by Peter Doyle
“More lesbian sex?”
“Among other things. I gave it to Stephanie to work on.”
“The girl at the shop?”
He shook his head. “Different one. She was doing English at uni. Wanted to try her hand at book editing. Steph’s long gone.”
“So what did you make of it, the story itself?”
“What I told you. It’s shit. Exploits genuine direct action for outlandish and sensationalistic effects.”
“I mean, who did you think wrote it?”
“I assumed your mate Perkal. I’d heard the rumours.”
“Right. The rumours. Rumours that . . .”
“He was still alive.”
“So who was the kid?” I said.
“Never knew his name. He came back once or twice, then I never saw him again.”
“So you printed the book but then you pulped it?”
He shook his head, closed his eyes. “I should’ve kept a closer eye on Steph. She was supposed to change some things. I was busy, didn’t read it until it been printed. A thousand copies. Too hot for me to sell it. For all I know, it could be true, but you can’t just say outright that the Victorian Police Armed Robbery Squad were complicit in the Moratorium robberies. I’d need a fighting fund if I went with that, and what for? I’d take up the cause against police corruption, but it’s Victorian state politics, which would never be such a big deal in Sydney anyway. Plus the swearing, the druggy stuff. Too much trouble, and for what? Opportunistic bullshit. And for all that, Steph still didn’t load up the lezzo sex like I told her to. Which is funny, because she’s a bit that way herself. So yeah, I dumped the copies. I didn’t know then, but Stephanie kept a few and gave them to her friends. She ripped out the title page with our name on it, the printer’s address and all that. So no one knew where it came from.”
“Except for that symbol on the spine.”
“Supposed to represent a tractor and a pen. Intellectuals and workers. Steph got it from an early Bolshevik poster.”
He vacuumed up a wonton. Bits dribbled down into his beard.
“So, Brother Glasheen, what have you got for me?”
“The police are going to raid you.”
He laughed noisily. “That’s not news,” he said.
“I know exactly when,” I said.
“How?”
“Never mind. But the Vice Squad and the Drug Squad have you down for a visit. Looking for drug literature, mainly. Filth, too, if they can find it.”
His face went dark. “You fucking opportunist scumbag. That’s criminal extortion. Just what I’d expect from you.” He said it without any bitterness.
“It’s not my doing,” I said, but I could see he didn’t believe me. “What became of Stephanie?”
“Don’t know. She raised objections to some of the material in the shop. The porn. I heard she went to London, was going hitchhiking around Europe. How sure are you about this raid?”
“The word came from a cop.”
I had his attention. “When’s it planned for?” he said.
“When would suit you?”
He barked out another laugh. This time it was bitter. “It’s a shame you’re nothing more than a self-serving apolitical petty crook. Day after tomorrow would be best.”
“Is that enough time for you to clear out the filth and drug literature?”
“Clear out nothing. I’ll get more in, if I can. All I need is time to tip off the press.”
“You want this to happen?” I said.
“A bit of press never hurts.”
I left him to his lunch and went back to the cab, started the engine then turned it off again. I sat there for a minute, then went back to the restaurant. Bob looked up from his paper.
“You’re shitting me. Bad language and a bit of drug use couldn’t get a book banned anywhere in Australia these days.”
“As I said, it was defamatory!” He was trying to sound outraged.
“But it’s fiction. At least half made-up. Easy enough to defend, I would’ve thought.”
He waved that away. “But too much trouble.”
“I don’t buy it. Politics, drugs, hippies – that’s right up your alley.”
He mumbled something and looked away for a moment, then back at me. “The reasons I gave are true ones. But it was also a favour. For a friend.”
“Who?”
“The one who got away. Denise.”
“I thought she was in jail.”
“She only did a few months. She’s been out for a while now, on a good behaviour bond. Does a little community service, sees a psych.”
“After a string of armed robberies? How does that work?”
“Establishment family. They pulled strings. The police didn’t have that much on her anyway. Frank Galbally represented her. Made a strong case that she’d been temporarily under the sway of charismatic outlaws. Misguided idealism. She’d bailed out voluntarily as soon as she had the chance.”
“She a friend of yours?”
“She’s . . . politically sophisticated.”
“Good for her. So why did she want the book pulped?”
“Competition. She might have ambitions in that field herself.”
“She pay you?”
“No. And I’ve given you more than enough to pay for that tip-off.”
The waitress approached and noisily put a teapot down in front of him.
“Do you have a phone number for Denise?”
He shook his head. “She’s back in Melbourne now anyway.”
End of interview. I stood up.
Gould smiled. “Day after tomorrow for the bust. You sure of that?” he said.
“It’s a date.”
He was pleased now that he’d thought it through, figured out a press angle.
“Anything else you happen to hear, Brother Glasheen, let me know. There’ll always be a quid pro quo.”
I drove for another hour, but I couldn’t get back into the flow. I couldn’t shake the feeling I needed to do something, but had no idea what.
I kept going over the events of the previous day, the situation with Barry, couldn’t make any proper sense of it. Likewise the Annandale houses, and Phil’s sudden need to get the Lebs out. Maybe there was something there. I pulled up at a phone booth in Bondi and rang Terry.
“You know of anyone in your circle who might need a temporary roof over their heads?” I said.
“What sort of roof?”
“There’s a row of cottages in Annandale. Pretty run-down. Need some fixing up, but someone who was a bit handy could squat.”
He paused for a second. “There’s this women’s co-op in Glebe looking for somewhere to camp. Want to set up a refuge for battered wives.”
“No good. There’s a chance it could get rough.”
“You know, they’d probably be up to it.”
“They’d have to occupy all three houses at once.”
“What’s your interest?”
“It’s complicated. There’s a developer bloke who’s got plans for them. I might want a bit of, you know, leverage.”
A significant pause from Terry. “Yeah? Why?”
My turn to pause. I wasn’t quite sure why. “Never mind that. The houses aren’t that bad. If someone wants them, they’d be fine.”
“Okay, I’ll see.”
Then I did have a hunch. “Listen Terry, here’s the catch: There’d be a time limit. I could promise a minimum crash of two months, maybe longer. But they’d have to agree to get out when I give the signal. Whenever that might be.”
“Once they’re in—”
“So they’d have to agree not to pass the squat on to their mates. When I say it’s over, it’s everyone out.”
“I’ll ask around.”
Then I had a thought. “One more thing. Can I get a car from you?”
Another pause, then he said, “I’ve got a Rover. Brakes aren’t great, but it’s all right for local.”
“No, something fo
r the open road.”
A longer pause. “I’m picking up an EK in a couple of days. Panel van. Got a 186 motor in it. You’d have to look after it, though.”
Terry’s tone told me he was curious as hell what I was up to, but leaving it to me to spill it or not. In fact, I had only the sketchiest notion what I was doing, except that I was taking the time-honoured cure for everything: if you can, get an okay car and just go somewhere. Anywhere, so long as it’s far.
I finished the shift, made my way back to the shack around midnight. I skim-read the book again, then turned in.
I was exhausted, but slept badly. I had a long, tiring dream. I was leading a gang who were doing some ceaseless but pointless labour, part of which involved trying to trick another mob out of a bag of something or other, but, throughout it all I knew it was hopeless.
I woke up sweating. It was dark and very still. I lay there for a while listening to the low industrial hum in the far distance.
I got up, drank some water. Somewhere a car was driving slowly. Not far away. Then I heard it stop. A door slammed.
I stepped outside. To the west the sky glowed a flickering orange, lit up by the eternal flame from the Boral chimney. The Chinaman’s dog started barking. A moment later there was a shout. Then another. Some quick chatter. Then silence. Another door slammed, then came the sounds of a car leaving. The dog kept barking for a quarter of an hour, then all was quiet.
Next morning I dug up the emergency package I had buried in the sand fifty yards behind the Batcave. I took out the bankbook and the bundle of twenty-dollar notes, buried everything else again, deeper than before.
I was at the counter of the Randwick Commonwealth Bank when it opened at ten. Took all the money out of the bodgey account. From there I went to the post office to arrange an overseas money transfer to Mullet. I spent the rest of the afternoon around Randwick, making calls and shopping for the bits and pieces I’d need. I had enough money for now, barely, but nothing in reserve.
Late afternoon I took a cab back to Matraville, stopped a quarter of a mile from the market gardens and walked the roundabout way back to where the track began. Four or five people were working in the market gardens on my left. No greetings were exchanged, but one of the workers straightened up and called out something in the direction of the shed. An old-ish Chinese guy in crumpled grey trousers, white shirt and tie stepped out and waved, signalling for me to wait up. He came hurrying across the paddock, shaking his head.
When he was within earshot he called out, “Not rubber! Not rubber!” Smiling, but agitated.
Jimmy Long was of a certain age, and had been in Australia a good while, but he’d never bothered expanding his English beyond a few a basic phrases. “No trouble” was one of them, and for him it could mean nearly anything.
“What trouble?” I said.
He waved vaguely over his shoulder. Over there. Or long gone. Or yesterday.
“Last night?” I said.
He nodded quickly.
“Who?”
“Some cunt, big car,” he said. “Not rubber! Not rubber!”
I was being put on notice. Keep my problems away from here or our deal was off.
“What car?” I said.
“Ya-ow car.” Yellow.
“Okay, Jimmy. Not rubber.”
Absolutely no one knew where my shack was. But it was mentioned in the book. So were the Chinese market gardens. And how many such places were there in Sydney? I could think of similar gardens at Mascot, Botany, Kogarah, and maybe there were others out west. But if you were looking, you’d check the ones nearer the city first. It wouldn’t take too long to find me.
Jimmy and his mates had chased Barry Geddins off, which was as much as I could expect. Next time they’d chase me off.
The panel van was parked outside Terry and Anna’s. It was a faded and nondescript light blue-green, which was good. There was no trade name on it, also good. It was the kind with no windows in the back, so you could sleep in it. The key was inside the front mudguard, on top of the shocky. The engine made a rich throaty sound, but not too unlike the standard old EK motor. I drove it back to Matraville, loaded my stuff and left at midnight.
I took it slow up the Pacific Highway. It was quiet. A few vacant cabs, trucks coming in or heading out. A cruising cop car. I puttered carefully on through Chatswood, Turra, Hornsby. Then the bush. Crossed the river, kept going.
I pushed on for another two hours, then stopped a mile up a dead-end dirt track somewhere past Wyong, unrolled my sleeping bag, and was out in minutes. Four hours shut-eye – not deep, but just enough – and I was driving again. A quick breakfast at Kurri Kurri – not good – and another three hours driving got me over the ranges.
It was a warmer inland, and I was driving into the sun. The undulations gradually flattened, and the road became a series of long straight stretches, separated every half hour by a range of low wooded hills. I had the radio off and the windows open, wind swirling hard inside the car.
By mid afternoon I was tired and sweaty. I stopped at a motel called the Rest Ezy on the outskirts of a wheat town. Not flash, but not too rough either. The woman behind the counter scarcely laid eyes on me as she handed me the key.
A shower, an indifferent meal and another sleep, and I was on the road again at seven the next morning. Just before eight I passed a sign announcing the town of Wee Waa sixty miles further on.
Then droplets on the windscreen, the smell of Bars-Leaks, and a plume of steam from under the hood. I pulled up and opened the bonnet, stood back from the exploding cloud of steam, went and stood under a tree and waited for it to cool.
The radiator water was only moderately rusty, and I couldn’t see a leak in any of the hoses. Since the van was a Holden, and knowing that the first time you take any Holden on a long run, the water pump will fuck up by way of an introduction, I guessed that’s what it was.
I nursed it along the road for the next two hours, hit Wee Waa at lunch time. An average drab western town. People on the street were that typical far-west mixture of prosperous looking farmers and their florally dressed wives, young blackfellas in cowboy hats and Cuban heels, and dusty old codgers who might’ve been metho-drinking alkies or maybe old-time swaggies. Or maybe just farmers.
I found a wrecker’s yard about the size of a football field on the far side of town. The kid near the gate pointed to a large shed, told me I’d find a dozen or more EK water pumps in there, including a couple of recon jobs.
I found the right aisle, heard someone shuffling nearby, muttering angrily what sounded like “Fuck off, fuckya! Fuck off, fuckya,” over and over. I peered across the shelf. A crooked old gnome with straggly grey hair was rooting about a couple of rows away. He turned around jerkily, stared at me in a hollow yet somehow hostile way, turned away again.
As promised, there were plenty of water pumps that would fit an EK. I picked what seemed to be the best of the bunch, carried it to the front, paid the kid and left.
I drove slowly back to the main street, then stopped, thinking about the mad old bloke at the wreckers. So I doubled back and returned to the shed where I’d got the water pump. It was empty.
The bored kid was still at the counter.
“Just now, there was an old bloke out in that shed,” I said.
The kid looked blank.
“Where the water pumps are. A mumbling old guy. Like a derro. Grey hair, a bit long. Foreign-sounding.”
“Oh yeah. Him.”
“You know his name?”
The kid shook his head slowly. “He’s come in here once or twice.”
“This might sound odd, but I’m looking for someone who might be known to his friends as the Old Cunt.”
The kid grinned at me, thinking I was making a joke, waiting for the punchline.
“That guy,” I said, “could it be him? Anyone ever call him the Old Cunt?”
“He is an old cunt, that’s for sure,” said the kid, “but I’ve never heard him called that. N
ever heard him called anything.”
“Would he have a property somewhere around the district? Maybe have another feller staying with him, a bloke maybe called Max. Black hair, goatee, skinny.”
He shook his head again. “Wouldn’t know.” It was obviously genuine.
I took the car to the garage the kid had recommended. The mechanic looked at the radiator, the rusty water stains, the water pump I’d bought, and shook his head doubtfully, like I was asking him to find a cure for cancer by this afternoon. Said he was that busy, gestured to various cars about the place, on hoists, on blocks, bonnets up, wheels off, entrails pulled out. Couldn’t look at it till this afternoon at the earliest, more likely tomorrow. I said, Sorry, I’d obviously misread the sign out front which said ‘Mechanical Repairs.’ He said I could suit myself. I got my bag out of the back, left the car with him, and we parted, both of us with the shits.
I found a motel. Spent the rest of the afternoon rereading Max’s book. Ate a counter meal at the pub recommended by the old girl at the motel desk, then back to my room, spent the rest of the night reading.
I was sure this was the right town. That stuff at the end of the book about the dwarfs and the dancing cowgirls, that was true. Max had told me about it more than once. How he’d been out here with a tent show in the fifties, and they’d got themselves marooned when the entire district flooded. How they’d been bailed up for a week in a shearers hut, got up to all sorts of hijinks. The hut was on an old cattle station called Native Dog Creek, I remembered.
Next morning I ambled up the main street, went into the first Greek cafe I came to, ordered a grill. And thought about my next move.
I needed to ask a few questions, discreetly. I’d dressed as inconspicuously as I could: pale open-neck shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, nondescript brown strides and brown shoes. A middle-of-the-road bloke with some bit of minor business in town, maybe a tradesman or a cocky. Or a family man with wife, kids and caravan in tow. But you wouldn’t care who he was, and you wouldn’t look twice.
I finished the breakfast – not bad – and went to the hardware, which had just opened for the day. I bought a can of WD40 and some insulating tape, the most neutral items I could think of. I was served by a genial, round-headed, middle-aged Lions Club type. I offered that it looked as though they could use some rain in the district. They certainly could, he said. It’d been a dry season, and they were overdue. We touched on the price of wheat and wool, whether or not it was time to devalue the dollar again. The conversation rolled on. He held Gough and the Labor mob in low regard, especially Jim Cairns, to all of which I murmured noncommittal responses.
