by Peter Corris
'How did you get to Sydney? How did you find me?'
'By freight train, how else? I travelled all over California riding the rails. It's a cinch. I stole the clothes and stole what food I could. That wasn't so easy. Lucky this place has great weather.'
I was starting to put a positive construction on Harry's arrival. I was in a very bad spot with Henderson and Co, and a resourceful ally like Harry had to be a plus. Of course, there was always the drawback that he was a Japanese, with whom we were locked in mortal combat. All in all though, I was glad to see him. I poured him another brandy and fixed us both a huge club sandwich.
'Harry,' I said, 'there's a couple of million people in Sydney. I'm delighted to see you, but how did you find me?'
'Sheer, dumb luck,' he said, around a mouthful. 'I hit town yesterday. Slept in a park. I was walking along this Crown Street looking for some place to steal food when I saw you pull up and throw the broad outa the car. Then you took off with that green car after you. I hung around, figuring maybe I could talk to the woman. Then they lit out and you arrived. Luck, like I say.'
Harry finished his sandwich and picked up the crumbs with a moistened fingertip—a sure sign of someone who has been on short rations. Suddenly I gave a yelp and dashed from the room. I had remembered the scrap of paper I'd stuffed into my pants pocket. I'd left the trousers in a crumpled, wet heap on the bathroom floor as was my habit. If the ink ran and I couldn't read the address . . . I came back smoothing out the paper. The writing was blurry but still legible. Harry poured himself another drink and leaned back in his chair.
'So, Dick, tell me what's been happening with you. Did you ever get to make that movie?'
There was probably no need for me to tell him everything but I did. For one thing, it helped me to get it all in perspective and make up my mind what to do. For another, if Harry was counting on me to help him it was wise to let him see up front just what kind of spot I was in myself. He listened, helping himself to the brandy and waving away my cigarette smoke.
'How much is in this gasoline deal for you?'
'A few thousand, if I live to collect it.'
Harry whistled. 'That's useful dough. With that, we should be able to get on a boat back to the US of A.'
'What are you talking about?'
'Dick, Dick, there's no future for us here. Our one chance is for you to pull this job and scoot.'
'What's this "us" and "our" stuff?'
'You owe me, Dick. Remember the snake.'
'I'm in a jam myself, Harry. I'm in no position to help you.'
'The fuck you're not. A coupla grand'll buy us tickets to South America and more. But for now, you need someone on your side if these pals of yours get nasty. I've been in the Japanese army, buddy. I can get nastier that your cheap hoods could imagine.'
Put like that, I had to agree. I imagined Robin Barwick's reaction if he came face to face with Harry in a dim light. I knew where I'd put my money. I placed the piece of paper on the table.
'Room Ten, Dowling House, Kings Cross,' Harry read. 'Some kind of flophouse?'
'Bet on it,' I said.
I packed up my meagre belongings and stole a few things from the house—a US army captain's shirt that fitted Harry better than mine and a pair of shoes ditto. We took the rest of the brandy and a bottle of gin, as well as several packs of cigarettes and some tins of coffee. I made sure to pack the .45 I'd taken from the Yank officer. The Americans were our benefactors in those days, no mistake. I considered leaving Ushi a note but decided against it in the end. I had no money to leave so I'd well and truly broken my promise to Pam. I reasoned that the less Ushi knew about me and my future movements, the better for her own health. Convenient reasoning perhaps, but there you are.
I've done some mad things in my time, like kidnapping that murderous bastard Pofirio Calderon, putting my fists up against Errol Flynn and placing myself under the direction of Eric Von Stroheim, but tramping through the streets of wartime Sydney in the company of an escaped Japanese POW has to rank as one of the craziest. Nevertheless, that's what I did. Harry and I walked to Dowling House. He wore a hat pulled down over his face and dark glasses. Being a Japanese, he couldn't grow much of a beard and the bit of stubble he'd acquired in the past three weeks only served to make him look more disreputable.
It made no never mind at Dowling House. I soon learned that it housed people who made Harry look like a stockbroker—gaol-breakers, army deserters, ship-jumpers of all nationalities and descriptions. The place was run by a man named Lew Phillips, who charged low rents and took a cut of the jobs his residents pulled. It was an early example of criminal organisation in Australia. Phillips was in touch with people like my backers who needed a place for the executive branch to stay and for certain goods to be stored. For these services he received commissions. He was very thick with certain members of the New South Wales police force, some of whom he paid in cash and some with information. He was playing a very profitable but very risky game, was Lew.
I was expected and had no trouble booking my mate, 'Chow' Casey from San Francisco, into an adjoining room. I knew the information would get back to Erskine, Barwick & Henderson (I was starting to think of them as a business partnership which might not be too concerned about its record as an employer), but it couldn't hurt to keep them guessing just a little. Harry and I settled into our rooms, which were small, hot and dirty, his a little more so than mine. We sat in my room, looking out over the wet rooftops, and I gave him a very edited version of how I'd managed to get myself into the present pickle. I stressed my friendship with Finch and played down the brief brush with Oliver Featherstonhaugh.
'Seems to me your movie buddy has to be of some use in getting us outa the shit when the time comes.'
'I can't see how. Peter's not the type to fall over himself doing things for other people. If convenient, fine, otherwise it might just be too much bother. Besides, he was up in Darwin when your lot bombed the bloody place.'
'It wasn't me, pal. Still, I get your drift. How about the broad?'
'I want to keep her out of it.'
'Sir fuckin' Galahad. Did you say the hoods reckon the job's on soon?'
The thought made me scramble for the brandy. 'That's right. Soon.'
'Leave me think about it. First things first. You're gonna have to get me some clothes, Dick. Plus I need a shave and a haircut.'
'Can't do much today. It's Sunday. Everything's closed.'
'I noticed that. How does a man get a drink?'
'You don't, unless you buy a meal.'
'Christ, and they call us barbaric. Is everyone real religious, or what?'
'I think it's got more to do with trade unions than religion.'
Harry nodded. 'Dangerous things, trade unions. I remember one time when I was grape-picking in the valley—'
The door opened and the space was entirely filled by a man. He must have stood close to six and a half feet and he was built like a telephone box. His forehead was low and beetling; his nose was flat and he had the worst pair of cauliflower ears I'd ever seen. He was wearing a singlet and I could see that, although his muscles were covered in fat, they were still big muscles.
'A quid each,' he grunted.
It was a surprise to discover that he could actually speak.
'What?' I croaked.
He cracked the knuckles on one huge, red hand. 'A quid each. I'll make it a fiver if you get cheeky.'
'What for, ape?' Harry said.
I stood up, ready to apologise for him, but the monster brushed me aside. He moved into the room and loomed over Harry, who was still sitting on the bed.
'What did you say, Chink?'
Harry stood up slowly and looked at me in mock astonishment. 'Didn't you tell Lew my name was Chow? I don't like to be called Chink. I don't like it at all. Especially when it's a gorilla talkin'.'
I was thinking of diving under the bed for the .45, but things moved way too fast for me. The gorilla lunged for Harry but Harry wasn'
t there. He glided away and found a little space between the bed and the wall. It was a small space for his opponent but enough for Harry. The gorilla came at him again and Harry moved his feet and hands in a co-ordinated shift that looked slow and effortless, but was in fact lightning fast and packed with power. He landed with kicks to the knee and groin and followed up with a couple of elbow jabs and a heel-of-the-hand chops that brought the big man tumbling down like a demolished chimney stack.
Harry sniffed and flexed his hand. 'Didn't quite time it. I might get a bruise, godammit.'
I breathed out slowly. 'How the hell did you do that?'
'Ancient Japanese art, brother. It's not all scroll painting and cherry blossoms in old Japan, I can tell you.'
I was suddenly very glad to have Harry on my side. Things seemed a lot better. I felt sure he could handle Erskine and Henderson and a few more besides. I remembered how he'd felled me back in the Japanese camp in the Queensland bush. It had felt like a hammer blow but was obviously a love tap. Harry removed a wallet from the hip pocket of the man who was lying with his trunk collapsed over the bed. The wallet was stuffed with notes.
'Greedy bastard,' Harry said. He took several notes and stuffed the wallet back. I hadn't seen him take it, but a driver's licence appeared in his palm. He unfolded the greasy, sweat-stained paper.
'Leonard McGregor,' he read. 'Ever heard of him, Dick?'
I had. 'He was a wrestler. Now he's a standover man, an enforcer.'
Harry looked down at the unconscious McGregor. 'I don't understand this country,' he said. 'Guy here doesn't seem to me to have the qualifications for that line of work.'
23
The next day I went out and bought Harry a razor and a pair of scissors. He went into the bathroom and came out looking considerably less Japanese. He'd straightened his peaked eyebrows and given himself a basin cut that made his face look fuller and softer. The clothes I bought at his instruction had a slightly Chinese look, too—a dark jacket, rather long, white shirts with high collars and trousers a bit narrower than was fashionable. Togged up like that he was unrecognisable as Sergeant Haruki Kaminaga. As Chow Casey from San Francisco, he looked mild until you felt his hard, black eyes on you. Then, if you had any sense, you minded your manners.
It surprised me that Harry was happy to wander around the Cross and the Woolloomooloo docks and go into town. He seemed to have no fear of being spotted. His disguise was good, but his behaviour seemed reckless to a cautious soul like me and I tackled him about it.
'You read anything in the papers about an escaped Jap POW, Dick?'
'Now that you mention it, no.'
'You bet your ass, no. See this?'
He showed me a recently healed cut on his upper arm.
'Did that getting through a barbed-wire fence. Bled like a pig. Too good an opportunity to miss.'
'What do you mean?'
'I was only a day away from the camp. I guessed they'd be looking for me but keepin' it quiet. Wouldn't want to spook the natives. I laid a bit of a trail to a railway bridge. Then I took off my camp shirt and soaked it in blood. I left it on the bridge. Hell of a drop to the water and the river was real shallow just there, though it got deeper further on. You jumped, you'd break your neck for sure. I snagged one of my socks on some branches a bit downstream and, hey presto, one dead Jap! Neat, huh?'
I agreed but, like a lot of feerless men of action, Harry tended to see only what he wanted to see. Privately, I had reservations. What Harry had said was right—the authorities wouldn't want news of an escaped Japanese POW getting out. Which meant that there was no way to tell whether or not they'd been taken in by his trick. I hoped so.
Two days went by and there was no contact from the firm. I was beginning to hope that they'd found someone else to play the part of the officer. So much so that I was thinking of quitting Dowling House. That would take money. I phoned Eric Porter, partly to claim some wages, partly just to see what was going on.
'Dick,' Porter said. 'Where've you been? I've been trying to get in touch with you.'
I considered that statement. Porter owed me money, he wouldn't be trying to make contact for that reason. Maybe Ushi . . .
'I've been busy, Eric. Has Ushi . . .?'
'Haven't heard from her since I gave her the news about Storm Hill. I tried to break it to her gently, but she took it hard.'
'I know. Er, Eric, I'm due a few quid. I wondered if you could . . .'
'I'll hand it to you personally at the party. If you don't come you don't get it.'
'What party?'
'We've finished filming. There's a party at my place tomorrow night. I really want you there, Dick. You did a tremendous job, especially with the car. That scene's a beauty.'
'Thanks, Eric. Well, sure I'll come. Can I bring a friend?'
'Like that, eh? You move fast. Well, I know Ushi won't come, so why not? Eight o'clock.'
I hung up, feeling encouraged. Porter owed me a fair sum and if Peter Finch was flush, as he sometimes was, I might be able to hit him for a loan. Also, Ron Randell owed me twenty pounds on a bet. When we'd been doing our mock New Guinea sequences, I'd said something about a sniper shot we were filming being too easy.
'Easy?' Randell had sneered. He'd never had much time for me, seeing me as a mate of Finch's who was stealing the picture. 'It's the best part of a hundred yards.'
'Seventy at most,' I said carelessly. 'Too easy.'
'You could hit a target like that yourself, I suppose?'
Randell scarcely knew one end of a firearm from another, and had taken badly to Finch showing him how to hold his Owen gun.
I squinted at the set-up. A sniper in a tree had to take the slouch hat off a soldier standing motionless in a clearing. 'I could do it three times out of three.'
'Twenty quid,' Randell snapped.
I took the bet, got hold of some live ammo and climbed the tree with a Lee Enfield .303. They put a hat on a stick and I knocked it off three times. Shooting's one of the few things I've ever been good at. I'm better at it than winning money, but this was one of those lucky times when someone underestimated me. It didn't happen all that often.
So there were good reasons to go to the party. Harry was getting a little edgy, wanting to know when the job was going to be pulled. A party'd be good for him, I thought.
'Any chance of getting laid?'
'Some. More than around here, unless you want to pay for it.'
'OK, I'll come. But I'm telling you, Dick, unless these pals of yours get in touch pretty soon, I'm going to have to ask you to come up with some other scheme.'
'Meaning?'
'We need dough. You've got a piece. I've seen it. I'm getting some very bad ideas.'
'Harry, I've been in the gaol they've got here. It's a very nasty place.'
'Think positive, Dick. This town is leaking money. It's just a matter of having the right mop.'
I closed my eyes. So much for camaraderie. Now I had to think about scraping as much cash together as I could to get away from Harry! It was enough to make me wish I'd followed my mother's instructions to get a good, safe job in the public service where you wore a suit to work every day and had a pension to look forward to.
I've been to more end-of-filming parties than I've had screen credits, and in my experience they all follow the same pattern. Whether they're held in London, Sydney, Los Angeles or Colombo, they start out with everyone loving everyone to death and saying what a fabulous job was done by all hands. As the booze gets to the participants, the facade starts to crack.
'She was really hopeless in that scene. They had to do twenty takes and it still wasn't right.'
'He was too pissed to stand. That's why they shot him sitting down. I admit it worked, but really . . . '
'The picture has to work. His last one bombed and if it wasn't for, well . . . you know, he'd never work again. I know it for a fact.'
Harry and I arrived at Porter's house while the kisses-all-round were still in full swing.
My policy at these affairs is to find the big names early and make my obeisances then, just in case I get into an unfit state later on. I left Harry in the kitchen with Jane Holland and located Muriel Steinbeck and John McCallum and congratulated them. Gracious acceptance. Then I hunted out Randell and extracted my twenty. He was well on the way to being soused and paid up cheerfully.
'I say, Dick,' he said. 'D'you think I was all right?'
'You were great, Ron. You've got a big, big future.'
He squared his shoulders. 'Yes, I'm sure I have.'
Poor fool.36
I was introduced to a Doctor someone and a Mrs somebody else who goggled at me the way filmstruck people do. I was polite. I wandered around the small rooms for a while, chatting to this person and that and soaking up the booze. The party was soon going full swing. The rug was rolled back in the living room and people were dancing in the non-athletic but romantic way they did in those days. The smoke and noise were mounting and I asked Porter if he anticipated any trouble with the neighbours. I was thinking ahead. The thing Harry and I needed least was contact with the police.
'No fear,' he said. 'Women on both sides. They're here. Promised I'd introduce them to Finchy.'
I hadn't even bothered to try to approach Peter. He was surrounded by women the whole time. No sign of Tamara, and I concluded he was making hay while the sun shone. Eventually there was a break in the traffic and I was next to him against a wall. He was panting slightly from a bit of the two-step—never as fit as he looked, our Peter.
'Dick,' he roared. 'Where've you been hiding?'
He was as drunk as W.C. Fields on a good night. His eyes were glassy and the hand holding his cigarette looked as if it was about to start directing the New York Philharmonic.
'I've been around, Peter. Got a few deals cooking. You know.'
'I don't bloody know,' he said belligerently. 'I've got nothing fucking cooking. Have to get out of this bloody country soon's the war's over. You too, Dick. You too.'
My sentiments exactly, but sooner if possible. 'How's Tamara?' I asked.
'Away dancing somewhere.'
