by Peter Corris
I drove the Standard back to the bushy location near the Narrabeen Lakes and showed Eric Porter the modifications. He nodded knowingly, as if the whole thing had been his idea.
'Feel like doing the stunt, Dick?' he said.
Mercifully, I was in the act of lighting a cigarette when he spoke. This gave Finch time to chime in.
'I'll do it, Eric,' he said.
'Sure,' I said, a split second later.
Finch grinned. He'd been drinking a little, not too much, and he was loose. 'Unless Ron wants to try it.'
Randell was standing quietly by combing his hair, of which he was inordinately proud. He smiled and shook his head.
Porter looked worried. 'I don't think so, Peter.'
Finch turned belligerent immediately. 'Why the hell not? I've finished all my scenes. I can do it. Done it before.'
'We, ah . . . might have to reshoot,' Porter said.
Finch sneered. 'You don't have the money to reshoot. D'you want me for your next picture or not?'
Porter knew that Finch's performance was the best thing about A Son is Born, and that his chances of financing Storm Hill depended on having Peter aboard.
He shrugged. 'Talk to Dick. I'll blame him if you break your neck.'
Finch clapped me on the back. 'Nothing to it, is there? Shoot from the passenger side, driver's door half open, steer for the edge and do a dive-roll out. Right?'
'Right. The tricky part's handling the skid.'
'Steer into it. We played around a bit with the jeeps up north. Nothing to it.'
That was Finch. Sober, he was quiet and a bit unsure of himself. With a few drinks in him he was brimful of confidence with women and everything else. Of course, it was the ruin of him in the end, as with so many others, but he had a good innings. He raced off to get a pair of overalls while the props men fixed the dummy in the passenger seat and the cameras got into position.
Nowadays, when so many of the movies seem to be nothing but car chases and smashes, the little scene we filmed at Narrabeen would be very small beer. But back then, in Australia, it was something of a novelty and the whole crew gathered to watch the fun. I did everything I could think of to make it go right, including checking that the oil slick which would provide the skid wasn't too long or too slick. I also made sure there was only enough petrol in the tank to complete the run. One time in Hollywood I'd seen a stunt like this go wrong—the driver couldn't get out, the sparks started flying and the punctured fuel tank was full.
Finch did everything wrong. He stalled the car when he first started it. Then he revved it too hard and had it moving too fast when he went into the skid. The Standard slithered for what seemed like minutes and I was sure it was going to go over the bank at thirty miles an hour instead of three. Finch somehow managed to get traction and brake but he still hit the edge too fast and the car plunged over with the engine making more noise than it should. I caught a glimpse of Peter before that and he looked panicked. The Standard bounced a few times, hit a couple of trees and disintegrated. There were shrieks from the women and groans from the men. I fully expected to be in the party that scrambled down to retrieve his mangled body.
The spinning back wheels threw up some dust and when it cleared there was Finch, flashing his white teeth in his suntanned face and pushing back his hair. That's a big part of being a star—they screw up like everyone else, but things work out fine for them.
20
After striking my deal with Bill Henderson I jumped at shadows, grew irritable and went off my food. Life started to get tricky at Crown Street. With Ushi working on the film, Pam felt left out of things. The two women had double-dated with their American clients as often as not, and Pam confided in me that this was one of the things that had made the life bearable.
'It's not the same, solo,' she said one night when Ushi was late getting back from Narrabeen. 'Not nearly as much fun and not as safe.'
'How's that?' I asked.
'The Yanks behave better when there's two of them and two women. They're not as likely to get blind drunk and go in for the rough stuff.'
I had seen very little bad conduct by our gallant allies so I didn't take much notice. Besides, my mind was on other matters. Pam reminded me of my promise not to hurt Ushi and to leave some money for her when I left.
'I'm working on it,' I said.
Pam's normally good-natured face arranged itself into something like a sneer. 'You don't say. I'd never have guessed.'
'What d'you mean?'
'Jesus Christ, you men! You must think women're deaf, dumb and blind. Do you think I don't know you're mulling something over? How bloody illegal is it?'
'Well . . .'
She waggled a finger at me. 'Just you remember, Dicky boy. Any trouble for Ushi and I'll land you in the shit so fast you'll think all your birthdays have come at once.'
That was just what I needed for my peace of mind— an avenging angel poised to squeal on me if things went wrong.
Henderson's call came two days later.
'At the stadium tomorrow night,' he said.
'What stadium?'
'Rushcutters Bay, of course. Two ringside tickets for you at the gate.'
I said, 'Who's fighting?' but he'd rung off.
I checked the paper. Alan Westbury was fighting Jack McNamee for the Australian middleweight title. I like middleweights—you can get speed and punching power. It was late in the evening. Ushi and I had done a day's work on the film. Pam was out with a client. We shared a bottle of over-priced black-market beer in the kitchen. Since she'd started hanging around with the film people, Ushi had shown a little more interest in the suds. My ardour had cooled somewhat, the way it does unaccountably, but I was hot for her that night. She was wearing her silk dressing gown and I was getting a good view of her firm little breasts and her big, shapely legs.
I put my hand on her dimpled knee. 'How'd you like to go out on Friday night?'
She yawned. 'Out where?'
'The stadium, to see the fights.'
'Ugh.'
'Ringside seats. Championship bout. Bound to be celebrities there. You might meet Jack Davey.'29
The poison had got into her blood. She jumped into my lap and nibbled my ear. 'Oh, Dick,' she said. 'Yes, I'd love to go to the wrestling.'
'Boxing,' I said, but that was the last thing she got wrong that night.
It had been more years than I cared to remember since I'd been inside Sydney Stadium. The last fight I'd seen there had been Les Darcy's demolition of Buck Crouse. That had gone only two rounds of a scheduled twenty and had ended in the usual way, with Les grinning and the other bloke sleeping. When people ask me who was the best middleweight I ever saw, I can never decide between Les Darcy and 'Sugar Ray' Robinson. Mickey Walker wasn't bad.30 I know who was the worst, a young chap who wept after being hit on the nose in an amateur three-rounder—me.
Nothing much had changed about the old barn since the days of the twenty-rounders. There was still a good deal of rusted corrugated iron in the construction on the outside, and inside the same fug of beer breath and tobacco smoke. Our tickets were waiting for us at the gate as Henderson had promised, and Ushi and I pushed our way through to the ringside section. I was surprised at the size of the crowd. The papers later gave it out as 10,000, which was a good house for a couple of pretty average pugs like Westbury and McNamee. The fact was that after five years of war, Sydney needed diversion.
Ushi was done up to the nines in a blue dress that flattered her unusual figure. She'd had her hair elaborately arranged and wore a little blue hat that wouldn't have kept off any rain, but that wasn't the point. She drew a lot of whistles as we made our way to our seats and I could see from her face that her night was made. A six-round preliminary was in progress in which no-one was very interested. Jack Davey was at ringside, looking like the king of radio in a dinner suit with his thin silver hair gleaming. Darby Munro was there too. It wouldn't matter if every fight was a schlenter, Ushi would be happy.31
We sat down and I looked around for Henderson and Sergeant Robin Barwick. No sign. Evidently security was being observed. I hoped no meetings in the toilet were planned—my recollection of the facilities at Rushcutters Bay Stadium was of a wet, slimy floor and a smell something like the Hun gas in France. In the ring a couple of lightweights were dancing around each other as if each was trying to make the other giddy. Nothing much happened in the way of punches. The crowd was restless but Ushi appeared to enjoy it.
'It's something like the ballet, isn't it, Dick?' she said.
The man next to her snorted and said something about cream puffs, which puzzled Ushi. She kept looking across at Davey and his entourage and touching her hair. There were a number of women at ringside, all dolled up, but none outshining my companion. The lightweight match ended in a draw, which seemed to be what they'd had in mind all along. Then an Aboriginal welterweight, all skinny legs and spidery arms, pulverised a slow-moving opponent inside two rounds. He got a shower of coins from the audience. Ushi looked concerned when the white boy had to be lifted onto his seat. The man sitting next to us wadded up a ten shilling note and flicked it into the ring. He'd won big on the fight. The Aborigine's trainer scooped the note up and put it in his pocket.
On to the main event and there was none of this blondes in a body-stocking holding up the round numbers business you see today—more's the pity. No music, no silk robes, just two tradesmen in dressing gowns, McNamee in black shorts, Westbury in white, and may the best man win. The referee was Joe Wallis, whose stomach cut off a good part of the ring. He was nimble enough to stay out of the fighters' way, though. Westbury was the heavier, indeed he looked a bit soft in the middle; McNamee looked trim, had the speed and a snappy left.
I settled down to enjoy the fight, forgetting why I was there. The smoke thickened and seemed to cluster around the ring. Again I was reminded of the gas welling up out of no-man's land and rolling towards the trenches. Ask anyone who experienced it, they'll tell you it's something you can't forget. It was a pretty good fight. McNamee was faster and sharper in the early rounds and scored with his left pretty freely on Westbury's face. Didn't seem to be hurting him much though. Westbury had a good fifth round. I remember it because I got a five quid bet down on him then with the high-roller next to us.
'He'll run out of steam,' he said, after Westbury landed heavily a few times and had McNamee holding on.
'A fiver says he doesn't.'
'You're on.'
We let Ushi hold the stakes. Around the tenth I thought I was going to lose because McNamee put in a few good rounds and was well ahead on points. Westbury wasn't doing much and his cornermen began to look concerned. A man almost as fat as Wallis spoke urgently to Westbury between rounds.
'Who's that?' I asked.
The man in front of me turned around. 'Bill McConnell. If Westbury wins he'll be McConnell's thirteenth Australian champ.'
Ushi looked at the money in her fist and shook her head.
Westbury was a changed man in the eleventh. I wouldn't say he got up on his toes, but he moved around more, hemmed McNamee in more often and got in some good shots. McNamee started to hold. Wallis used his big gut to butt him away. Westbury looked fresh. He caught his man on the ropes and landed a good combination. McNamee looked confused at the end of the twelfth but he might have got the decision if that had been the end. With three more rounds to go he didn't have a hope. He held, was belted in the clinches, got butted by Wallis' belly, was cautioned and Westbury finished all over him.
Wallis held up his hand immediately and the announcer jumped through the ropes. 'The winner and the new middleweight champeen of Australia, Al–an West–bury!'
A few boos from the McNamee supporters, but general acceptance of the decision. Ushi handed me the money. She mightn't have known much about boxing but she knew how to settle a bet. I kissed her. 'Champagne,' I said.
'Right,' said a voice in my ear. 'At Ziggy's.'
It was Henderson. He winked at me as he pushed away through the crowd.
Ushi clutched my arm. 'Who was that?'
'A friend. Let's go to Ziggy's.'
The Ziegfield Cafe on King Street was a nightclub and a notorious sly-grog joint. You could drink there until the early hours if you were prepared to pay the prices. The outrageous mark-up wasn't all profit; the management had to shell out handsomely to the police to remain in business. We shared a taxi with some other celebrants, some going to Ziggy's, others to various clubs in the Cross and Surry Hills. Ushi had been trying to keep Jack Davey in sight but she lost him. I assured her he was likely to be going to the Ziegfield, but, if the scuttlebutt was true, he was probably going off somewhere to blow his money on baccarat.
Henderson met us outside the club. There was some sort of charade about membership which involved forking over money and then we were inside. I'd been there once before with Finch, but I'd been too drunk to form any clear impressions. It was a big place, dimly lit, with a bar along one side and a lot of tables and chairs all crammed in together. There was a small bandstand with a few musicians sitting about looking as if they might eventually get around to playing something, and a tiny dance floor, but the real business was drinking and smoking. The air was like a London pea souper and Ushi started to cough almost immediately.
'I can't breathe,' she said.
'A few glasses of bubbly and you won't notice.'
Henderson was steering us to a table in the corner where it was so dark you couldn't recognise your own mother. I could tell that Ushi wanted to be out where she could see and be seen, but Henderson was in charge. We sat down; an ice bucket with an opened bottle of champagne appeared along with four glasses. I poured quickly and got a glass straight into me. Ushi sipped her wine cautiously, gazing around for a famous face. Henderson tapped her on the shoulder and gave her a pound note.
'Goodnight, miss,' he said.
Ushi's jaw dropped. 'Who do you think you are? I'm not going anywhere. Dick?'
'Tell her, Dick.'
It wasn't my finest hour. That was the point where I began to break my promise to Pam, but what could I do? I was worried. Why hadn't we had our meeting at the stadium? What was the point of coming here? Henderson was relaxed and I was edgy. I gave Ushi another pound. 'Sorry, love,' I said. 'Business. You'd better get a taxi.'
The look she shot me would have stripped paint. It occurred to me later that I was treating her the way some of her clients did. She showed a lot of class by simply arranging her wrap around her shoulders, standing up and walking out without a backward glance. I felt like a worm and poured another glass.
Henderson's close-set eyes, screwed up against the smoke, followed her out of sight. 'Unusual shape,' he said.
'Get fucked.'
'Listen, Dicky, we're not playing games now. It's all serious stuff from now on.'
'I'm not sure I want—'
'You've got no choice. Here're our partners, and now you've seen them you're in with no fuckin' way out.'
Two men were approaching the table. The musicians started to play but I couldn't make out the tune. The contrast between the pair was almost shocking. One was a small, nuggetty number with gimlet eyes and a rat-trap mouth; he wore a nondescript grey suit. The other was large and fleshy, soft all over and wearing a beige suit with a hand-painted silk tie. They sat down. The big man signalled for more booze and glasses.
'This is Dick,' Henderson said. 'Hughes, Kelly, Browning, whatever you want to call him. Robin Barwick and Douglas Erskine.'
Erskine was the fat one. He grinned around a big cigar. 'Let's call him the brigadier.'
Barwick lit a cigarette. 'I hear you're a deserter. If you desert us we'll cut your fuckin' heart out.'
21
It turned out that the terrible trio, Henderson, Barwick and Erskine, had been watching me at the stadium to make sure I had no suspicious contacts.
'The sheila's a pro, isn't she?' Barwick said.
I nodded. 'In a way.'
&
nbsp; Erskine smiled and puffed his cigar. He'd tossed off one glass of champagne and was working on his second. Henderson and Barwick hadn't touched the wine. 'How many ways are there?'
I was starting to relax and put two and two together. Erskine had to be the publican and petrol-station owner, the guy with the clout in Canberra. He looked the part. His hands were manicured although they'd done hard work at some time in the past. Barwick was the most dangerous. If you made the effort to observe, everything about him shrieked paranoid crook, although it would be easy just to overlook him altogether. But he'd be the enforcer if one was needed. Henderson appeared to be the planner and co-ordinator. Erskine emptied the champagne bottle and called for more. Henderson ordered beer for himself and Barwick. I could have done with a scotch, but I settled for some of the fat man's champagne.
'So you've established that I'm not a phizz,' I said.32 'What next?'
'Not much,' Erskine said. 'Just wanted to look you over. You'd be a forty regular, wouldn't you?'
'That's right,' I said. 'Might need an extra half inch in the leg. Got a good tailor on the job?'
'Good enough.'
'Shit,' Barwick said.
Erskine turned his mild eyes on him. 'What's the matter with you, Robin? The man's perfect, can't you see that?'
The antagonism between the two was something of a comfort. I leaned back in my chair and lit a cigarette. The band, now noticed, was playing 'Begin the Beguine' and a few couples were dancing. I almost felt like taking a turn myself. Winning money and drinking champagne does wonders for the spirits. With the music and the noise of conversation, laughter and bottles touching glasses, there was no danger of our talk being overheard.
'I would like to know a few more details,' I said. 'Such as when and how.'
