Frederick's Coat (14 page)

‘Y
our lease will not be renewed.’ A bombshell opening from the landlord’s lawyer, Hamish Wooten. He’d asked for an urgent meeting, but Johno, his mind on Danny and Melanie, had let him wait a few days, not for a moment contemplating this scenario.

‘Is this legal? You’re saying I’m being kicked out of my own premises? The place I transformed into—’

‘Mr Ryan,’ Wooten cut him short. ‘It wouldn’t matter if you’d built ten storeys on top of the place and you had it all sub-leased out. The fact remains the freehold property belongs to my client.’

For an Aussie he had a toffy English voice. Johno, with experience of customers who spoke in similar way, figured it came from private schooling. His distaste was that of a Balmain working-class boy. European landscape paintings on the walls confirmed the social divide.

‘Who is, by the way? Since I never asked and was never told.’

‘And you won’t be now. You’re dealing with me. It’s my job to tell you that your landlord has made a decision not to—’

‘Renew, yes.’ Johno was fighting to stay calm. ‘Now, do we negotiate?’

‘No, sir, we do not,’ said Wooten, with surprising firmness since he seemed like a type who’d got bullied at school. ‘There’s nothing to negotiate.’ Maybe this was the adult taking revenge.

‘Not even with a good tenant who’s never missed a payment, looked after the property like it was my own—’

Again Wooten interrupted. ‘This isn’t an emotional matter, Mr Ryan.’

Johno felt a sudden urge to do violence. He wanted to wreck this office, put a fist through those fucking boring paintings. Instead he said, ‘I’ll see you in court’, and he headed for the door.

‘Mr Ryan?’

They must try this last-moment trick quite often on occasions like this. Keep walking.

‘There is one small possibility …’

Stop walking. Forget pride and turn around, hear the guy out, let him play his lawyer’s games. But if he goes too far, he’s getting a busted nose and to hell with the consequences.

‘Have you heard the term “key money”?’

‘Of course I fucking have.’

‘Please,’ Wooten said. ‘Spare me the bad language.’

‘And you spare talking down to me at a time like this.’ Close to hauling Wooten up out of his chair and belting him.

‘Mr Ryan, Mr Ryan. Such a display of unnecessary emotion. I thought you were a businessman. My client might change his mind if you are willing to pay key money.’

‘Have I got a choice? How much are we talking?’ Johno was trying to keep his anger under control, but all he could see was his business brought to an abrupt — and wrongful — end. ‘Or does the lapdog have to report back to its master?’

‘I’ll ignore the insult, in the circumstances. You would consider it?’

Johno went back to his chair and sat down. Had Wooten planned it like this all along? Whatever, Johno had been outplayed by his own business inexperience: he should never have developed the beer garden and spent so much money on all the other improvements without first having a new, longer lease.

‘My client has had his people assess your business. You turn over about eighty to a hundred thousand a week?’

‘Do I?’ Johno wasn’t showing he was rattled again.

‘Usually one would not pry into a man’s sales, or his earnings,’ said Wooten, ‘but in this instance … Is this figure too high, Mr Ryan, or
indeed too low? With all due respect, I would advise caution in your reply.’

‘You mean extracting money on top of the rent I pay?’ Johno aware he was shaking slightly. ‘As well, the new rent that will be set —
if
we can get agreement?’

‘Key money sounds much less emotive.’

Johno had had enough. ‘Mr Wooten, if you apply any word to do with emotion to me again, I’m going to put my fist in your mouth. How fucking much does your
client
want to gouge out of me?’

‘I need to know your turnover, sir.’

‘How about my half million costs just for the beer garden alone?’

‘I think my client would be prepared to offer a reasonable sum to compensate.’

‘If I’m out on the street, the beer garden is being dismantled, every last rock, water pipe and plant.’

‘As is your right as a tenant who added these enhancements. Can you confirm the estimate of your turnover, please?’

‘Seventy-five to eighty-two,’ said Johno.

‘And your margin is …?’

‘It depends.’

‘Taking every’ — he put up two fingers on each hand to indicate quote marks — ‘“depends” into consideration. After tax.’

‘Last year thirteen per cent.’

‘So let’s say it steadily increases until you can’t fit any more customers in the door, so to speak. Can we take that as fifteen per cent profit after tax?’

‘What’s my profit got to do with this?’

‘Everything, Mr Ryan. As I said before.’ The guy didn’t even blink. Ordinary build, a bit flabby round the face, the opposite of tough, yet no question who was in charge. ‘Fifty thousand a month.’

‘Why has it switched to monthly?’

‘Easier to multiply by twelve, than fifty-two. You net six hundred thousand a year.’

‘Do I really? So how come my bank balance isn’t in the millions, seeing I’ve had the place at full pump?’

‘I have to ask you how much you have in the bank. Or we can’t take this discussion any further.’

‘Certainly not the sort of money you’re talking.’

‘This negotiation is inextricably linked to your profit margin. I’m sorry to get so personal, but we have no choice.’

‘Like I said, I spent big on doing the place up. I bought an apartment.’

‘Let’s consider the first as essential to your high sales — an investment you made. The second is a liquid asset. Up to you to declare what you paid for it.’

‘If your man was here I’d have him against that wall squealing,’ Johno said. ‘Let’s say close to two million in cash and assets,’ repeating what his accountant had recently told him, and he’d not been that moved.

Wooten gave a wisp of a smile and said, ‘I’m glad you didn’t come up with any buts.’

‘If I had?’

‘You didn’t. Let me see now …’

‘This another lawyer’s game?’

‘Another? I’ve not played the first, Mr Ryan. Certainly your current rental is too low. The malls charge around ten per cent of a store’s turnover.’

Johno sat there, saying nothing.

‘If there was a new lease it would be for a monthly rental of thirty-five thousand.’

‘Well, that’s kind of you. From twenty-three to thirty-five. And?’

‘I don’t think we could start at anything less than a million for key money,’ Wooten said in the same dispassionate tone. ‘I’ll understand if you walk. But not if you assault me. There will be serious consequences.’

‘Don’t tempt me to make it worth my while.’ Johno had to swallow. ‘One million dollars …? Key money you call it?’

‘We don’t set the market,’ said Wooten, ‘we only reflect it. Like when you signed the lease and the market said you were the only offer
going? You might like to take your own legal advice on this.’

‘On how to get you thieving bastards before a court of law, you mean?’

‘I think you’ll find your legal adviser will inform you that we’re within our legal rights.’

‘And moral?’

‘Mr John Sean Ryan. Tsk-tsk. Speaking of morals,’ the lawyer leaned back in his leather armchair. ‘A man with your background?’

‘If you don’t pay, you’re cutting off your nose to spite your face,’ Johno’s lawyer told him. ‘It would take nearly two years of trade to make up, but at least then you have ten more years of good income to console you.’

‘This will empty my bank account,’ Johno said.

‘But replenishing at fifty grand a month isn’t bad, Johno. I know some who’d die to be in your position, if you don’t mind me putting it that way.’

‘Remind me why we didn’t have a right of renewal?’

‘It was agreed you didn’t want to be locked in, in case the bar didn’t go well. The landlord took our offer because he had no other bidders. He wanted a longer lease.’

‘So the ball’s in their court?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said kindly Geoff Fielding. ‘I can only make this next lease watertight and bullet-proof.’

‘There such a thing?’ Johno had his doubts.

‘What my profession makes a living from. People’s disputes and all of them wanting exemption from life’s sufferings.’

Y
ou can spot your own, even from a distance on a crowded Sunday, with people going by, kids playing, dogs on leashes, picnics being spread out.

There, on a slightly elevated grassed area in the Botanical Gardens, was Danny, Frederick standing beside him in his heavy coat. They were both smiling. Their heads went down like two conspirators, soulmates, came up grinning, laughing.

But hadn’t he been the same with Shane? Except Shane wasn’t a homeless loser like this guy, mental problem or not. Nor, with the benefit of hindsight and a lot of years, were they as close as both had always assumed; absence hadn’t made his heart fonder, he’d not missed Shane at all.

Watching them he felt furtive, as if violating his son’s privacy, just as he did when he went into Danny’s room sniffing around like some deadbeat private detective for the telltale odours of alcohol and cigarettes. If his son wasn’t happy, why was he laughing? What was it about this friendship that no other person had been able to bring out in Danny? Was Johno jealous? No, surely he was above that.

There were the changes in Danny’s art, with its homeless figures and public parks. The colours around them had got brighter yet the wretched human figures were in their own grey mist — the same tone as Frederick’s coat.

Yesterday he’d found that Danny had painted yet another perception of Frederick’s coat — captured perfectly the fine herringbone pattern,
its present-day detail, of stitching coming apart, frayed cuffs and hem. You could damn near smell it, and stand back to see the bearded man, like the blurry image supposedly of Jesus Christ imprinted on a shroud. The clever way Danny had turned a button into one of Frederick’s eyes, given his beard the same brushed black and speckled grey as the closely woven material of the coat.

Quitting the park before he was seen, Johno was glad he at least had someone to confide in. But at Melanie’s nicely furnished flat, mostly antiques about which Johno knew less than he did about art, he found he was reluctant to talk about Danny. First they made love with their usual passion.

‘Do you know the word “euphemism”?’ he asked afterwards.

‘Yes. I remember it from English at high school,’ said Mel. ‘Aren’t you supposed to say how good that was?’

‘Goes without saying.’ He touched her face. ‘It was great.’

She touched his cheek in return. ‘“Impecunious” is another word.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Broke, basically. My English teacher said it applies to most writers. They live in a permanently impecunious state. Guess I remember it because I’m a pseudo writer of ad copy,’ she said.

‘That’s what the landlord’s lawyer called key money, a euphemism. A lot of it too.’

‘So how many euphemisms did he extract? Sounds more like extortion to me.’

‘Not saying. This isn’t a feel-sorry-for-Johno exercise,’ he said. ‘Just getting it off my chest.’

‘And now you move on?’

‘Well. Do I look mad? Like I want to commit murder?’

She laughed. ‘No, course not. But you can look pretty intense,’ she said. ‘Sometimes.’

‘So can you — not so long ago.’

‘Oh, that?’ She grinned. ‘That’s just me fighting being swept completely away by my basic urges. How much did you pay?’

‘Not saying.’

‘Come on. You never talk about money, actually. Yet surely you make a lot? Least by my standards.’

‘Asks a gold-digger—?’ He didn’t even have time to smile or say it was a joke before she thrust a finger against his lips.

‘Have I ever given the impression I love money?’

‘Hmm.’ He hammed it up. She removed her finger, glaring. ‘No, you haven’t. Makes two of us. I didn’t mean it.’

‘I hope not. Nothing could be worse than a gold-digger. And I am far from broke.’

‘Sorry. I just gave a lot of money to a faceless person, a mysterious company that didn’t deserve it. Right now my son’s in a city park pretending to be a homeless drunk. It’s him I’m mourning, not so much the money.’

‘So tell me about it.’

He gave her the fuller story of his son’s unlikely friendship. She said, ‘That’s kind of sad and yet it isn’t. It sounds like it’s all perfectly normal to Danny.’

An answer Johno didn’t expect. ‘I’m worrying myself sick over nothing then?’

‘Probably.’

‘I got drunk for the first time at thirteen, with my best mate, on whisky. The hangover lasted a week. I don’t want my son to be a drunk, arty or not. Let alone doing it in a public park with a homeless tramp.’

‘Getting down and dirty with a homeless person, you mean?’

‘What other description would you give this guy?’

‘I’d give him the benefit of the doubt,’ Mel said. ‘I understand your concern, but I’m sure he’ll grow out of it.’

‘You mean back right off?’ A father who well knew that his main shortcoming was not being rational on the subject of his son.

‘If you put it like that, yes.’

‘I’ll try.’

After some moments she said, ‘After your father’s funeral, why wasn’t the wake held at your bar?’

‘The wake? We might be of Irish descent but far as I know we call it an after-funeral reception, a polite way of saying a big piss-up. Held, as you know, at his friend Wrighty’s house.’

‘I still would have thought your bar was a great venue to start the farewell. You said your father was so proud of the place. You didn’t like those people, did you?’

‘I didn’t like
me,
more like it. What I used to be — seeing how I could have ended up.’

‘I thought you might have a past.’

‘I didn’t think it was that obvious. We all have a past. Mine happens to be on the wrong side of the law.’

‘I’m ready to listen anytime you want to tell me.’

‘One of these days,’ said Johno. ‘Now, I have a question I should have asked earlier. You said you write ad copy? Who do you work for?’

‘For a gold-mining company.’

‘Very funny.’

‘I write ads for a boutique agency. Not everyone is as talented as they think they are. Maybe I’m a frustrated novelist stuck with writing jingles and catchy phrases because I don’t have the talent. Or something,’ she said, and without bitterness. ‘Really, though, I’d much rather be a full-time musician. Want to hear stuff I can bet you’ve never heard before?’

‘If you want to drop the subject of your work, sure,’ he said. She got out of bed and went to her sound system, installed in the bedroom.

Johno said, ‘You go to sleep with that on?’

‘How did you know?’ Her naked form stirred him again with wanting for that dark spread, for all of her.

‘I feel better than when I arrived,’ he said.

‘Me, too. Funny, that. This song is “Stay With Me” by a British group called Blue Mink. The lead vocalist is a black American, Madeline Bell. Released in ’72, two years before I was born.’

‘My God, if I’d known you were that old I would never …’ His teasing overridden by the music.

‘The music I love most is from my parents’ time.’ Next she was
singing softly into his face, simple words asking him to stay.

He didn’t say it, but he might be inclined to say yes, a man suddenly acknowledging a load is easier shared, even if it hadn’t felt like that much of a burden.

Johno bought the building next door. Found out it had been offered to his landlord first but the offer was ‘an insult’ and plainly his offer wasn’t. Work would start soon on extending the beer garden and play area. Business kept getting better, the Sunday barbecues had a third grill installed and it was still hard to keep up with demand; they had a phone-in takeaway service now and were considering doing express delivery.

‘You and your band have boosted Wednesday and Thursday trading,’ Johno told Melanie over drinks at her apartment, ‘so I’m offering you a pay increase.’

‘You could make me feel like a hooker,’ Mel grinned. ‘If all bar owners were like you.’

‘My prices aren’t the lowest,’ he said. ‘I’m not starving, and what do I want with lots of money I can’t spend anyway?’

‘We’ll come back with a reasonable price. I’ve had lots of better offers to sing in nightclubs, or up at the Gold Coast.’ And when he didn’t bite, she said, ‘Of course I said no. But didn’t say why, that I’m in love with a man I can’t get enough of. There, said it.’

‘If Danny didn’t have this Frederick as a friend I’d ask you to move in with us.’

‘Is that it?’

‘I think I’m in love.’ Yet the words didn’t exactly spill out, not the kind of person he was.

‘That’s better.’ She settled for what was. ‘But I’m not in a hurry. I want your attention divided between just me and your son. Asking the bigger question, what do they talk about?’

‘Danny says they have an understanding and he learns a lot. I guess, from Frederick’s point of view, he has a young friend who gives him
money and an ear. Danny never made a close friend when he was at school. He loves Mavis, respects Wilson, but he can only get this kind of emotional connection with me, and Frederick even more so.’

‘Who you said doesn’t like being called Fred — rather un-Australian of him. And Danny, handsome as a young Greek god and yet not interested in girls?’

‘Not so far. But I’d know if he was gay.’

‘Which would be okay, yes?’

‘To you, fine. Have my own thoughts on the subject and they’re not up for discussion. Heard my share of heated debates between pro-gay females and, shall we say, unconvinced males. As the proprietor it’s not appropriate for me to join in.’

‘I don’t want a row,’ Mel said with a sweet smile. ‘Instead of all the girls he could wish for, he prefers to hang out in city parks with a homeless guy drinking from the same bottle — what do they drink?’

‘Cheap, home-made vodka or sherry as far as I can figure. I didn’t exactly get up close enough to see the labels.’

‘It’s a wonder Danny hasn’t caught something. I don’t mean sexual, just this man sounds rather a health risk from the way you describe his smell.’

‘No chance. I’d know if it was. That drive must have died a long time ago in Frederick. Danny just lives in his own world and truly believes his friend understands him even better than I do.’

‘Does that bother you?’

‘I don’t care if he learns from insects, fish or talking plants,’ Johno said. ‘But I’ve never been able to get used to the friendship. I have this funny feeling it’s going to end in disaster. They’re from different planets.’

‘What does your friend Wilson think?’

‘He takes the liberal view: let the kid be. Danny could be asexual, like Wilson. Can you imagine?’

‘Can
I
imagine?’ Her reaction was so spontaneous that Johno kissed her; they had a little cuddle and a knowing laugh.

‘Last little upset we had, Danny went on about how much he learned
from his homeless pal. I got a bit nasty and told him, “Yeah, like teaches you how to pick things out of public garbage bins, where to find the cheapest alcoholic drink one up from kerosene. Gives you lessons in personal hygiene and sleeping out in the open.”’

‘A bit head-on but understandable,’ Melanie said. ‘But to no avail?’

‘None. What I don’t get is he’s clean himself. But’, Johno decided that was enough on the matter, ‘I have to get back to work soon. You gonna sing our song tonight?’

‘Mr Ryan? Twice a week I sing songs just for you, to you, several times a night.’

He said, ‘I like it because it has two parts — you singing, then us singing without words.’

‘That’s a nice way of putting it, from a tough guy like you.’

‘Who, me? Tough? Nah. I’m a teddy bear — ask Danny.’

‘And
you
ask the mirror.’ She lifted a finger at him. ‘I have another oldie favourite, by Stevie Wonder when he was a teenager. “With a Child’s Heart”. It’s—’ For some reason she broke off. Johno about to ask what was wrong when she resumed.

‘I had a child,’ Mel said. Her chest rose. ‘A daughter.’

‘Had?’ Johno felt the abrupt change of tone.

‘She died.’

‘Jesus …’

‘Killed in an accident … along with her father.’

So this is what gave the ache to her singing, why her eyes often looked sad, even when she was laughing.

‘What happened?’ Johno shot a glance at a framed photograph that he’d always thought was Melanie with her kid sister and now, dramatically, meant something else. ‘Is that her?’

Mel nodded. ‘I was married. Happily, I might add. They were on a school trip. I didn’t go because I was seven months’ pregnant. The bus went over a ravine. Eight were killed, including my husband and daughter. I lost the child I was carrying soon after — the shock and stress, I guess. So now you know.’

In his own state of shock Johno said, ‘The kid in the photo, and I never asked.’

‘I thought you’d get around to it.’

‘I just assumed she was your sister,’ he said. ‘You know I told you how almost all my customers talk about themselves?’

‘It’s all right, Johno.’

‘No. It’s not all right. I should have included myself in that. Every time I’ve come here what did I talk about?

‘Your son, as you naturally would. It’s okay. You weren’t to know.’

Angry with himself, ashamed at his insensitivity, Johno said, ‘I should have thought other people have kids, too, including you. Let alone losing your child. I don’t know what to say. Sorry would never cut it.’

‘You don’t have anything to be sorry about. Honestly. You just didn’t pick up on something right under your nose. We all do it.’

‘Says you to the self-centred fool who should’ve known better.’

‘Now that’s way too harsh on yourself.’

‘You mean not harsh enough. How long ago did this happen?’

‘Five years.’

‘Holy shit. Your daughter and your husband? Do you ever get over it?’ He looked again at the little girl in the photograph, her broad smile, so pretty.

‘That’s a hard question. She never leaves my thoughts for long. A few hours at most,’ said Melanie. ‘I think of my husband, too. But it does kind of heal. The memories fade a bit.’

‘At least my son is alive and well.’

‘And you appreciate him. Just prepare for the worst, so when it comes, as they say, it’s lost some of its hurt.’ She smiled wryly. ‘Not all, mind. Not near it. Least that’s what I’ve heard.’