The Big Whatever (13 page)

We spent the next three days fishing, playing cards, relaxing, then drove calmly out of the area. By then the heat was off. Cops might've assumed we'd left by train days ago, or that we'd somehow dodged the roadblocks and driven back to Melbourne, the nearest big city. By the time we mosied down the highway, there were no cops around.

Sounds easy, muchachos, right? Truth is, I was shitting bricks. At least in the lead-up I was. Right through the careful setting-up of getaway cars, hideouts and such – rising
fucking panic. When we did our practice run, I was all a shit and a shiver. Kangarooed the car, then stalled it. Nearer the job got, the worse I got.

A day out from the job, Jimmy the Thug got cold feet. We were staying at a cabin in the Dandenongs, halfway between the job and Melbourne. It was morning. Stan was frying eggs and bacon. I hadn't slept for two nights. Which was nothing unusual. Jimmy came into the kitchen, took a glance at me, shook his head.

“Can't do it with him like this,” he said, nodding my way.

“I'm absolutely a hundred percent fine,” I said.

Stan turned around, looked at me.

“I'll drop some Mandrax, get a little shut-eye. I'll be right then.”

“It's more than that,” he said.

They ate their breakfast. I stuck with coffee. My hands were shaking so much it slopped out of the cup. Stan finished up, left the room, came back with a cap of white powder, a teaspoon and a fit. Cooked up right there on the table. Loaded the fit, and held it out to me. Didn't say anything.

I looked at him. I didn't say no, didn't say yes. Now, my little dumbsaints, I was no stranger to the narcotic class of drugs. I'd had the odd sniff here and there over the years – pills on occasion, when someone had visited a chemist's after hours, gifts from lovely ladies in the psychiatric nursing profession and so on. But the strong opiates had never done much for me.

A couple of seconds passed. Stan said, “It's up to you.”

“I figured you lot were into the gear,” I said. “That's why you've been so, whatever, laid back. Right?”

Stan still said nothing. So, I picked up the fit. Bang, I whacked that shit. Tasted it back of my throat. My hands stopped shaking. I felt calm. I felt alert. The speed buzz didn't go away, but somehow the skag cleansed and refined it. I'll spare you any description beyond that, my little subterraneans – I never read a believable account of a smack
stone, and I won't try now.

We went ahead and did the robbery. I was right there, all present and correct. In the pocket. On the wavelength. And everything went perfectly. Had another taste after the job. And another one after that, for reasons that now elude me.

A week after getting back to Melbourne I met up with Cathy in a Carlton pub. Dig, my young pistoleros, Cathy and I hadn't so much as
mentioned
the Sydney shootery since she'd reappeared. Water under the bridge. Too complicated. Too scary. Whatever. But she needed to be told of recent shit. All I had to do was tell her. Like that. Easy. Cathy, a couple of killers would like a word with you. Just letting you know.

Mid afternoon. Cathy was in the ladies lounge, sitting at a table on her own. She glanced at me as I sat down. “You're pinned,” she said.

“The last one on the bus, it seems.”

“And you're working hot with Stan and Jimmy?”

“Yeah, that too. But I have a reason, a good reason. So listen to me.”

“Yeah?”

“There's trouble.”

She waited.

“
Sydney
trouble.”

She nodded, still waiting.

“The Greek. He came by. With a heavy. To square up.”

“What did you do?”

“Spun them a yarn. Bought some time.”

“What yarn?”

“I said there was a job in the offing. A big one. They hold fire and they'll get a cut, I said. Square up for Sydney plus a bit more for their trouble.”

“There's other trouble.
Melbourne
trouble,” she said, pulling a folded
Daily Earth News –
a hippie rag out of Carlton – from her shoulder bag. She passed it over. “Second page.”

I opened it up. There at the top was Denise's photo of
Cathy at the service station on Mornington, holding the gun. Blown up big, but with a black bar across Cathy's eyes. The headline next to it said, “Fall Among Thieves – My Night with the Hippie Robbers.” It was by Clive the Fop.

“Uncool as hell. But that's a great shot of you.”

“That was Denise's idea. She's a fool. And Clive's an idiot. She passed that photo to him. I'm dumping them. You should too.”

Then Cathy bit her nail and looked away, thoughtful. Or preoccupied.

Something else not right.

“Hang on,” I said. “At this stage, you should be plying me with questions about the Greek and his mate.”

She looked at me, waiting.

“You know all about it.”

Nothing. Meant yes.

“You've seen them already?”

“Two nights ago. I saw Alex at the T. F. Much.”

“You talk to him?”

“Yeah.” Cathy looked at the door. She sat up straight, suddenly looked bright and on it. “Anyway, I want you to meet someone. Now keep a cool head, Mel.” At that she stood up and smiled big, ready for a greeting. I turned around to see who was on the receiving end.

A tall, thickset bloke in ill-fitting flairs was striding towards us. The palooka I'd seen outside Stan's digs. The copper. The fucking copper. Right here, grinning at Cathy.

“Craig. Hi, darl.” When he got to our table she stood up and gave him a peck. “Craig, this is Mel Parker.”

We shook. My hand grip was weak, meant to convey indifference. His was a bone-crusher, meant to convey he was a complete arsehole.

I was playing it cool but I was wired. Fight, flight, freak? The hell was the crazy bitch up to?

The copper gave me the lingering stare. Meant to remind you of every time you'd ever got in the shit, since you
were three years old, give you that squirmy feeling again. I was having none of it. I stood up. Cathy grabbed my hand, called out “Craig!” – and waited until the copper looked at her. She said nothing more, just gave
him
the look, and fuck me if he didn't lower his eyes like a chastened schoolboy.

Then back to me. “Sit down, Mel. Craig's with us.” Pause, then to him. “Aren't you, sweetie?” He grinned, shrugged.

“Get us a gin and tonic, will you, Craig?” she said, and off he trotted.

I sat down again.

Out of earshot, Cathy said, quickly, “You know him, then?”

“I saw him outside Stan's the other day.”

“He's covering for us at Russell Street. We need him.”

“Who's he with?”

“Armed Robbery Squad.”

“Jesus, Cathy, you crazy fucking idiot. They're assassins, every one of them.”

“Well, he's
our
assassin.”

She let that sit there, while I caught up with her twisted but – I had to admit – in its own way brilliant thinking.

The cop came back.

“So,” he said. “Cathy tells me you got a visit from Barry.”

I shrugged.

“A very bad man is our Barry.”

“Tsk, tsk.”

The cop's superior little smile faded. He turned to Cathy. “Your mate going to play the smart prick?”

“Don't worry about it, Craig. Just tell us what you know.”

“All right.” Turning to me, “Barry is a first division Sydney maggot.” He paused, looked from Cathy to me, back to Cathy. He leaned forward, dropped his voice. “Kiddies, you know?” He straightened up. “Barry's presence in Melbourne isn't appreciated. By
anyone
.” Significant stress on the last word. Meant Russell Street, I supposed. “Barry will be made aware of that shortly.” Another meaningful pause. “What
you
need to do is let me know if you see him or hear from him again. Or tell Cathy. Without delay.”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “And what good does that do us?”

“That's obvious, isn't it?”

Cathy said to me: “I told you. Craig's on our side, Mel.”

I stood up. “Your side maybe, not mine,” and with that parting riposte, I fucked off.

You think me hasty? Well pay attention, young hooligans, I happen to know a bit about dealings with the morally flexible elements of the constabulary, and this much is true: you deal with crooked coppers only when you need to. A payment here or there, to get a certain matter overlooked, or see a vital piece of evidence go missing – sure.
When there's no other way
. But up front, let's all be chums, and venture forth to have some spiffing Famous Five–type adventures together? Fuck that shit. A bent copper will rat on anyone and everyone. Plus, they're coppers. We're on one side, they're on the other. They've already proven their bad faith by becoming coppers in the first place. This is Australia, after all.

So I was out of there. No one came running after me.

I stopped into a record shop in Lygon Street and bought a
Daily Earth News
, read it when I got home. The Fop hadn't given all that much away. Wrote about how he had managed to crack an interview with a gang of robbers. But they were not like your regular members of the criminal classes. This gang was “political,” he said, against the war in Vietnam, opposed to conscription, in favour of the legalization of grass. They listened to Hendrix and Dylan. He had one of them – one of us – quoting Bob, in fact, to the effect that to live outside the law you must be honest. Maybe Stan had said that, more likely Denise, but most likely Clive just whacked it in because it sounded cool. This was some sorry journalistic carry-on, my young seekers, and you can take that from a cat who has earned a dollar or two over the years as a penny-a-liner. I even spotted right away that the Fop had
lifted his style from Hunter Thompson's book on the Hells Angels, which had been doing the rounds that year.

After I'd read the piece a couple of times, I calmed down a little. There wasn't too much in it. Clive had spent a night talking to people who'd told him they were robbers. No proof, nothing concrete. That was about it. With luck it'd die a natural death.

Next morning the photo was on the front page of the
Sun
. “HIPPIE ROBBERS” said the headline. The story puffed up the thin stuff from the Fop's article, added a bit of spice – Cathy's shirt in the photo was open at the top, showing, as I may have mentioned already, a partial glimpse of pleasantly curving bra-less tit.

The story speculated a bit about pot and free love among the criminal classes. Also quoted some unnamed old lag who said he would never ever, in his day, have done a robbery with a sheila. Added that druggies in his opinion had no place in the criminal world. There was no comment from the Armed Robbery Squad.

I went to Stan's place in a state of high alarm. He and Jimmy were putting bags in their car when I got there. “We're fucking off,” Stan said. “Queensland. Come along if you want.”

“The bullshit in the paper?” I said.

Slinging a bag in the back of the wagon – Jesus, I could see the barrel of a pistol right there – Jimmy said, “Can't work with that going on. We let it die down. Start again when the dust has settled.”

For a moment I was tempted. Make a new start. Would Alex and his mate find me? Not for a while. But yeah, eventually. My name was shit in Sydney, so that was out. And what would I do in Queensland,
water ski
?

Plus, although I wasn't quite admitting it to myself yet, I had become just a wee little bit accustomed to the smack. It cooled me out nicely after the speed. And I had to admit, since I'd been indulging, there'd been no more visions of
creeping tree-coppers and such.

The station wagon was packed and they were ready to hit the road. We stood around for a moment. A strange moment. Like we were reluctant to break the connection or something.

Stan reached into his pocket, glanced around, and handed me a couple of packets of powder. I gave him all the speed I had with me.

“If you want any more of that,” he said, nodding at my pocket where I'd stashed the bindles of smack, “go see the Captain.”

I was surprised at this, but made no comment.

We all shook and off they went. Cheerio lads. Send us a postcard.

Cathy stayed in town, even though it was her picture on the front page of the daily paper. Her reasoning: a slightly soft-focus photo of a tall, slim chick with straight brown hair, smiling, holding a gun,
maybe
after having just robbed a service station? Could've been anyone. That photo on its own wasn't going to put her in jail. More than a few heads knew it was her, but so what?

HOW HIGH THE MOON?

Things settled down, or seemed to. One more story ran in the
Sun
, page five, about the revolutionary hippie armed robbers, but there was no real heart in it. A statement from some detective saying there'd been no reports of the so-called hippie gang. Nothing after that.