Bad Debts (22 page)

‘Not really.’

He put a piece of steak in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, looking around the room. ‘Mate, you don’t seem to have got a grip on something,’ he said.

‘What particular thing is that?’ I asked.

‘You’ve gatecrashed a party at the big end of town. With McKillop, I thought you were getting mixed up with some drug business and someone was giving you a chance to pull your head in. Now you tell me you’ve been trying to tie up the Jeppeson death and McKillop’s conviction and death and Bishop’s and the doctor’s, the whole bloody mess, with Yarra Cove.’

He looked around again. ‘This is dangerous stuff. We shouldn’t even talk about it in public places.’

‘Come on, Drew,’ I said. ‘This is Melbourne.’

Drew drank some wine. He leaned forward. ‘Jack, I think you’re out of touch. You’re still stuck in the days when the Melbourne Club ran this town. All those pompous arseholes who owned factories and insurance companies and played the market. All went to Melbourne Grammar or similar and basically silly buggers who didn’t like Jews or Ities or other kinds of wogs. Otherwise reasonably harmless twerps. Their day’s gone, Jack.

They woke up one day and found the real money was in property development.

Residential subdivisions. Hotels. Shopping centres. Office blocks. And most of the people making the money didn’t give a shit about joining the club.’

He dropped his voice. ‘I’m talking about people like Joe Kwitny, mate. Came out here with two pounds and holes in his socks. Got a job as a brickie, didn’t know a brick from a banjo. Some old bloke in Preston gave him a crash course for ten bob. Next thing Joe’s the gun brickie, the union’s telling him to slow down or a wall’s going to fall on him. So bugger the union, Joe borrows a few quid, goes off concreting over backyards, putting up brick-veneer houses. That was the beginning. The next thing people like Joe were employing hundreds, doing million-dollar deals, putting up buildings overnight, building whole fucking suburbs out there on the fringes. And on the way they found out 141

how to make sure government gave them the decisions they wanted, how to get the unions on side.’

Drew paused and looked at me for a while, the way teachers look at less-than-quick pupils. ‘These people don’t think bribery is a crime, Jack,’ he said. ‘It’s just an alternative way to get things done. Blackmail? Well, some people won’t co-operate.

Rough stuff, murder maybe? Well, accidents happen. Some of the smarter ones even take the long view. They’ve gone into politics, stacking party branches, getting the right people into Parliament.’

Drew paused, spoke slowly. ‘I’m talking about Joe Kwitny, Jack. Charis fucking Corporation.’

He sat back. I didn’t know quite what to say. Drew didn’t normally deliver lectures. We ate in silence for a while. Then he said, ‘Well, that’s the lecture. That’s the way the world is now, and mate, you have been wandering around in it like some yokel from Terang in town for the day. You think you’re doing something good, not so? You see it in terms of right and wrong, justice, that kind of thing. Well, pardon me, you know and I know that the system is not about fairness. It’s not about good and bad. It’s not about right and wrong. It’s about power, Jack. I know that. You should know that.’

‘At least I knew when to back off.’

Drew shook his head. ‘I don’t know if you’ve backed off in time. One thing’s for sure.

Bruce is no white knight. He’s going to rebury this smelly stuff you’ve been digging up.

You just have to make sure he doesn’t put you in the hole too.’

‘I could get myself some insurance.’

He cocked his head. ‘Don’t follow you?’

‘Say it gets into the papers.’

Drew didn’t reply until he had aligned his cutlery, wiped his mouth with his napkin, folded it, put it under his side plate, signalled the waiter and ordered two brandies.

‘Mate,’ he said, ‘don’t let the thought cross your mind. If they can hang this stuff on anybody, it’ll be on small fry and people already dead. And you’ll keep. These people have got long memories. They’ll come back for you.’

At home, I could smell Linda’s perfume on the pillows. For a moment, I lay there, drowning in a sense of loss. Then I got up and changed the sheets and pillowcases. I slept better. The first night is always the worst.

Phillip Epstein, art dealer, didn’t ask to see the provenance, although I had it.

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‘You’d expect, what?’ he said.

‘I need twenty-five thousand as soon as possible,’ I said. ‘They should cover that.’

He patted my arm. ‘Sisley,’ he said. ‘I think that’s a reasonable expectation. Where on earth did you get them?’

‘From my wife. Her grandfather once owned the whole notebook.’

He frowned. ‘You’ve got more?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘They’re the only material thing I’ve got left that’s worth anything.’

‘I’ll be happy to advance the twenty-five thousand. We’d want to take our time selling.’

‘It would help,’ I said, ‘if it was in cash.’

He smiled. ‘Let’s go in the back and have a drink. We’re not talking used notes in small denominations, are we?’

‘Large denominations would be better.’

25

Hardhills was as we’d left it: cold, damp, three utes and a dog outside the pub. On the way, Harry said, ‘Fill you in, Jack, next Saturday’s the day. Caulfield, race four. Two thousand four hundred. Bit short for the bloke’s breeding but it’ll do. Next point. We’re puttin a girl on him.’

‘I thought it was going to be Mick Sayre,’ I said.

Harry popped a Smartie. ‘Turns out Mickey’s a bit of a worry,’ he said. ‘Cam here was talkin to a clocker, fella who knows a few things. Says Mickey put a whole Greek syndicate on a plunge up in Sydney. On the day the stable got such a fright when they saw the odds go to buggery, they told Mick, bugger this, we’re not goin on at four to one, we’ll do it another day. Trouble was, Mickey’s more frightened of the Greeks than the stable. Wins three lengths clear. Next start, two to one favourite. Greeks love Mick but he doesn’t ride for that stable any more.’

‘Who’s the girl?’

Harry turned and gave me a wink. ‘You might’ve seen her. Nicest little bum on the turf.’

‘That’s her qualification?’

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Harry smiled. ‘Nancy Farmer. Rides for her dad. Harold. Two city wins. Mostly she rides the cattle out in the bush. Cam’s happy. Wanted a girl from the start.’

‘Why’s that?’

Cam was driving the big BMW. He took it around a speeding semi with a smooth change-down and a burst of power before he gave me a glance. ‘There’s two reasons,’

he said. ‘One, women can keep their mouths shut. They don’t get on the phone, go down the pub, do all their mates a favour. Reason two, a little girl’s been looking after this bloke fulltime for a year. They’re in love. Her and her brother’s all that’s ridden him.

You don’t want to put some cocky bastard on him, hard hands, knows it all, thinks he can thrash him home.’

‘I’m convinced,’ I said. ‘What about her bum?’

‘Bum?’ Cam said. ‘Since when do jockeys have bums?’

We parked in the same place as before. Cam got out to have a smoke. Harry put his seat back.

‘She’ll be along in a minute,’ he said.

‘The jockey?’

‘Staying at Ericson’s till the race. I want her to get to know this Dakota Dreamin.’

An old Land Rover pulled up next to us. A woman in her early twenties got out, moleskins, checked shirt, short hair, windburnt face: lean as string. Cam went over.

They shook hands, said a few words.

Cam came back and got in, drove off. She followed us around and over the low hills and parked next to us at Ericson’s. She was out quickly, waiting, hands in flap pockets.

It was just as cold as the time before. Cam said, ‘This is Mr Strang and Mr Irish, Mr Strang’s lawyer.’ We shook hands. She was good-looking, big mouth, no make-up, a hint of wariness in the eyes.

‘You’re on time. That’s good,’ said Harry.

Tony Ericson came up the gravel path from the stables. More handshakes.

‘Use your kitchen table, Tony?’ Harry said. ‘Bit of talkin to do.’

Ericson led us inside the house and down a passage to a big, warm kitchen with an old Aga stove. We sat down at the table. Harry was at the top. Nancy Farmer was opposite 144

me. She put her elbows on the table and laced her fingers. She had big wrists and strong hands like Harry’s.

‘Nancy,’ said Harry. ‘Mr Delray told you he wanted you to ride a bit of track on this Dakota Dreamin before Saturday.’

She said, ‘That’s right.’

Harry said, ‘This horse is goin to win.’

She kept looking at him, no expression.

‘It’s goin to win,’ Harry said, ‘because it’s the best horse in the race. There’s nothin else happenin.’

Nancy nodded. A little tension went out of her shoulders. ‘Why me?’ she asked.

‘Like your style, good hands, got a bit extra out of that Home Boy in the spring.’

‘Didn’t get me any more races in town,’ she said.

Harry smiled. ‘This’ll be the makin of you. Tony, tell Nancy about this bloke.’

Tony Ericson didn’t do much public speaking but he got through it. At the end, he said,

‘He goes down the beach every day. Me girl rides him in the water, on the sand. Four days he does a bit of track, not too much. Not the way the others do it, but he’s rock-hard now. Just right.’

Nancy said, ‘You trialled him at the distance?’

Tony shook his head. ‘No. He’s bred for the two miles but he’ll run a strong race at anything over two thou.’

She looked around the table. ‘I’ll do my best.’

Harry said, ‘You’ll understand if I say you can’t make any phone calls without Mr Ericson’s with you? You got a mobile with you?’

She shook her head. ‘Is this big?’ she asked.

Harry nodded. ‘Big enough.’

The tip of her tongue came out and moistened her lower lip. ‘I don’t have any calls to make,’ she said.

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‘Good,’ said Harry. ‘There’s a thousand for the week’s work here. You want to talk about the race fee?’

Nancy looked at him, unsmiling. ‘It’s laid down.’ She paused. ‘Excuse me, are you the Harry Strang…?’

‘Things go right,’ Harry said slowly, ‘Mr Ericson here is a generous owner.’ He patted the table with both hands. ‘Well, business over. Let’s have a look at the bloke.’

At Dakota’s stable, a small girl in overalls was waiting, stroking the horse’s nose. She had short red hair and freckles.

‘This is me girl Denny,’ Ericson said. ‘Slim’s sort of her horse.’

Nancy shook hands with Denny. ‘Pleased to meet you, boss,’ she said. ‘Now that’s what I call grooming. You want to bring him out?’

The girl blushed with pleasure.

Dakota came out calmly, gleaming like a horse in a painting. Denny handled him as if he were a big labrador. He was saddled and bridled inside a minute. We walked behind Nancy, Denny and the horse to the track. Dakota had his head down, his neck extended. He looked as if he were deep in thought, a horse at peace with himself and his surroundings.

‘Walks like a stayer,’ Harry said. ‘You can always tell.’

At the track, Nancy adjusted the stirrups, swung up effortlessly.

‘Have a little muck about, get the feel of him,’ said Tony Ericson.

We watched for fifteen minutes while she took him up and down the track, trot, canter, short gallop, bit of walking around. When she came back to us, she said, ‘Nice horse, likes to run,’ rubbing his jaw. She got off and gave the reins to Denny.

‘Walk with me,’ Harry said. They hung back. When I looked around, they had their heads together, Harry talking with his hands. At the top of the gravel path, they caught up.

‘Friday, I’ll be back, talk some tactics, look at some movies,’ Harry said.

On the way home, Harry said to Cam, ‘Girl can ride. Strong, too. You got a feelin?’

Cam flicked a glance at him. ‘You know what Oscar Wilde said? Only one thing makes more of a fool of a man than a woman. And that’s a horse.’

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Harry said, reflectively, ‘That so? Didn’t know old Oscar rode horses. Knew he rode everythin else.’

The sun came out as we drove over the Westgate Bridge. Off to the left, far off in the distance, I could see the observation platform at Yarra Cove. They had put three flags on it now. Big flags.

26

I got in another two hours’ work at Taub’s. The three tabletop boards had to be joined with hide glue. Charlie wouldn’t use anything else for this kind of work. Some cabinetmakers use epoxy resin glues. The joints were claimed to be stronger than the woods they joined. When I mentioned this to Charlie, he said, with feigned incomprehension, ‘Stronger than the wood? You want joints stronger than wood, welding is the trade.’

I measured out a quantity of hide glue, golden granules, dissolved them in water, added some more granules and heated up the liquid in the glue pot. While it was warming, I put the boards on the gluing stand and dry-clamped them. The fit was good. I unclamped them and, when the glue was hot, I carefully painted it on two interior edges with a hogbristle brush. Then I put hardwood strips down the outside to protect the outer edges and one-inch dowels outside them to spread the clamp pressure. I tightened the eight bar clamps, the outside pair first, then alternately on each side. At each end and at three intervals along the surface, I used three-by-three hardwood cauls and C-clamps to make sure that the pressure of the bar clamps wasn’t distorting the assembly.

It had to be absolutely flat. There were no second chances.

Then I tinkered with the clamps for a good fifteen minutes, trying to ensure that I had enough pressure but didn’t force out glue and starve the joints. ‘Trust your hands,’

Charlie used to say in the early days. ‘If you’re straining, it’s too tight.’ I didn’t quite understand this: Charlie could tighten the nuts on the Sydney Harbour Bridge with his bare hands without taking any strain.

When I’d cleaned up, I went home. Reluctantly.

Sunday night. I cleaned the kitchen and the bathroom, fed the dishwasher, tried to read the Sunday Age, opened a bottle of wine, drank half a glass, stared at the contents of the fridge. Made a cheese and gherkin sandwich. Women come into your life and all the hard-earned self-sufficiency deserts you. Suddenly you’re half a person again.