Kal (15 page)

In an instant, Rico had grabbed the man around the throat and twisted him to the ground. The man had no time to cry out and his partner simply stood by, stunned.

‘
Adesso porco morirai
.' Rico lifted the man's head and smashed it down against the rocks with all the strength he could muster. ‘Die, pig!' It took only the one blow to crack the man's skull open.

Rico stood and looked about the quarry. It had happened so quickly none of the others had noticed as they went about their work. ‘It was an accident,' he hissed. ‘He fell. You saw him.' The man's partner stared at Rico, shock and fear in his eyes. ‘That is what you will say or I will kill you too.'

Blood gushed from the man's head. It streamed in rivulets amongst the rocks. But his body was not visible to the other workers. ‘In two minutes from now you will call out the accident,' Rico ordered.

The partner nodded dumbly and Rico walked back to his own work patch. With his awkward gait it took him the whole two minutes to do so and, no sooner had he gathered up his pick, than the cry rang out.

‘
Aiuto!
Gabriel has fallen!
Aiuto!
Help me!'

In the days that followed, there was a lot of conjecture as to whether or not Gabriel's death had been an accident, but none of the workers wished to be involved with the law so the incident was never investigated.
They left Rico alone after that. When Teresa came out to the quarry the men averted their eyes. Rico was glad. Justice had been done.

Rico watched Giovanni flick the row of olive pits off the wall with his finger. One by one. Just as they had done when they were boys. It had been a contest then to see who could flick the pits the furthest. No, he thought, he could never tell Giovanni about the man at the quarry. Once he could have. Once, when he'd been a hero in his brother's eyes and could do no wrong. But Giovanni had changed, Rico thought with regret.

‘I must go back to work.' Giovanni stood and gathered up the debris of their meal.

‘I will get a job, Gio, just you wait and see. I will get a job tomorrow, I promise.'

 

T
RUE TO HIS PROMISE
, Rico found a job the very next day. ‘The Red Dingo, Gio. You know the Red Dingo? You have been there?'

‘No. But I know of the place.' Since the knife fight several years ago Giovanni had avoided the Red Dingo.

Rico's job was to clear the empty beer barrels from the cellar and unload the fresh deliveries from the dray when they arrived. He had already shown off his strength to his employer.

‘I just stand there,' he boasted. ‘I pick up a barrel and hand it to two men who roll it on a plank down to the cellars. One of me and two of them, Gio. You see? Half of me is stronger than ever.'

They were sitting in Rico's room. Giovanni had not had too much trouble persuading Pat Forman to let them stay. ‘Only two weeks and we go,' he had smiled. ‘And we will be quiet, I promise you.'

The truth was that Pat Forman was loath to see Giovanni go. She had long since accepted the fact that he
was not interested in romance, but simply to see him each day and exchange pleasantries added that little excitement to her life. Despite the livid scar across his cheek she considered him the handsomest of men and seeing him always set her heart aflutter.

‘You are welcome to stay, Mr Gianni,' she had said. ‘But any disturbance from your brother and he and his family must leave.'

It was early evening now and the brothers were drinking wine and watching Teresa feed the children. ‘A lot of me is still strong, eh Teresa?' Rico winked lecherously at his wife who gave a good-humoured nod in return.

‘
Si
,' she said, wiping Carmelina's mouth.

A week later Rico returned from the Red Dingo excited, jubilant. He insisted Giovanni come out with him for a drink. ‘Come and drink some beer with me, Gio. You work too hard.'

Giovanni realised his brother wanted to talk to him away from Teresa so they went to the nearest pub.

‘Do you know about roulette, Gio?' Rico asked as they sat down with their mugs of beer.

Giovanni shook his head. ‘Who is roulette?'

Rico laughed. ‘It's not a “who”, it's a game. A French game where you can win a lot of money. The boss at the Red Dingo has just imported a wheel from Paris. It cost him a fortune. It's the only roulette wheel in the State—some say maybe the only wheel in the whole country.'

Giovanni continued to look confused.

‘The game is played in a big wooden bowl called a wheel,' Rico explained impatiently. ‘The wheel is divided into red and black numbers. They spin the wheel and throw in a white ivory ball. You bet on the numbers or on the reds or blacks—there are many ways you can bet—and if the ball lands on your bet you win. Johann
showed me the wheel. They have built a special table for it. It's made of jarrah—magnificent.'

Rico had become friends with Johann, the Austrian barman who doubled as croupier on Sunday nights. Johann spoke several languages including Italian and had taken Rico under his wing. ‘We must play this roulette,' Rico insisted. ‘We might win big money.'

Giovanni looked doubtful. ‘Yes, and we might
lose
big money.' He realised now why Rico had wanted to speak to him privately: Teresa would strongly disapprove of their gambling. But the more Rico spoke of the roulette wheel the more Giovanni found himself attracted to the idea.

‘Next Sunday is our last night in Fremantle,' Rico insisted when he saw his brother weakening. ‘We must have one evening in the big city before we go to the goldfields, Gio. One night to remember, what do you say?'

His excitement was contagious and Giovanni agreed, on the proviso that they set a limit to the stakes. They would gamble no more than their combined fortnight's wages. If the worst happened and they lost the full amount, there was still more than enough in the brown paper bag under Giovanni's mattress to get them to Kalgoorlie and rent a house.

‘Six pounds it is,' Rico grinned. ‘But we're not going to lose, Gio. We're going to win. And win big. And then we'll
buy
the house in Kalgoorlie. A great big house, eh?
Un palazzo
.' Giovanni laughed, it was impossible not to. Rico winked at him. ‘And not a word to Teresa.'

 

T
HE UPSTAIRS GAMBLING
den at the Red Dingo was the oldest and by far the most famous of the many illicit gambling houses in Fremantle. So long as violence was kept to a minimum, the police were content with their monthly payoff. The sergeant of the watch regularly
informed Norman Whaley, the owner, when an obligatory raid was to be staged; then Norman would close the club, line up half a dozen or so stooges and bail them out when they'd been arrested. That way everyone was happy.

From the street, the Red Dingo looked like many of the other impressive hotels. Two storeys high and built of stone, it stood on a corner and was surrounded by wide shady verandahs. Several doors led into the huge bar, the two lounges and the billiards room, and doors on the first floor opened out onto a spacious communal balcony, designed for the enjoyment of the hotel guests accommodated in the upstairs rooms. But, apart from Norm and his wife, there were no guests accommodated in the upstairs rooms. Norm had gutted the place. With the exception of one bedroom maintained for himself, and two backrooms reserved for small-time punters and private card games, upstairs at the Red Dingo was a massive space where, nightly, hundreds of pounds were lost and won.

The conversion had cost Norm a great deal of money—he'd had to reinforce the ceiling and have supporting pillars built—but it had proved worth it. It had been difficult to control the violence when he'd operated the business in separate smaller rooms and, when a man had been killed in a knife fight, the sergeant of the watch had threatened to withdraw police protection. Now, from their vantage points around the perimeter, Norm's six heavies could easily control any outbreak of hostility.

It was a good night, Norm thought, as he wandered amongst the tables and nodded to the regulars. But then Sunday was always a good night. Each of the six tables was busy, three of them with the French game of pontoon, which Australians preferred to call twenty-one, and three of them with the dice game Crown and Anchor. And of course, in the centre of the room, the
star attraction, the roulette table. The punters who'd arrived early had seats; others crowded around three, four deep, throwing their chips on the table and calling out to the croupier who placed their bets on the felttopped table.

Rico and Giovanni had been amongst the first to arrive that evening. They had converted their six pounds and both had sixty chips, each to the value of one shilling, in his pocket, but they had not sat at the table. They wanted to observe the game before they placed their bets and Johann had warned Rico no one must sit without betting. ‘It is a rule,' he'd said. ‘If someone sits without betting, even for one spin of the wheel, there are fights. The boss will not allow it.'

An hour later, having evaluated the state of play, Rico placed their first bet. ‘One to eighteen,' he said to Giovanni. ‘The high numbers have come up six times in a row now. It will change soon, it must.'

‘Place your bets,' Johann said as he set the wheel in motion and spun the ivory ball in the opposite direction. Rico put his shilling chip onto the table and pushed it into the bracket marked one to eighteen.

The wheel slowed; ‘No more bets', and the ivory ball fell into one of the slots.

‘Twenty-six, black,' Johann called.

On the next spin of the wheel, Rico placed two chips in the one-to-eighteen bracket. ‘Thirty-three, black,' Johann called.

On the next spin, Rico placed five chips on the same bet. ‘Nineteen, red,' Johann called.

‘You see? The numbers are getting lower,' Rico whispered undeterred and doubled his bet.

Within ten minutes he had lost his money. Giovanni started out placing his bets with a little more caution but finally he too was caught up with roulette fever. There had been ten even numbers in a row, surely the next one
had to be odd. He put five chips on. ‘Six, black.' Another five chips. ‘Eighteen, red.'

Within one hour of having placed their first bet, all their chips had gone. ‘This is a game for fools,' Giovanni said. ‘I prefer poker. There is some skill to poker.'

‘There is a penny poker game in the back room. You want to play?'

‘With what?'

‘I have money.' Rico felt in his trouser pocket, pulled out four shillings and handed the coins to Giovanni. ‘Not much.'

‘Enough,' Giovanni grinned. ‘Maybe we'll still get rich, eh? Come on.'

‘No, you go.' Rico turned his attention again to the roulette table. ‘I want to watch a little longer.' Giovanni hesitated. ‘Go on,' Rico urged. ‘I will join you soon.'

Giovanni shrugged and went in search of the poker game.

Rico hadn't been able to tear his eyes away from the big man seated opposite. The man had bet three times on the red. Not a shilling chip either. A one-pound marker. Each time the red had come up. And each time, when the croupier had placed another one-pound marker on top and started to push the man's winnings to him, the man had said, ‘Let it ride'.

No, Rico thought, suddenly understanding, this was no game for fools. There was a way to play this game. You didn't bet
against
the run, you bet
with
it. And the fifty pounds that he'd taken from the brown paper bag beneath Giovanni's mattress was burning a hole in his pocket. He checked that Giovanni was nowhere in sight and went to the cashier's desk.

 

H
ARRY
B
REARLEY WAS
having a lucky night. Mind you, he thought, it was about time—he was well and truly due for it. He'd all but wiped himself out last night. This
was his last ten pounds and he had to turn it into fifty. He could hardly go back to Maudie Gaskill penniless. She'd never marry him if he did. And Harry desperately wanted to marry Maudie. Not just because of her money, although the fact that she owned one of the busiest pubs in Kal was an attractive addition to his genuine feeling for her. He was fond of her, he admired her and, above all else, he desperately wanted his son to have a mother. The best mother to be found in Kal. And that was Maudie.

Yes, Harry thought as he watched the croupier deftly flick the ivory ball into the spinning wheel he was desperate.

Not that anyone would know it. If there was one thing that could be said of Harry Brearley, he had style. He was a big man, tending a little to portliness, with thick brown wavy hair turning a premature grey at the sides and a smile that could charm the birds out of the trees, as his Irish mother always said.

Harry had been born in Australia, in a little town south of Perth called Bunbury, but he could easily have been born in Dublin like his parents. He didn't exactly have a brogue but there was a lilt to his voice and everything else about him was Irish. He had the gift of the blarney, another of his mother's phrases. With a voice just a little too loud and gestures just a little too flamboyant, he was rakish and roguish and downright charming.

It was inevitable that, at nineteen, Harry should leave Bunbury and join the goldrush and equally inevitable that he should get a girl pregnant. The surprise was that it was only one of the many girls he'd bedded and that he did the decent thing and married her. He was twenty-four at the time and two years later, when his wife died in the goldfields typhoid epidemic, there were those who worried for little Jack Brearley's welfare.
Harry was a ne'er-do-well, they said; the boy needed a proper father. But Harry proved them wrong. The one redeemable quality in Harry was his unswerving love for his son, and it was that love which had won the heart of Maudie Gaskill.

‘Nine, red.' It was the fourth consecutive red call and the croupier looked at Harry as he placed the big man's winnings before him. Harry gave a slight nod.