AT 29 (50 page)

“I know about him,” Simi said.

“What do you mean?” the lawyer asked.

“He's tryin' to trick me into thinkin' he's got more than he does.”

“What do you know about him?”

“He's into magic green.”

The defense lawyer sat forward in his chair. “What exactly are you saying?”

“He's a pot head, maybe more.”

“Are you saying he's doing drugs?”

“You hard of hearin'? That's exactly what I'm sayin'. Buys it down at the waterfront.”

It didn't take long for Simi's story to be confirmed. The defense lawyer contacted friends in the police department who were only too eager to roust several young suppliers who peddled marijuana and more off ships at the docks. Nigel's picture was recognized, soon followed by a clandestine video taken one afternoon when Nigel was tailed. Everything was detailed in a report and forwarded to the Chief Prosecutor who read and re-read it with alarm. When confronted, Nigel could do nothing, but confirm what it said. The chief prosecutor was also preparing to run for higher office. His conviction record, due mostly to Nigel's successes, was to be his strongest card. Only Simi's defense lawyer stood in the way of a quiet resolution.

It took a long meeting to strike a deal. Nigel, of course, was not invited. The defense lawyer accepted a lesser charge for his client. After a short prison sentence, Simi would be back on the street and the police would be back in business with their informant. In return, the chief prosecutor received a pledge of secrecy that meant he would not have to deal with Nigel's criminal violations. The report and the videotape would be destroyed. The detectives, who bore the brunt of Nigel's obsession, smiled with satisfaction.

After his quiet dismissal, Nigel went home to the apartment he shared with Reina and smoked magic green in stony silence. Two weeks following Simi Zingold's release from prison, the mother who had come to Nigel for justice, disappeared. Unable to penetrate her lover's listless depression and alarmed at his increasing dependence on marijuana, Reina left.

When his lease ran out, Nigel made preparations to return to Melbourne. He had no plans, but the disappearance of the mother who first brought Simi Zingold to his attention, gnawed at his conscience. For a week he visited Sydney's drug havens, using sellers he knew to paint a picture of Simi's movements. Late one night, he found the killer as he exited a warehouse. Simi never saw the punch that dropped him to the pavement. He was only semi-conscious when the kicks to his gut drove the air from his lungs. He blacked out when the strong hands of his assailant gripped his throat. Only the
lights of a passing car ended the brutal beating that would have ended the drug dealer's sadistic life. Nigel walked away only partially satisfied. Murder was his thwarted intent.

He drove through the night, arriving in Melbourne the next day. He thought about visiting Sister Marie, but after spending two days in a hotel, elected to continue on to The Great Ocean Road. At Airey's Inlet he pooled his savings and what remained of the money Aaron had left him and bought a small surf shop.

At the age of twenty-seven, when others his age were just beginning to hit their stride, Nigel Whitehurst found himself disgusted with life. His only relief from the depression that dogged his days, magic green and the freedom to surf with increasing recklessness along the shores of Southern Ocean.

It was a hot morning in Warrnambool. The summer season was in full swing and thousands of tourists had flocked to the town for the annual cycle race. The beaches were crowded and surfers competed for space among the waves far offshore. Illa pulled his old Ute into the parking lot and got out with his two mates to carry their instruments into the park across from Lady Bay. The three blacks, naked but for their native loincloths, quickly spread a large blanket on the ground. Then they placed a basket containing a small amount of money at the foot of the blanket and sat down to play. Illa was the featured player, sitting with his seven-foot didgeridoo extending out between his outstretched legs. The other two played similarly traditional instruments, clapping sticks of varying shapes and sizes. They would spend the day in that spot, collecting contributions from passersby who stopped to listen and take pictures.

His real name was Illalangi Illuka, which meant ‘home on the hill near the sea'. He was fifty-eight years old, a native of the Yan Yan Gurt clan of the Gadubanud, pronounced Katabanut, Aborigines who lived for tens of thousands of years along the coast bordering the waters the whites called Bass Strait. The didgeridoo felt natural although it was not the traditional instrument of his people. Its strange low sound came from tribes far to the north in what was now called Queensland. Illa learned to play when he was young, accompanying his father to festivals much the same as the one he visited today. It was boring work, but it earned just enough to keep him fed and clothed so he could spend the rest of his time wandering the lands of his birth. Unlike most of his peers, Illa was a throwback, never willing to fully embrace the western culture all around. His long coarse hair was flecked with gray and the flesh around his arms and hips had begun to sag, but his health was good and he had the stamina of a man much younger.

He, his father and other Gadubanud men who came before kept the tales of their tribe alive through their songs. Most told of hunting prowess and hostile victories against other tribes and even some of their fellow clans in the region. He reveled in the telling of these stories, but it worried him that few of the younger indigenous people showed interest. Soon, he thought, all that came before will be forgotten.

One story told of a giant white man who came to live among his people and helped them win victories against their enemies. It was particularly important to Illa because he knew it was true. It was also very personal due to the legacy placed upon the shoulders of his forefathers down to the present time. Now, the responsibility rested with him, bestowed by his father just as his grandfather had done almost a century earlier. “Be watchful,” he was told, “His spirit will return.” It was a burden. Illa had last seen the object of his family's quest twenty-five years before when he watched the twitching one-armed man tumble from the cliff above the sea. A new Whitehurst spirit had not returned.

In early afternoon, with the sun at its peak, the three musicians set their instruments aside. The tourists had dwindled, most to the beach to escape the heat. They would come back later when it was time to fire up the barbies. Illa donned a red-checkered shirt and pulled a pair of worn green shorts over his loincloth. The others went to the Ute to retrieve lunchboxes. They tossed a can of beer in his direction. He opened it and took a long drink, paying little attention to the frolicking families in the water. He lit a cigarette from a half empty pack in his shirt pocket and took a drag, pondering how long he should wait before returning to play. The heat did not bother him as he finished
his beer and cigarette. He wasn't hungry, either. He wandered over to a bench facing the ocean. In minutes, his chin dropped to his chest and he napped.

An hour later, the Aborigines were back on their blanket. The morning's take had been good. They emptied the basket except for a little change, and threw the rest into the center to count and pass out shares. Satisfied and hopeful of another good return over the next few hours, they took up their instruments and began to play again.

The long day ended as the sun made a brilliant orange globe above the horizon. People still speckled the beach, but not so many as before. The park was filled with the smell of food cooking on hot coals. Children ran around, laughing and trying to catch one another in an assortment of games. The musicians split the remaining money, folded the blanket and tossed it with their instruments into the back of the Ute. Illa knew it would be better to stay longer. The basket would have filled even more, but his mates wanted to leave. It was time to head for the bar. The thirst had to be satisfied.

He slid behind the wheel and drove off just as the passenger side door closed. The shabby watering hole that catered exclusively to blacks was on the outskirts of Warrnambool, five kilometers away. As he brought the small truck to the edge of the park's entrance, he stopped to let the heavy traffic of homebound day-trippers go by. He waited for an opening, scanning the waves, which had grown larger as the tide came in. Far off, a lone surfer paddled out to catch a crest before it broke. Something about the tall man's size and gait compelled Illa to peer closely through the windshield. He watched intently as the surfer mounted his board and confidently steered it diagonally along and down the wave. Recognition slowly bore its way into Illa's' brain.

He darted his head back and forth, looking for a break in the traffic. When a small opening appeared he gunned the engine and sped across the road into a narrow parking lot separated from the beach by a metal fence. His two passengers hooted in protest when Illa stepped from the truck and walked to the fence. The surfer was now emerging from the water; board in hand, done for the day. He watched the man trudge up the sand, seeing a familiar strut he was convinced he'd seen before. It was too far to make out the man's face, but he had the right size and build, bigger than nearly all around. That he was alone also fit.

A hundred meters in the distance, the big man climbed over the railing and attached his short surfboard to straps in the back of his Ute, a newer one than Illa's. Sensing he might lose his chance to follow, Illa hurried back behind the wheel, started the tired engine and maneuvered onto the road. Up ahead, he saw the other Ute enter the traffic with several cars in between. He maintained the separation for five kilometers until he reached the side road that led to the bar, his original destination. He quickly pulled the vehicle off the road and waved his passengers out, not waiting for the door to close before driving back onto the road. He could not lose his chance to make sure the man he saw was the one.

Darkness fell as the two vehicles traveled for three hours along The Great Ocean Road. Illa kept as far behind as prudent without losing sight of the other Ute on the sharp curves. Villages and towns came and went for one hundred and seventy six kilometers before he saw the red rear lights of the vehicle brighten and the right turn signal blink. When the Ute made its turn down an unmarked dirt road, Illa continued on for fifty meters, pulling into an opening in the scrub along the roadside. He edged his Ute as far
into the opening as possible, killing the lights and motor. He knew exactly where he was, a short distance from the village of Aireys Inlet with its majestic lighthouse.

He exited and closed the door gently. Then, using stealth inbred for thousands of years, he silently made his way through the bush until he came into a clearing where a small building stood. The newer Ute, still carrying its owner's surfboard, was parked beneath a sign reading ‘Whitehurst's Surf Shop'. In an instant the burden of Illa's twenty-five year search was lifted. He dropped to a cross-legged position on the ground. Later, when a crescent moon rose above the horizon, he stood and made his way past the building to a path that led to the beach. He followed the path until it opened onto the sand where he stopped momentarily to decide which way to go. Then he turned right and walked for three hundred meters until he was far removed from any semblance of human activity.

He built a fire with scraps of driftwood that had accumulated along the upper edge of the beach. Then he sat down to listen to the crashing surf and wait for the moon to reach its apex. When the moon finally rose high above his small fire, he stood once again and gathered more driftwood, throwing it into the fire until a towering flame clawed into the air. Then he stripped naked and took handfuls of sand to throw into the air above his head. He kept on with this ritual until dawn, dancing around the fire in a trance of thankfulness to his ancestors for guiding him, at last, to the fulfillment of his destiny. The Whitehurst spirit had returned. Illalangi Illuka would remain near.

The sales figures were on McCabe's desk when he arrived at seven a.m. He scanned the numbers. One hundred thousand copies of
Button's Back and Blue
had sold across Australia in just five weeks. He leaned back in his chair, satisfied, but aware that Australia was merely a test. The real opportunity was here in the States. Ellis was preparing to bring the English groups back. Sales of their albums had begun to show legs. He ran his finger down the page, twenty thousand in the UK and Europe. Again, the real money was yet to come when all three albums were released in America. Backed with promotional tours and radio airtime, he was convinced he had winners on his hands. He turned to look out the window. Ellis had some good ideas. The agent turned road manager, advocated a single tour, headlining all three groups. Instead of merely pushing Jimmy, he wanted Miles to bring all three groups together under a ‘Blossom Presents' format.

“He'll be the one they come to see, but you want to get the Brits as much exposure as possible.
Back and Blue
will go gold and when the people hear the other two albums, especially live on the same bill with Jimmy, they'll take off, too. I'm telling you the whole will be bigger than the separate parts. Put them on tour together with Blossom in big letters on the billboard and everytime you introduce a new artist in the future, people will start buying just because of Blossom's reputation.”

Miles liked the idea. The popularity of Jimmy and the others would ebb and flow, but if he could build a gold plated Blossom brand the longevity of the business would be assured.

“Jimmy will need a new band. How long will that take?”

“He's got Sonny. He knows plenty of players. Rehearsal might take a month, then it's a matter of getting the staging right.”

“I don't have money for a big production.”