The Big Whatever (25 page)

“Can you read it out to me?”

“Hang on.”

She came back a few seconds later. I heard her tearing open the envelope.

“Okay,” she said. “Here goes:
HAVE SHOWN FILM HERE STOP GREAT REACTION STOP CALIFORNIANS LIKE AUSSIE ACCENT AND WEED SUBPLOT STOP DENNY WILSON OF BEACH BOYS INTERESTED IN PROMOTING STOP WILL KEEP YOU POSTED STOP MEANWHILE URGENT NEED MORE FUNDS KEEP WHEELS OILED STOP CONSIDER MAKING NEW PRINT STOP ALSO SUGGEST CHANGE NAME STOP
SURFIE WALKABOUT WONT CUT IT STOP PREFER CRYSTAL DREAMS STOP WHAT DO YOU THINK STOP REGARDS MULLET
. Get that?”

“Yeah. Mullet wants more money.”

“You want Terry to take care of this one?”

“Don't bother for now. I'll send him something on Monday. Is
Crystal Dreams
a better name than
Surfie Walkabout
, do you think?”

“Search me. You're keeping track of these payments?”

“Of course.”

I got to Eloise's mid afternoon, let myself in and walked through the house. A radio was on upstairs. Kids' voices coming from somewhere.

Eloise was sitting on the deck out the back. She had a drink going. Janice was there too, also on her way. A strip of blue ocean was visible in the distance. Wind chimes sounded softly in the breeze.

Eloise turned in her slightly overdone languid way. “Oh, Bill darling, the children are
beside
themselves. Do take the dear pitiful wretches away, for god's sake.”

I kissed her, waved to Janice. “You two still going to the Windsor Castle?”

Eloise shrugged. “I suppose. Jules is coming around later to cook a curry. You must stay and have some, pet.” She looked at me more closely. “Anna says you've gone incognito again.”

“Does she?”

“She said you've taken to your secret mountain redoubt.”

“I'm here now, aren't I? Listen to me, Eloise,” I moved directly in front of her, crouching so we were eye to eye, “has that Geddins bloke been here?”

“Who?”

“Barry Geddins. Tall bloke, thirty-something. Dark hair. Smiles too much. Stands too close. A thug.”

Eloise looked genuinely confused.

“Don't let him in the door, even if he says he's a mate of mine. Don't let him anywhere near this place.
Ever
.”

“Darling, you're being so dramatic. But of course, I will obey you without question.”

Janice snorted into her drink.

Eloise said, “And what
is
this news about Max?”

I stood up. “He didn't die in that crash.”

“But really, dear one, how could that be?” said Eloise. “We
buried
him. Rather splendidly, I thought.”

“It was a good send-off. But he wasn't there. If what they scraped out of the wreckage was human remains, they weren't Max's.”

“So the rumours are true, after all?' Janice said.

We turned to face her. She looked from me to Eloise, back to me. “You never heard them?” No response, so she went on, “That he was working in the bush.” She started counting on her fingers. “That he was in New Zealand. That he was in England. That he was in Sydney, for God's sake, living under a new identity.”

“Who told you that?” I said.

She shook her head, playing the dizzy bird now. “Oh, I don't know. Various people. Musicians, I suppose. How on earth did you
not
hear them?”

Eloise tapped Janice's knee confidentially. “Oh, Billy doesn't talk to
anyone
if he can help it—”. She turned to me. “Do you dear?”

“I do, in fact. It's just
I
like to be the one who chooses where and when.”

The girl came running out, squealing, and hugged me. Her brother followed, acting the cool grown-up.

“All right you two,” I said. “We'd better clear out while there's still time. Put your shoes on and we'll shoot through.”

They ran off.

I waved goodbye to Janice, and signalled Eloise that I wanted to talk to her privately, then headed towards the front door.

She joined me in the hallway.

“There's something else,” I said.

She gave me a long look before saying, “Yes?” Picking up on something in my voice, she was more down to earth now.

“Phil has some houses in Annandale. Guilliat Street. Four in a row. Numbers 15, 17, 19, 21. You heard anything about them?”

“Not a thing. Why would I?”

“There's a Leb family in one. The others are empty. Now Phil suddenly wants the tenants out. Joe Dimitrios is involved as well. One of the Leb blokes reckons people in suits have been around stickybeaking. Surveyors, too. So something's going on.”

“And you want to know what.” She brightened. “Dad might know.”

“No, you have to leave Donny out of it.”

An appraising look. “All right, give me a couple of days.” she said, picking up a pad next to the phone in the hallway, writing down the addresses. A different person now. She tapped the pad with the biro and smiled. “I'll see what I can find out.”

The kids came running into the hallway, eager to get going.

We went to the city. They dropped a few dollars in the machines at Playland. The boy liked the pinballs, the little girl the pincers. After that I took them to the Minerva in Elizabeth Street. I had a coffee, they had milkshakes and crème caramel.

“How's school going?” I said to the young bloke.

He looked seriously at his milkshake for a few seconds then said, “All right.”

“That took you a while.”

He glanced at me. His light brown hair was getting long, and sun-bleached. Covered half his face. “I got into trouble last week,” he said, and looked down again.

“Yeah?”

A pause. “For being late.”

“You shouldn't be late,” I said.

He grinned at me, assuming I was being sarcastic.

“I mean it,” I said.

He looked back down at his milkshake.

The little girl piped up: “Eloise
makes
him late.”

“Don't tell tales,” I said. Asked the boy, “How?”

“She makes me miss the bus, even when I've got time to catch it.”

“Yeah?”

“She says punctuality is bourgeois.”

The girl said, “She says it's middle class.”

“Fuck me. Sorry. Ignore that. I don't want to hear either of you swearing, by the way. Did you tell the brothers the reason you're late?”

“No!”

“Good. Don't be a give-up. Well, that's your mother for you. She's one of a kind, that's for sure.”

The boy stared gloomily at his drink.

“One day you'll appreciate her for the way she is,” I said.

He nodded again, unconvinced.

“All right, I've got an errand to run. You two okay with tagging along?”

Eager nods from both.

It was a five-minute walk down to the Third World Bookshop in Chinatown. We were greeted with a musty smell partly masked with incense. Some kind of blues record playing, with wonky electric guitar. Maurie was at the shelves, rearranging books, a cranky expression on his dial. Bob Gould, roundish, of indeterminate age, bearded, thick hair sticking straight up, bib and brace overalls, was sitting on the elevated platform behind the till like some minor potentate. A chubby hippie girl sat next to him, sipping a cup of tea, smoking a Drum.

I said to the kids, “Have a look around but keep away from the dirty books.” Waved to Maurie, then to Bob. The hippie girl smiled.

“Ah, it's that colourful Sydney identity, Brother Glasheen,” Bob announced, “of the Miscellaneous Workers' Union, I believe.”

“Comrade Robert,” I said.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, in a tone that could be taken as either friendly or contemptuous.

I pulled
Lost Highway to Hell
from my back pocket and handed it to him.

He looked at the cover, the back page, flipped through it. “We're not taking any second-hand books today,” he said, “unless you've got some rare labour history.” He passed the book back to me.

“But you must know it?” I said.

“Trash paperback. Not terrific.” He smiled and went on in a fast, quiet voice. “Could use a little more lesbian sex. Or a better critique of counter-cultural opportunism masquerading as direct action. Preferably both.”

“So you
do
know it?”

He shrugged dismissively. “There's a whole
type
,” he said, pointing behind me.

I turned and looked at a shelf with multiple copies, face out, of
The Last Whole Earth Catalogue, Ringolevio, Trout Fishing in America, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
.

“Lower down,” he said.

Next row, slimmer paperbacks with lurid covers. Hippie chicks with bandanas and machine guns, half-exposed tits. Gun-toting lads with bandit moustaches. Burning cars, joints, hypodermics, bullets, peace symbols. The titles:
Dangerous Generation, Highway Blues, The Peacenick Gang, The Red Kill, The Bombshell Heiress
.

“They're
all
based on that business,” Gould said. “Loosely. Mate of yours, wasn't he?”

I looked at him.

“Max Perkal,” he said.

I didn't say anything.

“Never cared for the bloke myself,” he said. “Anyway, there's a slew of books about him and the others now. Nothing in them, but we move a few. For a while they were the most stolen books in the shop.”

He turned to his side, took a black-covered hardback from a box at his feet. “What I
do
have is this fantastic but hard-to-come-by account of the New South Wales bank nationalization crisis of the thirties.” He looked at me, smiling. Genuine pleasure there. “I can do a good price for you.”

“How is it for lesbian sex?”

“Not so good,” he said, “but the analysis is excellent.”

“This is the one I'm interested in, Bob.” I held up Max's book. “Where did it come from? There's no publisher's name on the back, and the title page is missing. Nothing even on the spine except for this, what is it, a flag? A map? Any ideas?”

He shook his head and said, “Can't help you, comrade,” then walked away to the back of the shop.

Maurie glanced at Bob, at me, then turned back to his shelf tidying.

“Come on kids,” I said.

Back at Eloise's there was a gathering. Rich, spicy smells came from the kitchen. A J. J. Cale record was playing. People inside and out drinking wine. Eloise's trendy east-of-centre friends: advertising people, groovy clothiers, art directors, so-called “
Nation Review
types.” The kids disappeared into their rooms. I drifted into the kitchen and ate some curry, which was good. A woman in a red scarf, a stallholder at Paddo markets, came over and said hello. She told me she'd just seen a film called
American Graffiti
.

“Have you seen it? It's
great
fun,” she said. Then confidentially, resting her hand on my arm, “Fifties nostalgia is
definitely
going to be the new thing. I'm getting rid of my Gatsby stuff and stocking up on fifties tat.”

I slipped away at eight, took a cab to Taylor Square. When I stepped into French's, a blues band had just started playing. A very un-blues-looking guy – fresh-faced, pressed jeans, short hair – was blowing harp. It was crisp and swinging just the same. No one much there yet.

Maurie from the Third World Bookshop was at the bar, already looking a bit dissolved. I joined him and ordered drinks.

I took a sip. “This cider tastes of iron filings,” I said.

Maurie took a long swig. “You did no good with Bob, then.”

“Nah. But it was like he knew
something
,” I said.

Maurie barked out a quick laugh. “He
should
. He published that book himself!”

I looked at him.

“Published it then pulped it. Too libellous, I guess. Even for him.”

“So why didn't he tell me that?”

Maurie shrugged. “Nothing for nothing.”

“Where did he get it from?” I said.

“I always thought he'd paid some hack to write it. One of the Balmain poets maybe.” He looked at me quickly. “Why do you ask?”

I shook my head. “Just curious. Never mind.”

“I mean,” said Maurie, “I know you and Max Perkal used to run that club up the street. Hazyland, wasn't it?”

“Not that, but similar. I'd prefer not to talk about it. Hey, you know anything about fifties nostalgia?”

He pulled a face. “Nostalgia's bullshit.”