot. Drugs are not mentioned explicitly, and never shown outright, but references to “greenery,” “vegies of the gods,” “heaven’s smoko,” and so on in the dialogue speak directly to surfer-heads. The smart move is, the film doesn’t bother trying to show what it’s like to be stoned. But you get the idea that the lads on the walkabout are doing sly business everywhere they go, and that leads to comic situations.
Surfie Walkabout pulls a good house when it opens at the Rose Bay Wintergarden, on a bill with Reefer Madness and some old Marx Brothers film. It draws well at university theatres, too, though the Hoyts mob who control most of the country’s screens aren’t interested.
Audiences like it when they see it, but not enough audiences get to see it, even though Mullet does a lap or two of the entire country, showing it in local theatres, scout halls and surf clubs. In late 1972 Mullet, still hopeful of a breakthrough, takes the film overseas, and that uses up most of our grass profits for that year.
At some later point – I can’t for the life of me remember when exactly, most likely early in ’71, a few months after Max’s death – Barry Geddins makes my acquaintance.
I’m at a barbecue at Tommy’s place in Collaroy. Tommy was part of the team on the Alexandria electronics job back in 1968, a driver like me. I’m in the back yard, fishing a beer can out of the Esky, when a lanky, strangely ill-proportioned young man strides over and says, “The famous Mr Billy Glasheen!” His right hand is out, waiting for me to shake. His arms look too long for his body. He’s very tall, but he stoops a little, like he’s about to fall. Thick short hair. Strange eyes – unfocused, and his gaze suggests he’s looking at something off to my left. His clothes are a bit odd, too: a blue sweatshirt, too bright orange jeans.
He says, “My name’s Barry, and it’s a real pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard of you, of course. We’ve just been up the coast. Bloody tremendous part of the world there. You can swim, fish, shoot. I’ve been to England and Europe and in my opinion they’re shitholes. Some people like those places, I know, but right here is the grouse. I’ve been all over.”
He’s still holding out his hand, waiting for me to shake it. I find it hard to resist common courtesy, but my reaction to this bloke is strong, and I start to turn away.
“This is Karen,” he says, trying to save the moment. He draws to him a blond girl who’d been hovering behind him, late twenties, suntanned, straight hair. She’s smiling. My first impression: good-looking, good-natured, not bright. She puts out her hand and we shake. Then Barry shakes my hand before I can retract it.
“Good gathering, isn’t it? Tommy’s a terrific bloke. Some real Sydney legends here, that’s for sure. Including you, of course.”
I point vaguely towards the back door of the house and say, “Got to go see—”, then nod and mumble, back away. My last glimpse of him, he’s looking hurt.
Later I ask Tommy who was the headcase at his barbecue. Tommy gives me a funny look. “He said he was a mate of yours.”
Barry keeps turning up. Next he’s doing odd jobs for Joe Dimitrios. Then for Phil the developer. Phil tries to team him up with me more than once. My aversion to the bloke only gets stronger. I don’t know anything about him – he’s just another of the many hangers-on the Combine likes to cultivate: ex-footballers, boxers, karate trainers and so forth. A lot of them have problems – with grog, stupidity, the punt. Barry Geddins isn’t obviously any of those. But he’s all wrong.
* * *
I had another cup of tea, then drove to the public phone on Bunnerong Road and rang Eloise. The boy answered.
“Are we still on for this afternoon?” he said.
I paused. Then it came to me. It was Saturday.
“No risk. You and your sister, right?”
“Yes.”
“We’re on. I’ll be there at two. Maybe a little later. Get your mum, would you?”
I could hear Eloise in the background, laughing. She came to the phone and the smile in her voice faded a little.
“Hi Bill, dearest darling. The kids are waiting for you.”
“Yeah, soon. I’ve got a couple of things to do first.”
“Not too late, pet. Janice and I are meeting up at the Windsor Castle at three.”
“Yeah, all right. Hey, just one thing. Might sound weird, but have you heard anything about Max Perkal?”
A long pause.
“Of
course, my darling. Dear Max was the cause of more rumours than anyone I’ve ever known.”
“No, I mean recently.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I’ve come across something he wrote. I mean, in the last year or so.”
Another long pause, then a sigh. “How absolutely mysterious. You must tell me all about it. But later, pet. The ducklings are so looking forward to their special grown-up outing.” And then she was off the line.
I went to Glebe. Barry was in the back bar of the Tocky. He stood up as I approached.
“Late.”
“Let’s go,” I said. “I’ve got things to do.”
Outside he said, “You in a car?”
“We’ll take yours.”
His P76 was parked outside. An axe handle conspicuous on the back seat. I looked at it, then at him.
“What?”
I said nothing, got in the car.
He drove off. Grinning. Filmed with sweat, as always.
After a minute, “What have you got on after this?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“Maybe you’re seeing that ex of yours, over there in Bondi. Eloise.”
I said nothing.
“I was at a party there last week, you know,” he said. “Eloise is a really good sort.”
“When we get to the house,” I said, “you just keep your mouth shut. Phil wants you there, but I don’t. So you just stay in the background, keep out of my way.”
He grinned and shook his head. “Jeez, you can be a cranky feller. But I don’t mind. Part of that famous old-world charm.”
It was a quiet street in Annandale. A row of houses on the left, a tidal canal on the right, a timber yard, then a railway viaduct at the dead end.
There were four timber houses in the row, deserted now except for one, which had window coverings and a sprawling front yard filled with tomato plants tied to stakes, other greens in dense rows and a rickety trellis with grape vines growing over it. I could hear kids squealing somewhere.
I knocked on the front door firmly but with what I hoped was a friendly, businesslike tap. The old fellow came to the door. Grey and bristly in a faded work shirt. He looked at me, then at Barry standing on the footpath, couldn’t hide a flutter of alarm. Behind him two little girls poked their heads around the door.
The old fellow turned and called out something foreign back into the house. The kids disappeared and the son came out, bringing a smell of garlicky lamb with him. Thirty or so. Also needing a shave. In a singlet and shorts.
The younger Leb lifted his head in a way that could have been a greeting – or a challenge. He eyed Barry darkly.
“How’s it going?” I said.
He shrugged.
“Listen, we need you out by the end of this week.” I tapped my watch. “Phil says that’s it. Next Saturday. Finish.”
He shook his head slowly.
“Agreement,” he said, miming writing on a bit of paper. “Lease.” Held up his fingers. “Three month.”
“The lease is bullshit,” I said. “You have to go.”
Behind me quick footsteps, then a bang and glass shattering.
Barry was standing by the bay window with his axe handle, grinning. Taking a backswing, shaping up to the side windows, looking more ape-like than ever with the axe handle in his too-long arms.
The Leb just stood there staring. I walked over and stood between Barry and the window.
“Get back in the car, you clown.”
The two little girls had come around the side of the house, were now peeping over the side fence, a few yards away from Barry. Barry grinned at them, puckered his lips and blew them a kiss. They stared wide-eyed at him. He walked over and picked the smaller one up, the way a dad or uncle might, smiling. He whispered something to her, still smiling, but she looked even more terrified.
A shout from the Leb at the door, and Barry put the kid down, gesturing no harm done, grinning broadly.
He looked back at the door to make sure he was being watched, then turned and headed for his car. He carefully kicked the tomato stakes in his path, gave the grape trellis a good whack with the axe handle, trampled the greens as he sauntered back to his car.
I did what I could to right the trellis, pushed the tomato stakes back into the soft dirt, returned to the front door.
“Sorry,” I said, shaking my head.
Two younger brothers appeared at the door. They pushed past us into the garden, looked at the damage, then at Barry sitting in his car. Barry waved and they tensed up, started moving towards him.
The older brother barked out something and they stopped, not happy about it.
“This week,” I said to him, spreading my hands, palms down. “Finish. Go.”
He looked at me sadly. Pulled out his wallet. Opened it with a theatrical flourish. Look. Nothing there. A hopeless shrug of the shoulders.
“You expect money from Phil?” I said. “Brother, that’ll be the day.”
He gave me a closer look.
“Greco?” he said.
“Me? No.”
“Aussie?”
I nodded.
He pointed at the car, at Barry. “Aussie?”
I nodded.
“Crazy.”
“Yeah.”
“Why Phil so quick, quick?”
That I didn’t know. I shook my head.
“Last week, here—” he pointed to the street, “survey man. Suit man.”
“Surveyors?”
“Suit man.”
“Council?”
“Big Mr Government Man.” He did a mime of a self-important bloke opening a blueprint or plans or something, haughtily looking at the landscape with his nose in the air.
I shook my head again. “News to me, pal.”
“Always Phil, slow, slow, no worries. Now Phil, quick, quick, fuck off.”
“He didn’t tell me why. He says one week. Out. One week.”
The bloke glanced at me, but didn’t give even the slightest sign that might happen.
On the way back to Glebe, Barry said, “You should’ve taken a swing back there. Instead of yapping to them.”
I said nothing.
“We should go back and burn the cunts out. That’ll get ’em moving.”
I said nothing.
After a minute he said, “You ever kill anyone?” and looked at me. “I bet you have.” He laughed raucously. “I heard you did a bloke in jail. You’re in the club, I can tell.”
I looked out the window.
“Good feeling, isn’t it?”
I said nothing.
“Mind you, there is something that feels even better than that. I’d better not say what it is, ’cause I know you’ll go all shitty on me.”
“Stop here,” I said.
He looked at me, then back at the road, kept driving.
“Don’t be so fucking touchy!” he said.
“Stop the car.”
“Jesus Christ, I’m just trying to make friendly conversation!”
I leaned across and grabbed the steering wheel and yanked down on it hard. The car slewed left. Barry braked and wrenched the steering wheel back, but the front left of his car clipped the corner of a parked car. The back of his car spun to the right and stopped, across the flow of traffic.
It shook me around, but no damage done. Barry just sat there, maybe a little stunned.
“Keep away from Eloise’s place,” I said, and knew I’d made a mistake. I got out.
Traffic had stopped. People were staring. I walked away, kept walking.
I rang Phil an hour later. “This is Bill,” I said. “The Lebs are doing a go-slow. If you want them out in a hurry, you going to have to pay them off.”
“What the hell happened with Barry?” He was almost shouting.
I said nothing.
“Bill? You there?”
“I’m here.”
“Barry’s spewing. What happened?”
“He made an arse
of himself.”
“That’s his job, for Christ’s fucking sake. He says you smashed his car.”
“He’s overstating it. A ding in the front mudguard. I told you I wanted nothing to do with him.”
“Jesus, he loves that car.”
“Then he’s even more of an idiot. The P76 is shit. It’s Australia’s Edsel.”
“You’re being funny?” Phil sighed on the other end. “Well, you better keep out of his way for a while.”
“That’s always my intention.”
“I mean, really.”
“Is that a warning?”
“He can be a strange bloke, as well you know. Anyway, tell me what happened with the Lebs?”
“Barry fucked it up,” I said. “He tried to frighten them. They’re digging their heels in now.”
“Are they just? Your job was to get the cunts out.”
“Why’s it so urgent all of a sudden? You never gave a shit about those dumps till recently.”
He paused. “I just want things straightened out. We all do.” He sounded weaselly, defensive.
“We?”
“Me. I want things sorted out.”
“You said we.”
“Listen. Don’t fucking push me, all right? You’re on very thin ice, pal.” He drew a deep breath, let it out slowly, then went on. “Yes, we. Joe Dimitrios is involved. And he knows you fucked up. So he’s spewing too, and if I hadn’t calmed him down he’d have called the whole deal off, and his blokes would’ve been round to see you already.”
“What’s Joe’s interest?” I said.
Another sigh. “You won’t fucking listen, will you. All right, so be it. I’ve done my best for you. Out of respect for your father-in-law. Seriously, Bill, sometimes I think you’re one of those cunts that don’t want to be helped.”
I said nothing.
“All right. So how do I get the fucking falafels out of the house?”
“Give them money,” I said.
I rang Terry and Anna’s place at Balmain. Anna answered.
“Listen,” I said. “I might have brought some trouble your way. Barry Geddins – you know him?”
“Not really,” she said. “Heard the name.”
“He’s bad news,” I said. “Very bad. Not a lovable rogue. He knows I live in Duke Street, but doesn’t know which house. He was there yesterday snooping around. It’s possible he’ll come looking for me again.”
