by Peter Corris
My weakening knees stiffened. 'Sure. Be glad to. What about your mother?'
He shook his head. 'I'm an orphan.'
As soon as he spoke, he realised that it was a ludicrous thing for a man of his age to say and he let out a laugh. That broke the tension completely. He sat down behind the desk and I leaned against the wall and lit the cigarette I'd been dying for.
'Where'd you get those smokes?' he said.
I was lighting a Lucky Strike from a packet one of Ushi's clients had left behind. I held them out to him. He took one. I lit it with my Zippo and he inhaled luxuriously.
'From a friend,' I said.
'Must be nice, to have friends like that. Do you know what these are worth on the black market?'
I shook my head.
'I better not tell you. You probably wouldn't give me another one.'
We smoked in silence for a while. He really did look remarkably like his father but, as I studied him more closely, there were differences. His eyes had a shrewdness Jack's had lacked, and they were set more closely together, giving him a slightly foxy look. His movements were nervous, where Jack's had been sure and purposeful. I tried to remember what Jack's trade had been before he joined the army. I couldn't recall—something up country. Maybe that accounted for the differences; Bill Henderson was a city man if ever I saw one.
I dropped the cigarette into the hubcap that seemed to serve as the ashtray and sat on the edge of the desk. 'I was surprised to see Jack as a train guard,' I said. 'I thought he was a country boy.'
'That's right. The family had a farm out Sofala way, but when Dad got back from the war he couldn't do the work it needed. He'd had a whiff of gas.'
I closed my eyes involuntarily. I remembered that yellow muck rolling in and the frantic scramble to get the gas mask on. 'Bloody awful. So you grew up in Sydney?'
' 's right. Randwick. Wanted to be a jockey but I grew too big.'
'And what since then?'
His eyes moved uneasily and I thought I knew what that meant. The clink—you've got the look.
'This and that. I'm doing all right here. I was unfit for service, in case you're wondering—crook back.'
I nodded. 'We'll have to have a few beers and talk about Jack. Right now I'm interested in buying a car. I was told you might have the right sort of thing.'
I explained my needs. He was suspicious at first, but I had one of Eric's 'Porter Productions' cards to show him and he came around. We went out to the yard (he didn't suggest that I inspect the workshop) and discussed the suitability of the Standard. We haggled over the price and then over the cost of the modifications I wanted. Eventually we came to terms. I paid a deposit and he agreed to have the car ready in four days. I gave him the remaining Luckys and drove away in the Riley, vaguely uneasy about the meeting but satisfied with the business conducted.
I got back to Crown Street, after driving through another rainstorm, disgruntled and worried. I snapped at Pam, drank two bottles of beer and fell into a brown study. I'm not, by nature, a self-questioning person, but I had to wonder where my life was going. Dogsbody on a low-budget movie, looking over my shoulder for spooks, shacked up with a whore—it didn't sound too promising as I spelled it out to myself.
'Hey, grumpy guts,' Pam said. 'You want some fish and chips?'
I'm tone deaf, very close to green, blue, and brown colour blind and my hearing was slightly damaged by the artillery bombardments on the Somme, but my taste buds are in good shape. A couple of serves of Sydney fish and chips, wrapped in newspaper with plenty of salt and vinegar, comes in near the top of my list of all-time great tastes. I joined Pam at the table and we pigged in.
'What about your figure?' I said.
She chewed hard and talked right through the mouthful of fish and potato. 'Bugger it for tonight. I won't eat for the rest of the week. What've you done to yourself? You look like a spiv.'
I'd forgotten that I was still dark-haired and moustachioed. 'For the picture. Ushi likes it.'
'Do you like Ushi?'
'Sure I do.'
'Don't hurt her, Dick. She's pinning some hopes on you. I know you'll let her down, but do it gently.'
'Pam, I . . .'
She held up her hand. 'Don't say anything. I've known your type since I was fourteen. Good bloke, no harm in you, your own worst enemy, all that bullshit. From what I can see you're better than most—you take your sex straight and you haven't given Ushi the clap. But you're passing through, aren't you?'
'I guess so.'
She picked up a chip and examined it as if it was a rare fossil. 'Pass through gently, then. Leave her with some good memories and some bloody money. I want your promise.'
'I promise.'
'Good. Have you got another bottle of that beer? I'm goin' to be a devil tonight.'
We drank more beer and ate most of the fish and chips. Ushi came home soon after while we were sitting bloated and guilty at the table. She sniffed the air.
'You bastards. Fish and chips. Where's mine?'
'In the oven,' I said. 'But there's no more beer.'
Ushi snorted. 'Beer. This is the stuff to drink.' She reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of Houghtton's white burgundy.
'Christ, where'd you get that?' Pam said.
'I had a matinee.'
I avoided Pam's eye and pulled the cork from the bottle. We all had a glass of wine. Ushi ate two chips and nibbled at a piece of fish. 'Isn't he handsome, Pam? All got up like that.'
'Handsome is as handsome does,' Pam said.
Ushi was on her second glass, a record for her. 'Oh, he does all right. Don't you, Dick?'
I was embarrassed. 'Go easy, love. You're getting squiffy.'
'Who cares? I'm going to be a movie star.'
She used an American accent on 'movie star'—did it pretty well, too. She took a big gulp of wine.
'Eric's offered me a speaking part in Desert Storm.'
'Storm Hill,' I said. 'That's great.'
The look Pam shot me was full of reproach and warning. Ushi didn't notice. She finished her glass and poured some more.
'Yeah, it's great. I'm gonna be a star. C'mon, Dicky, let's go t' bed.'
That night she may have been drunk, she may have been on the way to a big disappointment, but she made me very glad I had black gunk in my hair and a phoney moustache.
19
I picked up the Standard and drove it around Ultimo for a while. It didn't have to do much, but it did have to reach a respectable speed and I had to make sure that the weakened chassis wouldn't fall apart the first time it was driven. The car passed the test and I paid Henderson the balance of the money.
'Few particulars to complete,' he said. 'I need your address.'
I gave it without thinking. I was worried about Eric Porter's suggestion that I might do the stunt of driving the car over the cliff. I'd seen it done often enough. The car is driven at something close to actual speed for a stretch, then thrown into a skid or spin. After that, the vehicle slows down and is steered in the right direction and the driver bails out. The film is speeded up to blend the three stages together.
'Signatures here and here, Dick.'
I signed, still preoccupied. I didn't really want to do the stunt, but I was anxious to cut a good figure in Ushi's eyes and to stay tight with Eric Porter. I had no plans beyond the end of this film. I might well need work on Storm Hill myself. I couldn't see any way out.
'Care for a drink, Dick?' Henderson said. 'You promised to tell me a bit about my old man.'
I was willing. Anything to put off the evil hour of taking the Standard back to where the filming was going on and announcing to Porter that I was ready to drive, skid and jump. It promised to be a difficult scene to shoot. With only the one car it had to be done right, not the way it is now in Hollywood, where a director can wreck ten Lincoln Continentals if he wants to.
'A drink'd be fine,' I said, and I meant it. Although my military career had ended ingloriously, I had seen some s
tiff action, and I was as willing to jaw about it as the next old soldier, providing my guard was safely up.
We drove in the Standard to the Ancient Briton hotel in Glebe Point Road, which Henderson described as 'my local'. The clientele seemed to consist entirely of wharfies and boxers. The only place I'd ever seen so many massive shoulders, cauliflower ears and flat noses collected together in one spot was in some of the harbourside bars in San Francisco. I was surprised at the size of the crowd early on a Friday afternoon.
'Strike,' Henderson said. Then, more softly, he added, 'Bludgers.'
We were both big men and we had to use our height and weight to get through to the bar. There was a lot of shouting and shoving going on and I had the feeling that the place was going to erupt into violence at any moment. We got our schooners and jammed ourselves into a corner. A good number of the men nodded to Henderson or exchanged a word or two with him.
'Can't we go somewhere else?' I bellowed into Henderson's ear. 'I can't hear myself think.'
'No, this is the right place. They'll be off to the Trades Hall building any minute. I've got a proposition to put to you.'
I drank a couple of schooners, making one dangerous, rib-bruising run to the bar, before watching Henderson's prediction come true. The men exited the pub in a pushing, shouting mass, leaving the bar occupied by only a few oldsters, a couple of sailors, Henderson and me. The staff got busy with mops and buckets and brushes and pans cleaning up the spilt beer, the spittle, the broken glass and cigarette butts. They swabbed the tiled walls and concrete floor. I'd forgotten what an Australian public bar was like—unlike any other drinking place in the world.
'Why was this the right place?' I asked, as soon as the racket had died.
'I wanted you to see that I'm well regarded around here.'
I thought of the quick nods from the bruisers and the half-drunk salutations from some of the others. 'OK, I could see that. So what?'
'How would you like to make some money?'
I was interested, but instantly on my guard. 'Say I would.'
'Real money. Thousands. Enough to get you back to the States in style.'
Right then there was nothing I wanted more. It was disconcerting to have someone like Henderson put a finger on my deepest desire. 'Keep talking,' I said.
'Hang on while I get another round.'
He strolled to the bar and I realised what a consummate actor and conman he was. He'd left me for a minute or two to chew on what he'd said. It was the sort of thing movie directors did all the time. Henderson didn't know I knew that. I chewed, but just a little. I also lit a cigarette. I took a sip of the beer he'd bought and realised that three schooners was starting to put me away. I wasn't the drinker I used to be.
'What's wrong?' Henderson said. He lit a cigarette with a hand as steady as a lamp post.
'Nothing. What's this about a proposition?'
He leaned closer. We were still standing up because there was nowhere in the bar to sit down. 'What's the most valuable commodity in Sydney right now?'
I was three parts drunk. I wanted to say love, but I said, 'Sex.'
He grinned. 'Maybe that's second. No, the most valuable thing is petrol. How're you getting yours, Dick?'
At that time, the owner of a registered vehicle got his ration tickets from the Post Office. The allowance was small. 'Well, it's rationed of course,' I said. 'I've got Eric Porter's tickets. He's got some sort of extra allowance. It's not enough but—'
Henderson thumped my upper arm, causing me to drop my cigarette onto the wet floor. I stood on it, pretending that I'd meant to discard it.
'My point exactly. Not enough. Supply and demand. Short supply plus big demand equals top price. Simple arithmetic.'
He was his father's son all right. Jack had said things like, 'Two mugs plus one mug equals one mug, because all mugs are the same.' I nodded at Henderson Junior's uncontestable wisdom. 'Your dad would've agreed with you.'
He brushed that aside. 'Yeah. Now, suppose you could lay your hands on a big supply of this in-demand item, you'd be sitting pretty, right?'
'Right, provided that you had some way to dispose of it.'
He winked. 'Who's got a big supply of petrol?'
'Er, well, the refineries, I suppose, and . . .'
'Wrong, mate. The right answer is—the Australian army.'
I shrugged. 'Obviously. And the navy and the air force for that matter.'
'We're not concerned with them. Now, the fact is that I do have the outlets and I have a way of tapping into the supply.'
I thought of the cars I'd seen on the road that had obviously been adapted to run on kerosene—they lacked power on the hills and blew a hell of a lot of smoke. Not to mention the charcoal-burners. I had no doubt that Henderson was right, abundant supplies of petrol at the right price would be liquid gold. As far as I could see, though, the rationing system was tightly policed. That meant just one thing.
'You mean,' I said, 'you know of a way to steal gasoline from the army.'
'Petrol,' he said.
'What?'
'You've got to call it petrol. You're sounding more like an Aussie every day, Dick, but you've still got these funny words in your head. You've got to call it petrol.'
'I can call it any bloody thing I like.'
'Not if you want to make an easy couple of thou. Do you, Dick?'
I studied his face. The long nose and the close-set eyes, the thin mouth and the jaw that was just starting to accumulate beer fat. It wasn't a face to trust. Few are. The question was, though, was it a face to fear? I thought of what he had on me—knowledge of the name I'd enlisted under, information about my desertion and subsequent misdemeanours. Could he make trouble for me? Yes, if he knew who to talk to. Did he? Unlikely. On the other hand, I had no doubt that he was cooking up a money-making scheme and I needed money very badly if I wasn't going to end up doing shitwork on Australian films, maybe tied down to Ushi. And that was the hopeful prospect! I made my decision.
'I'm interested, Bill. Tell me more.'
'You're an actor, right?'
'Sure.'
'Have you ever played the part of an army officer?'
'Sort of.'
'That's what this bit of business needs—a major or a colonel. Half an hour's work.'
'That's a serious offence, impersonating an officer.'
'This is serious money.'
Of course I should have finished my drink, grabbed the car keys and got the hell out of there, but I didn't. I stayed, kept drinking, and listened. The more I heard the more I was persuaded that Bill had worked out a foolproof scheme and that thirty minutes work could make me a man of means. Moralists would say, nothing good could come of a plan to get so much for so little, but most moralists you'll find have never really been in a tough spot. Anyway, their prescriptions are too simple. True, it was big bucks for little work, but it was very ticklish work.
Briefly, the plan was this: the army camp at Richmond had an enormous supply of petrol. The NCO in charge of it was an associate of Henderson's. If a high-ranking officer were to enter the camp with a convoy of trucks and certain papers requisitioning the fuel, how was a mere quartermaster sergeant to refuse him? The scheme had been put together by Henderson, the sergeant and the proprietor of a number of petrol stations in Sydney.
'This bloke's got clout,' Henderson told me. 'His brother's a judge or something in Canberra.'
'That's a bit vague,' I said.
'I'll find out for you if you're interested. The point is, he's got quite a few coppers in his pocket and he gets to know what's going on.'
In my time I'd been involved in a few schemes to get something to people who wanted it in ways that the authorities disapproved of. The item had usually been liquor—when I was a salesman for Robespierre Wine & Spirits Merchants in Australia thirty years back, and in Chicago and LA during Prohibition. I could convince myself that this wasn't so very different. The war was won, wasn't it? The army wouldn't need the fuel but
you could bet they wouldn't be turning it over to the people who did. It had been bought with people's tax money, hadn't it? So to whom did it really belong? Why, the people who Henderson wanted to supply. It all made sense to me, with the help of the beer. But my experience had taught me a few things, particularly the truth of the saying that a chain is only as strong as its weakest link.
'What about the sergeant?' I asked. 'How reliable is he?'
Henderson stroked his long chin, which was beginning to sprout ginger bristles. At that moment he looked just like his father had, when Jack had been deciding on a good place for a two-up game and whether or not to use the doctored pennies.
'We'd better have a meeting,' he said.
'You haven't answered the question.'
'Best to judge for yourself. Tell you one thing, don't judge him by his name.'
'What's that?'
'Robin Barwick. Bit of a pansy name, Robin, but he's a tough bastard.'
'He'll have to be. They'll grill him over a slow flame.'
'He's up to it. Does that mean you're in, Dick? We've just been waiting for the right bloke to do the officer.'
'Have you asked anyone else? Plenty of actors around.'
'No. They're mostly poofters.'
'I'll think about it. I'd have to meet the sergeant first.'
'Right. I'll set that up and give you a ring. I've got your number. You won't be sorry, Dick.'
I picked up the keys and my hat. 'Best we don't be seen together too much. I'm going to go for a walk and clear my head.'
'Hey, how'm I going to get back to my place?'
'Your dad could walk a mile in seven minutes carrying a bag of wheat.' I left the pub, steering a more or less straight course. It's always best to have the last word when you're dealing with crooks.
Half an hour's walking through the streets of Glebe sobered me up. It was a rough area, pretty much like Darlinghurst, with lots of small cottages and big boarding houses. There were very few cars parked in the streets and the kids playing cricket, using the lamp posts as wickets, were almost uninterrupted by traffic. The shops were small and dark and the stuff in their windows looked old and faded. The pubs were doing good business. I saw the police station at the end of the street I happened to be in and I turned on my heel. I was acting like a criminal already.
