The Big Whatever (43 page)

Denise said, “You've
got
to be fucking kidding!”

The Blighter smiled serenely and said, “Frightful bore, I know. But this business—”, nodding at the book on the table, “has to stop right here.”

“Because you have set yourself up with the Greeks, just like it says in the book?” I said. “From here on in, it's number 4 heroin all round.”

“Oh Bill,
please
. The moralising! You know full well that this heroin thing is going to happen, whether I'm involved or not.”

Max shook his head.

The Blighter smiled indulgently. “No point being sentimental for the old days: that little bit of powder smuggled in with the luggage. A bit of opium here—” holding up his finger and thumb a millimetre apart, “a few buddha sticks there. A cap of coke brought through customs, jammed up some poor wretch's blurter.”

“It wasn't just that, it was—” said Denise.

But Blighter ploughed on. “That's gone now.”

Slaney shook his head, speaking almost to himself said, “Yep, it's the age of the druggie, all right. And armed robbery. Drugs and armed rob.”

The Blighter, picking up the copies of the book, said, “Indeed it is. And if anyone present cares to be involved in future, ah, enterprises, they need only say the word.” He looked around the room, smiling. “Money
will
be made.”

Denise shaking her head, “You
are
kidding! We could blow the whistle on you. I've a good mind to.”

The Blighter said quietly, “Don't do that. It wouldn't go well. Actually, I think I've been more than fair. Extraordinarily forbearing, really. I've forgiven the theft at gunpoint of a very substantial amount of product.” He looked at Max. “And I've persuaded certain mutual Mediterranean friends to overlook past transgressions. Provided there's no more nonsense. Nothing that interferes with current plans.” He looked at Denise, then back at Max.

Neither of them said anything.

Blighter nodded, then looked around the room. “So?” Smiling placidly.

No takers.

Then Mark, talking to no one in particular said, “This smack epidemic. If it
is
coming, regardless, maybe the sooner it starts, the sooner it finishes,” he said.

Thoughtful nods around the table.

After another moment's silence Slaney sighed, and said, “Anyway, be that as it may . . . You, Mister Glasheen, and your friends here, and I – we can now all go about our business. There'll be no trouble, no come-back.”

“The Melbourne jacks?” I said.

“They got their piece of the Sunshine Pipefitters job. Provided Craig here is looked after, they'll go quietly.”

Grossman took a sip of coffee and said to no one in particular, “You know, my original plan was to make a grab for the lot. Shoot anyone I had to. But Fred talked sense into me.”

Fred bowed his head, modestly acknowledging praise.

An hour later I stood beside the Falcon. Slaney sat behind the wheel, waiting for the Blighter and Grossman to join him. Their bags and travel stuff were spread messily over the seats. Empty bottles of Paracodin Linctus on the floor. Elbow on the sill, Slaney said, “Just so you know, the other matter back in Sydney has been . . . concluded.”

“Meaning?”

“A certain mutual associate has gone, and he won't be coming back.”

“Barry's gone. That all?”

He did a double-take. “Isn't that
enough
?”

“It was all a set-up, though, wasn't it?”

Slaney was shaking his head.

“Like that old story about George Moore,” I said. “You know it?”

He waited.

“The jockeys are in the dressing room, just before the race, and George goes around, gives them each a five-quid note. Each man nods. Yep, he understands. But George leaves one feller out, the most junior apprentice. Then during the race, as they come into the straight, the apprentice flies past the whole field. As he shoots past Georgie, he turns around and yells out, ‘Ya never gave
me
nothin', did ya, Mr Moore?' and moves into the lead. And George shouts to him, “Good on you, son, you go for it. We've all backed you!”

Slaney laughed but said nothing.

“The Combine wanted Barry out of the picture,” I said. “Set it up so that I would take action.
Had
to, no choice. Someone was watching things. Followed me on the night, mopped up afterwards. Maybe it was you.”

Slaney not smiling now, dropped his voice even further. “I was there, but maybe I wasn't doing the Combine's bidding. And maybe I wasn't alone.”

I waited.

“Maybe some other people were prepared to off Mr Geddins.”

“Such as?”

“Such as a certain family of Leb cutthroats from Annandale. Maybe they didn't like Barry paying his particular type of attention to their kiddies. Maybe they saw some difference between you and Geddins, thought by helping you they'd be helping themselves.”

“And why were
you
there?”

“Maybe I was looking after you.”

He let that hang there for a few seconds, then said, “So what about these houses? Phil and Joe are cranky about what's
happening there. The Lebs are digging in. There are lezzos and longhairs from arsehole to breakfast. Now the journos are sniffing about. They think you have something to do with that.”

“The freeway flyover thing is dead. There'll be a change of government at the state election soon. And there'll be no sale to the state government in the meantime. Never going to happen.”

Slaney was waiting. Blank-faced.

I went on. “But I can put them in touch with a possible buyer.”

Slaney grinned. “Who might that be?”

“I'd rather not say for now. But they'll get a fair price, maybe better than the state government would have given them. And they'll be able to sell the places as they are. The purchaser will deal with the squatters.”

Slaney smiled.

“But they need to know that I've saved them there,” I said. “Phil needs to call it square between us.”

Slaney nodded. “Noted,” he said.

“Abe and Joe Dimitrios, they need to drop off too. We're all square.”

Slaney stared at me, said after a moment, “You still don't get it, do you?”

“How so?”

“They've long since called it square. Their worry is that you might be nursing ambitions of your own.”

“I don't follow you.”

“Gangster-type ambitions.”

I looked at him, waiting.

“Look at it from their point of view. You got rid of Barry, their number one standover man. If you wanted to you could round up a gang of sorts.”

“Who would that be?”

“You'd have me. Grossman too, if you want him. Your bikey mates. Your druggie connections. Donny could provide a few more men, if needed. If you were to ask the Blighter, he'd quite possibly sign on with your merry band of outlaws. He's probably got a couple of pirates on his string too.”

I said nothing.

“That would be what they call a gang. You'd be what they call a gangster. At the very least, you could join the Combine, as an equal partner.”

“I'd sooner neck myself.”

“I'm just saying, with your old-world sense of honour and so on, you've probably taken your obligations to the Combine more seriously than you needed to. Strictly speaking.”

“Whatever. It's all square between us now. Let them think what they like.”

The Blighter and Grossman came out to the car. The Blighter said we should keep in touch, but even if we didn't, fate seemed to have its own ideas about such things, so
au revoir
for now. He got in the car.

Slaney put on a pair of sunglasses, gave me a look and a nod, started the car and they were off.

Denise and I camped out a mile from the farmhouse that night. I built a fire, even though it wasn't cold. We'd cooked chops and potatoes, and were drinking flagon riesling out of mugs. Denise leaned back with a cig in her hand. “So, the Blighter and you,” she said. “Is that subject to a Bill Glasheen D-notice?”

“The Filthy Blighter. Real name, Beaufoy Edward Hawley-White. Drunk, scoundrel, double-crossing slime. Killer. Old-time spook. Didn't Cathy ever talk about him?”

“Not exactly. She always hinted something big had happened in Vietnam, but I never knew whether that part of the book was real or fantasy.”

“More real than not, I think. I knew him years ago. He was a kind of spy then, but running his own rorts too.”

She shook her head. “And now, the smack.”

“I've got a feeling he won't be around too long. He's got a habit now, by the look of it, maintaining on cough syrup. How long can he last once the shipments start? But forget him. a question for you. How did you find Plain View? Vic's mum?”

“Yeah. She didn't know much, but it was enough for me to
find the place. When I got there, I saw the Falcon driving out of the farm. I followed. At a safe distance, as per the Billy Glasheen method.” She snuggled into my side. “I missed our camping out. I missed you.”

“Yeah, likewise. Any progress on the book or film or whatever it is?”

Denise looked into the fire and said, “I've had a rethink about all that. You know what I reckon?” Looking at me. “It's too late. The Moratorium, hippies, Trots, Maoists. Vietnam. 1970. Old hat. These days, each year is so different from the one before.
Three
years ago is like another planet. I may as well be writing old-time beatnik bullshit like Max. Who would care?”

“It's all dead then?”

“Love, smack, the Melbourne underground. There could be something in that. I won't be the one doing it though. But I reckon I could do something with my, whatever it is, reputation.”

“How about a science-fiction surfing road movie?” I said. “With kangaroos.”

She looked at me, smiling, waiting for a punchline.

“I'm serious. Got your typewriter with you?”

Back at the farm the next day. Vic was still there, trying to get Mark and Max to forgive him for having thrown in his lot with the Melbourne police. Max didn't seem to care too much. Yeah, it could've gone badly, he said, but that move ended up being what resolved everything. Mark said, fuck him. It's a matter of principle. Every time Vic tried to talk to him he barked like a pooch. Around mid-afternoon Vic gave up and walked away, head bent, intending to hitch back to town.

Later on, Denise, Max, Charlie and me were sitting on fold-up chairs in the shade of a big pepper tree, drinking more of Charlie's coffee. Mark was nearby, fiddling with a motorbike.

Max took a sip of coffee, smiled at me. “So, old compadre, how do we stand?”

I looked at him a long time. But I had nothing to say. I just shook my head, too tired to answer.

Max grinned, or tried to. “A bit of a drink in it there for old Bill. Not what we'd hoped for, but still, a tidy sum. Get you out of trouble, at least.”

I turned to face him. “Are you kidding? This'll barely cover what I need to sling Eloise and the kids.”

Max looked at me with the same plastered-on vacant grin.

“If you wanted to make it right, why didn't you just ring me?” I said. “Or send me a letter? Or send Mark to fetch me?”

No answer.

“We could've had
all
the money and
all
the dope. Instead of no dope and a ninth of the money each.”

Max said, “My idea was, we draw everyone out, see which way they were going to jump. Spot all the players, then deal with each one of them. Now we've got our money, there's no one left chasing us. And so, with your help—” he grinned inanely, “I can prepare my return to society.”

“You'll have to do some jail,” I said. “You incriminated yourself with that stupid fucking book.”

“It's called unreliable narrator, pal. A tissue of fabrication and artistic license. Carries no weight in court. Anyway, Slaney's doing a little sniffing around for me, see what charges I would actually face. Could even be none. Meanwhile,
we
keep steadily building the legend.”

“Really?”

“I was thinking of a television documentary about me and my life. Max Perkal, father of Australian jazz-rock. Man of many parts. Beat generation legend. Came through the hell of drug addiction wiser and stronger. There are so many angles to this. Get someone like Rolf Harris to narrate it.”

“Not him.”

“Bill Peach then. A family friend, you know.”

I said nothing.

“I could go round to schools, warn kids about the dangers of drugs.”

I stood up. “This is a waste of time. I'm shooting through.” I looked at Denise. She stood up.