Читать книгу Mordialloc - James Maclean - Страница 25

The deal, when finalised, was certainly not what Floyd was expecting. Frank would solve his little problem with Timmy, and all he would owe Frank was 500 hours of labour. That was it; about 20 hours a week for 6 months. Frank had some little patch of dirt, out in Keysborough, to maintain. His health wasn’t what it once had been. The place was beginning to fall away a bit. It really didn’t sound too difficult.

Keysborough was about 10 kilometres out of Mordialloc, heading in the direction of Dandenong. Getting there wouldn’t be a problem either. Frank had originally wanted 600 hours of labour. Floyd had voiced a weak protest. It wasn’t much of a negotiation; the old bloke out-manoeuvred him at every turn. Stretched over a barrel as he was, somewhere between the devil and the deep blue sea, he’d been happy to get any deduction at all. The hot whisky breath, and flared side burns hardly instilled confidence, but it was that or take his chances with the judge.

Frank concluded their impromptu little pow wow.

‘Five hundred will do,’ grunted Frank, as he nodded to Graham that it was time to go. He dismissed Floyd’s open outstretched palm with a roll of his bloodshot eyes. ‘We were all young once!’

Not a bad result in the end, Graham assured. If he divided the hours up with his mates, it was easily workable. His plans for the summer were in tatters, but it could have well been a lot worse. The whole ‘cloak and dagger’ routine was taking things a bit far. After the day he’d already had though, what was another secret amongst friends. Not surprisingly, old Frank did his best work in the shadows.

Kenny was immediately skeptical. Even after he was walked through the great restaurant debarcle of 1970. Frank had reached deep into his bag and saved the McGuinness brothers from the clutches of the dreaded Health Department. Kenny still wasn’t convinced. In desperation Floyd, pointed to Frank’s fan base. If Graham’s adulation was anything to go by, something like this should be a walk in the park for Francis Cook.

It was an easy option. With Floyd’s relentless insistence Kenny slowly warmed to the idea. Unfortunately, the boys were yet to discover; deals with the devil are never easy.

‘So that’s it in a nut-shell, buddy!’ concluded Floyd. ‘We’ve just gotta do our hours over at Frank’s and the old clown’s gonna make all this go away.’

Kenny Coen gave yet another skeptical glance. He certainly didn’t have a better plan though. Far from being flush with cash, Kenny’s father had immediately taken a second mortgage. He’d already engaged the services of a premier law firm, and the financial strain was showing. Having suffered a life of prejudice himself, Alva Coen was smart enough to understand - actual guilt generally had nothing to do with it.

‘I guess I’ll tell dad to side-line the ritzy lawyer then.’ Said Kenny. ‘He’ll be relieved. He’s already harping on about me getting a paper round. So did the old bloke give any clue how he was going to do it?’

‘Well, no, not really.’

‘What do you mean, not really?’ The blood was draining from Kenny’s already pallid complexion.

‘Graham did most of the talking,’ replied Floyd casually. ‘Old Frank Cook didn’t really say much at all.’