Читать книгу Amaze Your Friends - Peter Doyle - Страница 9

Chapter 4

Back on the mail order front, things had been let slide. Not that a few days mattered so much—the mail was so slow, I could let the post office take the blame for my tardiness. But mail order was my bread and butter, and it would be a mug act to leave it any longer. So on the Friday of the second week after my encounter with Slaney, I went back to the Manning Building.

It was the wrong day and the wrong time. When I got out of the lift a rough-looking hoon was knocking hard on my office door. He was forty or so, wearing a yellow sports shirt with big green blotches on it. I couldn’t place him as anyone I knew. He grew more impatient, banged harder.

I walked down the hall. He looked at me as I drew level. His shirt was a map of Hawaii, the green blotches were the islands. I nodded good day and walked past him.

He called out to me, said, ‘Do you work here, pal?’

‘Ah, yeah. Why?’

‘I’m looking for the bloke who works in this office.’ He pointed to my door. ‘Do you know him?’

‘Oh, I see him now and then. Do you want me to give him a message?’

‘Yeah. Tell him to ring this number.’ He handed me a slip of paper with a phone number on it.

‘Can I ask what it’s in connection with?’

‘About a betting system I bought from him.’

‘I’ll pass it on,’ I said.

After he’d gone I went inside, watched from the window as he got into a light blue Zephyr convertible and drove away. If that goose thinks he’s getting a refund from me, I thought, he’s having himself on.

But coming on top of my other troubles, the episode unnerved me. So instead of going to work straight away I nipped over to the Chamberlain for a calming draught. An hour later, suitably calmed, I cautiously made my way back to the office.

Five minutes after I arrived back, the brown-haired beat girl from Conni Conn tapped on my door. She said there’d been a bloke looking for me earlier.

‘Oh yeah, a bloke in a yellow shirt? I saw him. It’s all okay.’

She shrugged like it didn’t matter much to her either way. Then she stopped, walked over to the desk, picked up the copy of On the Road lying there.

‘Jack Kerouac. Is this yours?’ she said.

‘Sure.’

She nodded. I asked her name. She said Trish. I offered her a ciggy. She accepted, I lit it. She took a puff and said, ‘So, you’ve read Kerouac?’

‘Yeah, of course. Not bad really. But right now I’m rather more taken with the French existentialists.’ I pulled out the copy of The Outsider that Max had loaned me.

Trish looked at it, nodding. She said, ‘Albert Camus. I hear it’s good.’

‘Have it,’ I said.

‘No. Wait till you’ve finished it.’

I said sure, and then hit her with a couple of questions. Turned out she was a student at Sydney University, studying arts. A North Shore girl, working at the sweatshop for the holidays.

She finished her cig and said, ‘A couple of the girls back in the workshop were talking about you the other day.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. They were trying to guess what it is you actually do. Sometimes you’re here, then you’re not. So what do you do?’ she said.

‘Oh, you know. Kind of a businessman. I sell things.’

She nodded, then glanced at her watch. ‘Gee, I’d better get going. Hey, a gang of us are meeting for a drink after work, up at the Vanity Fair. Pop in if you feel like it. Saloon bar, five o’clock.’

I told her I might just be there.

I called Dick in Adelaide and asked him did he ever encounter dissatisfied customers. I mean, very dissatisfied. He said, sure, just never let them find out where you work or where you live. Everything by mail. They can’t thump you through the post, he said. He asked me if everything was all right. I told him sure, everything was sweet.

That night I met up with Trish and her friends, three girls and a bloke, university people. At six-thirty we went up to Pitt Street for a Greek feed, and afterwards I walked with Trish to Elizabeth Street, put her on a bus to Randwick, where she said she flatted with two girlfriends.

I had a drink at the Elizabeth Hotel and then caught a cab to Wentworth Park Dogs.

I had no real idea of greyhound form, but I bet a few quid while I moved around, refreshing old contacts and making new ones. I had a yarn with George Freeman, shared a drink with Lenny MacPherson, passed on a tip to Chicka Reeves. No one told me to piss off, but nor did they welcome me into their confidence. For all my past lurkery, I suppose in their eyes I still hadn’t done the apprenticeship: a life of break-and-enters, bashings, shootings, ring-in rorts and standovers. Nor had I attended the right schools: Mt Penang, Gosford or Tamworth boys’ homes, Parramatta, Grafton or Long Bay jails. Involvement in a cop-killing might have impressed them, but I didn’t feel like skiting about that one.

At ten-thirty I was taking a leak. A couple of louts came in behind me, one of them singing ‘Heartbreak Hotel’. The other sidled up next to me at the trough and said in a stage whisper, ‘Pssst. Want to buy a transistor radio, sport?’

I buttoned up, turned around. A twenty-year-old bodgie in a red shirt was grinning at me. I looked across to his mate standing at the mirror, carefully combing his black hair.

‘Hasn’t anyone told you the bodgie look is passé now?’

‘Billy Glasheen! Jesus, how are you?’

‘G’day, Les. No complaints. How about you?’

‘Killing ’em.’ He called out to his companion, ‘Hey Kev, Billy Glasheen’s here.’ He turned back to me. ‘You remember Kev, do you?’

‘Yeah. G’day, Kev.’

Les said, ‘Hey, what does passé mean?’

‘It means gone, but not like real gone. More like finished. It’s French.’

‘Yeah? What would those gigs know? I’ll tell you what, it’s really lucky us running into you like this.’

‘Lucky for me or for you?’

‘For all of us. What I said before about the radios—’

A couple of old blokes came in right then, gave the three of us a suspicious look.

‘Let’s meet over at the pie stand after the next race, okay?’

I looked at the two of them, at their loud clothes and couldn’t­give-a-fuck manner, then I glanced over at the older blokes giving them the dirty looks. Before that year was out, most of Australia would be viewing Les Newcombe and Kevin Simmonds the same way. But I wasn’t to know that then. What I did know was that young lairs so keen to draw attention to themselves did not make ideal partners in crime. On the other hand, I needed every zack I could make. Les was waiting for my answer.

I told him all right.

I’d first met Les Newcombe back in 1955 at the Aloha Milk Bar when Max and I were trying to promote rock’n’roll music. Back then Les had been among the inner circle of early rock’n’roll devotees. He turned up again at the Stadium shows with Kevin Simmonds when I was road managing for Lee Gordon. They used to steal cars parked outside. A couple of times I’d slung them comps, on condition they left my car and Gordon’s alone.

I joined up with Les and Kevin after the fourth race. We talked about chances in the next and they asked me what was coming up in the way of rock’n’roll shows. I told them I didn’t really know, I’d lost touch with Lee Gordon.

Then Les got to the point. He asked if I knew anyone who could get rid of some gear. What sort? I said. Twenty German cameras, a whole lot of watches and a dozen transistor radios.

‘Surely you blokes know people,’ I said.

‘We’re in a hurry,’ said Les. He explained that he and Kevin had been working hot for a while and the coppers were on Kevin’s hammer. I said is that why he’s hanging out so inconspicuously here tonight?

So, Les said, could I do anything for them? There were no telephones on course and I wasn’t about to give anyone’s telephone number to Les without permission, so I said meet me later outside, at the public phone in St Johns Road. I got out before them and rang Teddy Rallis, told him the story. He asked me if Les and Kevin were all right, I said as far as I knew they were. We arranged to meet the next day at the Welcome Inn, more commonly known as the Bunch of Cunts.

We did. They all got on okay and everything went off swimmingly. Teddy arranged to collect the gear that same day and I collected a cut for acting as go-between. But the whole business didn’t involve more than two hundred quid, and although Les and Kevin indicated they had more work on, their league was too junior even for me. Or so I thought.

The following week I went to work for two days, got my stuff done as quickly as I could. I kept an eye out for thuggish customers seeking refunds.

Murray Liddicoat’s office was unattended the first day, but he was there when I knocked on the second. He was pale and pasty, sitting there at his desk staring out the window.

I said, ‘Murray, I need some professional advice.’

‘Come in, Bill, sit down. What can I do for you?’

‘Do you ever do debt collecting work?’

‘Within certain limits, I do whatever my clients want me to do. That sometimes includes mercantile management work. Why do you ask?’

‘Jack Davey owes me twelve hundred quid. I may need help in levering it out of him.’

‘A tough nut to crack, from what I hear. I hope you’re not asking me to go around and shake him up.’

‘No, no, nothing like that, I was thinking of using psychology. If Davey thinks I need it urgently, which as it happens I do, I’m worried that he’ll give me the bum’s rush.’

Murray nodded. ‘It’s a sad fact that most people are decidedly reluctant to give their money to the truly needy. A beggar in a business suit will out-earn the poor wretch in rags every time. What do you want of me?’

I told him. Later, after I’d made a trip to the Chamberlain for a half-bottle of scotch, Murray added some touches of his own and made some suggestions about how I should follow up. By the third snort of Johnny Walker the colour had returned to Murray’s face and he was ready to go. He rang Davey’s number. I sat there, listened to his side of the conversation.

‘Hello, Mr Davey. Keith Barnstable here. How are you today, sir? Glad to hear it. I won’t keep you long. I’m a chartered accountant and I’ve been appointed by Mr Bill Glasheen to look after his accounts . . . What’s that you say, bankruptcy?’ Murray chuckled indulgently, winked at me. ‘Hardly, Mr Davey. Rather the reverse, in fact. Mr Glasheen’s business affairs are nowadays of an order that demands a professional to do the books. Which is why I’m ringing. I see here an outstanding item of twelve hundred pounds. No pressure, of course, but I was wondering if you could give some indication as to when we might be able to finalise this . . . I see, I see, yes, of course. I quite understand. Now, Jack, I don’t wish to be indelicate, but if you’re having difficulties, let us know and I’m sure Mr Glasheen would be amenable to a rescheduling of the debt. He may even be able to advance you a little more, if necessary, to see you through.’

This last bit was Murray’s idea, the theory being that by patronising Davey, we might just goad him into an extravagant gesture, like paying me the twelve hundred.

Murray gave him my new phone number, cheerily told him not to hesitate to call and then hung up. To me he said, ‘There you go. Time the follow-up correctly and you might just have him.’

I met up with Trish at the West End in the evening. She wasn’t with her friends this time. We had a drink, then went to dinner at a steak house in Taylor Square.

It was never meant to be a date as such, but things were cooking. Our knees bumped under the table. She didn’t smile once, but kept looking out from behind the long hair that hid half her face. After the meal we walked down Forbes Street to the El Rocco and sat around drinking shitty coffee, listening to the group play Blue Note–style jazz. During a break we smoked a reefer outside and then came in and danced to the bop. She closed her eyes while she danced, and still didn’t crack it for a grin.

Afterwards we walked back to my pad. We stopped for a kiss on the way. If Trish hadn’t spoken much all night, she sure made up for it with that kiss, which was fantastic. Her lips were soft and yielding, but there were little tremors and return pressures which said all kinds of things.

The furnishings in my flat were still pretty basic—an armchair and a small bookshelf, my TV and record player. Trish looked around. She picked up one of my paperbacks and read aloud from the cover blurb, ‘They made wild beatnik love to a crazy bongo beat!’ She shook her head, put it down, and then flipped through my records. She ignored the country and rock’n’roll, pulled out John Coltrane, then a Ray Charles, and some Brazilian thing I’d forgotten I owned.

I poured drinks for us. Trish sat on the floor resting against my knees as we smoked more dope and played the records. I leaned over, smelled her hair, pushed it aside and kissed her neck. I reached around and undid the buttons of her blouse. She moved forward as I slipped it off over her shoulders. I undid her bra, cradled her breast in my hand, brushed my thumb over her nipple. She shivered, breathing fast and shallow. She whispered, ‘I really should go or I’ll miss the last bus.’

She turned around to face me, kneeling on the floor, her face serious, her eyes heavy.

‘Don’t go. I still haven’t seen you smile,’ I said.

And then she did. She stayed. We made wild beatnik love to a crazy bongo beat.

Trish was gone when I woke up. I lay in bed for a while, feeling pretty good. But as I awoke more fully, the evil chill that had settled in my bones the past few weeks returned.

I got up, made a coffee with a shot of scotch in it. That helped a little, so I had another. I was still tossing up whether or not to pop into work when I got a call from Jack Davey. He asked how I was, if I was busy. I told him I always had time for him, what was on his mind? He said would I like to drop by his pad later that morning, he had a bit of an idea he wanted to talk over with me. I told him I’d be there.

I knew that if this little bit of confidence-trickery was to work, I had to come across like a fair dinkum winner. So I tubbed, shaved close, bunged on some aftershave, and ironed the cleanest shirt I could find. Then I ate a couple of dexes, strolled up to Angelo De Marco’s and got myself a square cut.

Angelo gave me a good trim. He showed me the back of my head in the mirror, took the sheet off me, brushed me down, smiled and said, ‘Now is champion, eh?’

I said, ‘Yeah, too right, that’s great, Angelo.’ But try as I might, all I could see in the mirror was a hunched-over, narrow-eyed feller, a man running scared.

I drove the Holden down to Wolseley Road, Point Piper, parked it well away from Davey’s waterfront flat. He answered the door himself. At fifty years old, he was still dapper but the demanding schedule, the grog, and the drugs he took for his ‘back pain’ were catching up with him. He shook hands and brought me inside.

‘Good to see you again, Billy. Listen, I’m running a little late on a press conference. Come on through and have a drink. But first, I’ve got something for you.’ He handed me a small paperback book. It was called The Wonder Book of Australiana.

I looked at him and said, ‘What’s this for?’

‘That book, my friend, is the key to knowledge and unheard of financial success.’

‘Another one.’

‘I’ll explain later. Come on in. Best keep the book out of sight.’ I followed him into the large lounge room. There was a bunch of blokes hanging around the bar, where a white-coated feller was pouring drinks.

A little bloke in a Sinatra hat and a bad jacket came over to Davey and said, ‘Ready when you are, Jack.’

Davey moved over to a bare wall and called out, ‘Could I have your attention, gents. On behalf of the Australian Wool Board, may I present the lovely Sabrina. Hang on to your hats, fellers.’

A blonde woman in a tight-fitting woollen dress walked out of the bedroom doorway. She took little mincing steps and wobbled her large breasts, Jayne Mansfield–style. A couple of blokes whistled. Sabrina posed this way and that while flashes popped, always careful to push out the tits.

‘Say hello to the boys, Sabby.’

‘Hi, boys, how are you all?’ Her accent was Brit, broad northern. Someone called out to her to turn side on. She did, silhouetting the cantilevered superstructure. More flashes. Then Davey stood next to her, mugging and making a big show of eyeing her off.

After a couple of minutes of that he said, ‘Okay, now make sure you get this, boys: on behalf of Channel Seven and our sponsors, the Australian Wool Board, I’m proud to announce a new television program, The Australian Wool Show, the biggest, richest, most star-studded event this country has ever seen. The program will feature a quiz show and top-line variety entertainment. Next week I’m off to America to promote Australian wool products and line up talent for the show. Off the record, we are currently negotiating with Marilyn Monroe, Jack Benny, Bob Hope, Sammy Davis Jr, Elvis Presley, and many other stellar attractions. Sabby herself will be the guest star on the first show, on which she will perform one of the most daring song-and-dance acts ever witnessed in this country. Hey, Sabby, why don’t you turn around, show the fellers the rear view?’

She did. Then the little bloke in the Sinatra hat stepped forward and said, ‘All right, gentlemen, now there’ll be an opportunity for you to conduct private interviews in the other room.’

He led Sabrina away again, came back out and one by one took press blokes into the room.

Davey came over and said, ‘Come outside a moment, Bill.’ On the balcony he said, ‘What do you think?’

‘Crazy.’

’No, I mean my new show, The Australian Wool Show.’

‘Yeah, it’ll be a killer for sure, no risk.’

‘This is something new. Simulcast, they call it—on radio and TV at the same time. International stars, and a quiz with big prize money.’

‘Oh, yeah. Tremendous.’

‘The sponsors are ready to go for broke. Two thousand quid prize money, every week. Jackpotting.’ He paused, gave me a meaningful look.

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘Well, Bill, there’s the business of the money I owe you . . .’

‘Oh, yes, I do seem to remember something.’

‘Don’t try to con a conman. I’ll get right to it.

The thousand I owe you —’

‘Twelve hundred.’

‘Whatever. I can’t pay it. I’m broke. Sorry, but that’s how it is. I’ve got a desk full of letters in there, every one of them begins with the word “unless”. But I want to do the right thing by you.’

‘And?’

‘And I have a little plan which could earn us a lot more than that piddling thousand.’

‘Twelve hundred.’

‘Do you want to hear it?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘You appear on the Wool Show, as a contestant.’

‘Doing what? Animal, mineral or vegetable? Twenty questions? Come on.’

‘Australian sport and general knowledge. There’s a big waiting list but the final choice of contestants rests with me. We’ll wait till the jackpot gets right up high and then I’ll slot you in.’

‘I left school after the Intermediate. There’s no way I could do it.’

‘I can’t give you the actual questions because they don’t exist yet. But I can do the next best thing. That book I gave you . . .’

‘The key to knowledge and unheard of financial success.’

He nodded. ‘You get the picture. The answer to every question we’ll ask is in that book. Learn it and you’re home and hosed.’

‘It’s a bit risky, isn’t it?’

‘Well, this is the way it’s usually done, if you understand me.’

‘It’s fixed?’

‘Put it this way: modern quiz programs more resemble the wrestling than they do real life. In real life, as we know, by and large winners keep winning and losers keep losing, with only occasional exceptions. In wrestling and in quiz shows, the battler has a chance, and vice versa; last week’s winner could, and should, be this week’s loser. If it’s run right. You could say we iron out some of the shortcomings of real life, improve on it.’

‘Blimey. Rigged!’

‘Keep your voice down. Look, I’m telling you this off the record. Not rigged. Stage managed. Just enough to make it a good show. And that’s where you come in. It’s like in the fights, a good guy goes up against a bad guy, an abo against a fair-headed bloke, dago against Englishman, and so on—you know the drill. Well, it’s the same in the quiz show racket, we work hard to maintain the balance. Anyway, you’d make a good winner—a decent Aussie bloke making a go of a small business, not too thick, but not real bright either.’

‘Thanks.’

I’m talking about image here, Bill. By the way, what business are you in?’

‘Mail order.’

Davey laughed. ‘We’ll say sporting goods.’

‘How much would have to I kick back to you?’

‘You don’t “kick back” anything. However, if you were to let that grand drop—’

‘It was twelve hundred.’

‘Of course. Anyway, you let it drop and maybe later on you can loan me a few thou, if you get my drift.’

‘But what if the jackpot doesn’t get up high enough?’

‘Oh, it will. You don’t have to decide now. Take the book with you. You’ve got a few months to think about it. We’ll launch the program later in the year after I get back from America. Meanwhile, you study that book. Hey, do you want to interview Sabrina before you go?’

‘Why would I? I’m not a journo.’

‘There’s a special deal her manager gives the press blokes, just to prove there’s no trickery topside. A couple of minutes alone with her. They cop a quick look, a feel if they’re lucky, satisfy themselves the tits are real. Christ, it’s getting her some great publicity. You want a go?’

‘Some other time, I’ve got to shoot through. But tell me one thing, with this quiz show business, am I the good guy or the bad guy?’

‘The good guy, of course.’

I went home and browsed through The Wonder Book of Australiana. I found out that the lowest temperature ever recorded in Australia was –8°F at Mt Kosciusko on 14th June 1945; that Australians drink 238,000,000 gallons of beer per year; and that the biggest black marlin landed in Australia weighed 680 pounds, caught at Bermagui in 1940 by one C. Starling.

At five o’clock I was tossing up whether or not to go hit the greyhounds again that night when Max rang, all excited, telling me to be sure to tune my television in to Six O’Clock Rock. He and Del had landed a spot, he said. They were going to perform ‘Kiss Crazy’, give it a bit of a flying start for its release next week. Max said if I felt like tagging along afterwards, they would be kicking on with the television crowd at the 729 Club. I said I might, and wished him luck.

Six O’Clock Rock had only been running a couple of months but already it was the most watched program on Australian television. Johnny O’Keefe was fronting the show. His career had passed its peak, but he was hanging in. He’d still sing like Little Richard, and Jerry Lee Lewis had had a minor hit covering Johnny’s own song, ‘The Wild One’ the year before. But he was mixing in more and cabaret.

He was admired as a powerhouse businessman, but was popping more pills and smoking more reefer than even Max and me. The show was all live music, no lip-syncing. Motley acts came and went, and often as not O’Keefe had forgotten their names by the time he was announcing them. ‘Put your hands together for . . . a cat who needs no introduction!’ he’d say.

I tuned in to Channel Two at six o’clock. O’Keefe booted off with ‘Wild One’. Ten minutes into the show he introduced Del and the Percolators, just like that—left Max’s name right out of it. The camera cut across to Del and the band, who were on a low rostrum. Kids were dancing on the studio floor. Del looked good, and did a better than passable job of ‘Kiss Crazy’. Max at the piano behind her played standing up, Little Richard style. The other Percolators were wearing sharp suits but Max looked a sight in a Hawaiian shirt, sunglasses, beret and Bermuda shorts.

Del and O’Keefe finished the show with a duet on ‘Love Is Strange’. O’Keefe’s band, the Deejays—and not the Percolators—supplied the back-up.

I met them later at the 729 Club. Del was on top of the world. O’Keefe had made it clear that they wanted her to make a repeat appearance on the program, and hinted that there could be a regular spot for her, minus Max. Max was peeved about not playing back-up guitar on ‘Love Is Strange’, which had long been part of his and Del’s stage act. He was steadily getting drunker.

Later on, when the party split up, Del and I were left together. We got talking, and without me engineering it, Del ended up coming back to my place for a reprise of our stalled love affair. She had a quick glance around the new digs, was not greatly impressed.

The next morning, when I brought in a cup of tea, she was sitting up in bed holding a long strand of Trish’s dark brown hair between her fingers, peering at it. She turned around to face me, waiting.

I put the tea down, went and had a shower. When I came back Del was walking out the door. She stopped, turned around, pointed at me and said, ‘You’re going nowhere, Bill. See you, I’m off. Don’t call.’

Thursday of the following week I slipped in to work at eleven, raced through the orders. At lunchtime Murray tapped on the door looking red-eyed and liverish. He came over to the desk, sat down, avoiding my eye. I asked how he was, he said fighting fit. Then he asked me how I was. I said all right, why was he asking? He said no special reason.

Then, on my suggestion, we adjourned to the Goulburn, supposedly for a counter lunch of curried snags. Once there though, we kept to liquid sustenance. Murray’s outlook brightened with each nip. Mine got worse.

After a little while Murray leaned over and said quietly, ‘Listen, old sport, there was a chap here asking about you the other day.’

‘Oh yeah? Maybe it was a customer.’

‘He didn’t look the hillbilly guitar type.’

‘What type did he look?’

‘The policeman type.’

‘Fred Slaney?’

‘Heaven forfend. No, this was a New Australian cove.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘That I’d never heard of you.’

‘Thanks.’

Murray finished his drink, bit me for a tenner and left. I killed another hour at the pub, then went back to the office. I finished wrapping the last package, took the whole pile down to the post office and sent it off.

I went back to straighten things up, drew the blinds, locked up and left by the goods lift at the back of the building. It let me out in a loading dock on the ground floor. The dock opened onto a crooked laneway which ran between the Manning Building and the Capitol Theatre. The only people who used the lane were garbos, truckies, and some shadowy blokes who came and went at odd hours. I tapped on a green doorway where an old sign said ‘Chinese Christian Seamen’s Welfare Association’. An aged character opened the door, then stood back to let me in. He closed the door behind me, put the bolts back in place and said, ‘Pipe?’ I nodded.

Mr Ling ushered me into the small room at the back. There were four blokes there, pretty beaten-looking Chinese guys of indeterminate age. They ignored me. Mr Ling directed me to a couch. I gave him ten bob and he brought out the makings. They had recently installed a record player in the room and ‘Quiet Village’ was playing. Which was an improvement on the Mantovani they’d had playing last time.

Mr Ling held a flame under the gooey stuff in the bowl. I drew on the pipe and felt a warming deep inside me. I sat back and drifted off while Fred Slaney, the yellow-shirted bloke, and every single member of the New South Wales Police Force quietly joined Ray Waters at the bottom of the sea.