The Big Whatever

by Peter Doyle

  I steered him back to local matters. We discussed the grand attractions of the Wee Waa district. I told him my mum used to come here as a girl, and if I remembered correctly, used to stay at a station called Native Dog Creek. Oh yes, he knew the place. A slight narrowing of the eyes: might I perhaps have an interest? Before I could think of the right answer, he went on to say that if I did have an interest, he could let me know the name of a good agent in town. The way things were in Wee Waa, he said, confidentially, everything was for sale, all the time, whether it had a sign out front or not. So I gave him to believe that, as a matter of fact, a friend had asked me to have a quick look at it on his behalf, since I was passing through. He nodded, smiling. He knew it. He’d picked me as Sydney, he said. Satisfied, he gave me directions to the place. And if I wanted to look at any others, I should come back and he could give me some good tips.

  The car still wasn’t ready – another hour – but the mechanic, a different one today, obligingly said I could take the old Austin over there if I wanted, so long as I paid for the petrol I used.

  Ten miles north of town the bitumen road became a well-graded dirt road, then a bumpy, rutted track. I went through two gates and over a couple of grids, reached a final gate with a weathered, once-ornate sign: Native Dog Creek.

  There was no one there, hadn’t been for a while. The old house was deserted, locked up, a window broken. I strolled over to the shearers quarters, where Max and the hoochie coochie girls had been so famously marooned back in 1952. It was an old stone building divided into a series of little compartments – spidery, dusty, wasp-infested – that obviously hadn’t been used for a long time. Except the last one, which had been swept in the last year or so. There was an iron bed frame with no mattress, a blackened kero lamp next to it. Nothing else at all, except in the corner, next to the bed, a dog-eared copy of Meher Baba’s Discourses.

  I went out and sat on a stump, let the wave of defeat wash over me. Sucked in once again by a Max Perkal scam. I’d allowed myself to believe there might be a way out of the Troubles, that he really might have the goods this time. It was pure, vintage Max – the cloak and dagger, the needless complications, the misdirections, the blurry divide between truth and fantasy. Then at the end, the no-show.

  But he had been here all right, and maybe he had entertained the idea of squaring up with me. If he really had a housebrick of compressed smack – which was feasible – how long would it take before he went back, dug it up, started nibbling at it? At any rate, he was long gone from this place.

  I went back to the hardware shop. The owner brightened when he saw me. “See anything you like?” he said. He obviously knew I’d driven out to Native Dog Creek.

  “Interesting,” I said.

  He waited.

  “Yes, very interesting,” I said, hoping to imply that I was quite near making a positive decision on the real estate front. “Something maybe you can help me with,” I said.

  He nodded, ready to oblige.

  “I was out there at the wreckers yesterday. Saw an old feller there, might’ve been a foreigner. A rough old cove. Talking to himself.”

  He nodded again.

  “Well, after I left, it occurred to me he resembled the description I’d heard, of a friend of a friend. I wouldn’t mind catching up with my friend while I’m in the district, but I lost his address. It occurred to me that old feller might know where my mate is.”

  The shopkeeper’s expectant smile had been replaced by a look of mild confusion.

  I pressed on. “The old straggly-haired bloke, would you have any idea who he might be? If he’s the person I have in mind, he has a property out here somewhere. And my mate, a bloke named Max, could be helping him out around the place a bit.”

  Complete confusion now. I’d obviously overplayed my hand. But it didn’t make any difference – the guy clearly hadn’t a clue what I was talking about. He shook his head slowly and looked a bit embarrassed, wouldn’t quite look me in the eye. “It’s a disgrace,” he said, with surprising anger.

  “Huh?”

  “The derelicts and drifters. They wash up in Wee Waa, loiter there down at the river, or in the park, even. No better than blackfellas. The fighting and drinking. And the language! You couldn’t go for a walk with your wife around town after dark here. Disgraceful.”

  “So, the bloke I saw at the wreckers, you don’t know him?”

  He shook his head. “Town’s full of them,” he said.

  The car was sitting exactly where I’d left it the day before, obviously hadn’t been looked at. The mechanic was sorry, but what could he do? Tomorrow morning.

  Back to the motel, a boring night watching the local TV.

  I picked the car up next morning. After I’d paid, as he handed me the keys, the mechanic said quietly, “Copper was in a while ago, looking at your car. Asked whose it was.”

  I stared at him a couple of seconds, wondering how could that be. I shrugged theatrically. “Bit of a snoop, is he?”

  “Just thought I should let you know.” He looked away, down the street, then stole a quick, searching glance at me. Wondering who I was to bring the coppers in.

  As I drove away, I wondered the same. Not a soul in Sydney knew where I was. If the cop checked the car rego, he’d find the name of the previous owner, since Terry always turned his cars over before the two-week grace period expired. I could rule out the number plate, and the car itself was completely unsuspicious. So it had to be just time-killing nosiness on the cop’s part. Still, it worried me.

  I headed back south, kept driving until I was well clear of the district. Late morning I pulled into a garage and rang Terry and Anna’s place. The phone rang for a long time, then a breathless Anna picked up.

  “Oh, Billy. Thank god you rang. There’s trouble.’

  My heart thumped hard. “What trouble?”

  “You better ring Eloise. Something happened with the kids. Everything’s all right, no harm done, but she’s shaken up.”

  “What happened?”

  “Someone approached them after school. Nothing actually happened, but the kids were frightened. Wait, Bill. There’s something else. We got home last night and there was a dead cat—” She paused, and I heard a gasp of breath, “nailed to the front door. And your sleepout had been broken into, messed up a bit.”

  She sobbed a little, then stifled it again. “We’re clearing out, Bill, going to stay with Katie at Avalon.”

  “I’m sorry, Anna. I really am. I’ll deal with it.”

  Eloise was no less upset. It took a few minutes to get the story from her. She’d found an envelope pinned to the front door when she came home the night before. Inside were polaroids of the kids, taken as they were coming out of their schools.

  “Did they know anything?” I said.

  “James said a man fronted him outside school yesterday, said you’d sent him to pick him up. James gave the guy the slip. But he’s was freaked, even though now he’s pretending he wasn’t. Who was it?” Her voice was louder and higher now. “Was it that Barry person?”

  “Yeah. Eloise, take the kids and go away. Right now. Somewhere safe out of town. Your sister’s, maybe. I’ll deal with this, and I’ll ring you when the coast is clear. Don’t tell anyone anything, though. No one, understand?”

  She was quiet for a second or two, then, more calmly, “Yes, I understand.” She’d heard this sort of thing before, the upbringing she’d had. The word comes, go to ground, keep your mouth shut, wait a while. Something here needs dealing with. Afterwards, never refer to it again. She understood.

  Then she sighed and said, “Something else. A friend of yours rang here, twice.”

  “Who?”

  “From Melbourne. That musician guy, Lobby?”

  “Lobby Loyde?”

  “Yeah. He wanted to talk to you.”

  “He leave a number?”

  “No. I told him you didn’t live here. And that I wasn’t your secretary. But I thought I should mention it.” />
  I made a call to a Sydney number, was told to ring back in an hour. Which I did, from a town sixty miles further down the highway. It could be done, I was told, but not till tonight, eight or nine. I said I’d be there.

  It was hard to keep my driving careful and steady like before. My foot would get heavier on the pedal, and I’d find myself going way too fast. I’d slow down very deliberately and stay that way for a while before the cycle started over again.

  At sunset I crossed the Hawkesbury, then slowly threaded my way around the western outskirts of Sydney, through Parramatta, down to Fairfield. I stopped at a Caltex on Liverpool Road and made another phone call. Got a quick answer this time. Twenty minutes later I pulled up at a workshop on a scrubby track in Georges Hall. The light was on, so I went in.

  It was cluttered inside. Two stripped-down motorbikes, parts spread over the floor. A long-haired, bearded man hunched over a bench grinder. He glanced at me and went back to his work. I waited.

  After a minute he turned off the grinder, put down the steel gizmo he was holding. “Bill,” he said.

  “Rat.”

  He looked at his oily hands, smiled apologetically.

  “Best not shake,” he said. He picked up a packet of White Ox and started rolling a ciggy.

  Ray King was one of those short, talky men who’d normally be nicknamed ‘Mouse’ or ‘Sparrow,’ but since his actual Christian name was Ratko – Ratko Kis, in fact, from Yugoslavia, via Villawood Migrant Hostel – he’d become ‘Rat.’

  He lit the cig. “Greg’s coming over. Shouldn’t be long.” Shooting quick glances at me from behind his greasy fringe. Curious, but unwilling to ask me anything outright.

  Presently a car pulled up outside and a thick-necked greaser came in carrying a plastic shopping bag. He said nothing. Rat took the bag from him, peered into it and held it out to me. The greaser retreated to a stool in a corner of the shed.

  I looked in the bag. A Colt and a box of bullets.

  “It’s army, Bill, American. Safe as houses. Very good nick. Plus you got your concealed carry. Fits in your daks. A nice piece.”

  It was that, if a word like “nice” could be applied at all to such a thing.

  “All right.” I rolled up the bag, looked at Rat.

  He glanced at the greaser then back at me. “Three Cs?”

  I handed them to him. A big chunk of my remaining funds.

  Rat smiled, and put the money carefully in his pocket. “Not turning to armed rob, are you?” He kept grinning, so he could pass the nosiness off as banter, should I take his prying amiss.

  “There’s a thought,” I said.

  “’Cause every other cunt is,” he said, and the greaser laughed.

  I looked at him, and wondered.

  Rat glanced at the greaser, then said to me seriously, quietly. “He’s okay. It’s all okay. Same as ever.”

  And I knew it would be.

  It was late when I got to the Cross, late enough to find a parking spot close to the Bourbon and Beefsteak. I needed a shave, probably looked like I’d been on the road all day, but the bouncer let me in with scarcely a glance.

  An indifferent band was plugging away at ‘Midnight Hour.’ The place was half-filled with a rowdy mix of Kings Cross lunkheads, spivs, pros. But no Barry.

  Out again and up the road to the Texas Tavern, a subtly different version of the same crowd. A cowboy band was playing ‘Looking at the World through a Windshield.’ Over in the corner, in a group of drunk and unruly standover thugs, Barry Geddins. I turned and went to the bar, ordered a middy, dropped back behind a pillar.

  Barry lurched away from the laughing group, his face suddenly serious. He scanned the room in a nervous, jerky manner. I dipped further behind the pillar. When he turned back to the group, I finished the middy and left.

  I scanned the street up and down, but couldn’t see his car. I went back to mine, drove up to Macleay Street, parked a little way down from the entrance to the Texas Tavern. And waited.

  Forty minutes later, Barry walked out briskly. He turned left, towards the Cross. I let him walk on – there were few enough people about that I could easily keep track of him. When he got near the corner I started the car, cruised slowly up Macleay Street, nearly caught up with him at the fountain, pulled over and let him walk on again.

  A little past the bend in the road he suddenly stopped and turned quickly, looking hard in my direction. I pulled over. He stepped into the road, whistled and shot his arm out, and a Red Deluxe Cab pulled up.

  It was easy to follow. Left into Bayswater Road, down the hill into New South Head Road, then the back way through Darling Point, down the hill to Double Bay. The cab stopped outside a block of flats in William Street. I pulled up fifty yards behind, took the Colt out of the bag on the floor, put four bullets in it, stuck it in my daks. Concealed carry. I got out of the car, closed the door quietly and stood behind a paperbark tree there in the nature strip, waited while Barry finished paying the driver. As the cab drove away, he walked towards a building further along the street, reaching into his pocket, drawing out keys. Another car door slammed somewhere nearby.

  Barry disappeared into the unlit driveway between two blocks of flats without turning around, but when I got there, I could see him dimly in the shadows, standing still. He was facing me. The driveway smelled of jasmine.

  I stopped. We were fifteen feet apart. The gun was in my hand. I lifted it. He raised his arms away from his sides, palms up. At least, that’s what it looked like.

  There was nothing to say. I pulled the trigger. It roared in the confined space, and surprised me the way it leapt in my hand. There was a sudden movement and Barry wasn’t standing there anymore. A dog barked, someone cried out.

  I turned and left.

  I drove back towards the city, not sure where to go or what to do. I couldn’t go back and see what had happened to Barry. I either hit him or I didn’t, it was too late now to do anything more. I continued driving along Parramatta Road, then onto the Hume Highway. I kept going for three hours, right out of town and into the Belanglo Forest, then pulled off on a dirt road. I slept in the car, well out of sight, and drove straight through to Melbourne the next day.

  It took me three phone calls to get Lobby’s address. A large Victorian building in South Yarra.

  At six that evening I knocked hard on the door, waited a few seconds then knocked again. A voice inside called out, “Holy fuck, what is it?” then the door swung open fast.

  Lobby, in jeans and faded black t-shirt. He looked blankly at me a for a second.

  “You were trying to contact me?” I said.

  “Billy?”

  I nodded.

  He ran his hand through his short hair, then over his face. “Yeah, okay, all right. Come in.”

  I stepped into the big front room. Gypsy scarves hanging from the light fittings, old leather couches, a couple of guitar amps, a stuffed owl on a pedestal, full ashtrays, cups and saucers, an Aubrey Beardsley poster on the wall, the smell of cat’s piss and patchouli.

  “You want a cuppa then?” he said distractedly. Then with more liveliness, “Or a drink?”

  “No.”

  “Are you okay? Sit down. You’re making me nervous.”

  I exhaled slowly. “Sorry, I’ve had a long drive.” I flopped onto the nearest couch. A tabby cat slunk over to check me out.

  Lobby sat down opposite, still shooting quick glances at me. “Yeah, well I rang your ex’s, ’cause I thought she could get a message to you.” He smiled. “I didn’t know you were in Melbourne.”

  “Well, here I am,” I said.

  His turn to exhale slowly. “So, Bill . . . Last time we met would’ve been at the House of Cards, back in, what, 1968, 69?”

  “Thereabouts.”

  “Great days.”

  “Yep.”

  A pause. He sighed. “Yeah, well, it’s about this Max business.”

  “What Max business?”

  “The book. Him being a
live.”

  “Is he?”

  “Well, with that book and all. Seems obvious, doesn’t it?”

  I shrugged.

  “And now with you here,” he said.

  “I was in town anyway.”

  There was someone moving about in the other room. A woman’s voice called out, “Lobby, you in there?”

  Lobby shook his head quickly, looking over my shoulder to the kitchen doorway, and the voice said, “Oh.”

  I turned around. A tall, good-looking woman. Dark hair, bobbed. Angular features. Looking at me nervously. She smiled. “I’m Jan.”

  “This is Billy,” Lobby said, giving my name a particular emphasis.

  I said “Hi” and turned back around to catch Lobby signalling something to her. He grinned at me. “Hey, let’s go up the pub. For the one.”

  Five minutes later we were in the back bar of the Station Hotel. Lobby with a scotch and dry, me with a lemon squash. A packet of Marlboros and a lighter on the table in front of him.

  “So?” I said.

  “Well, yeah. See, I was asked to make contact with you.”

  I waited. Lobby got a smoke out, held the pack out to me. I shook my head. He lit his smoke, took a deep drag, exhaled slowly.

  “By Denise Baillieu-Munden,” he said, finally.

  “Ah, ‘the heiress revolutionary’.”

  “Yeah, her. She’s an old friend.”

  “And what does she want with me?”

  “She wanted to talk to you. Discuss the whole business.”

  “What whole business?”

  He shrugged. “Denise keeps her head down. Has to, since she’s still on parole. No interviews or anything like that. She did one thing with the Women’s Weekly when she first got out, and that nearly got her slotted all over again. So the family keep her wrapped up. But she wants to meet you, and have a talk. She asked me to get in touch with you.”