The Big Whatever (34 page)

I stood up, smashed the .22 on the roadway. The stock splintered. I did it again and the barrel bent. I went back to the bloke on the ground.

“Are you able to get up, sit in your car?”

He said nothing.

“Come on, I'll help you.”

He didn't help, but he didn't resist. I got him into the driver's seat.

“When you get your breath back, you can walk into town that way,” I said. “Or sleep in the car till morning. And you might want to do something with that sawn-off. If a cop happens to come along you don't want to have to explain it.”

This time he said nothing.

I went to the back of the car and picked through the junk on the back seat. An overnight bag, a change of clothes. I went back to the kid and leaned over him.

“I figure Multi told you to follow me for as long as you could. Ring in with reports every day. Or maybe you were to follow for a day or so then hand over to someone else. That about right?”

“Get fucked.”

I took the keys out of the ignition and tossed them into the long grass of the paddock. I went back to the driver and punched him in the face, not as hard as I might have.

“Tomorrow you should have a long hard think about the line of work you're getting mixed up in. Consider something more regular. Multi and Vi are way too ruthless for the likes of you. If you're not as strong as the strongest – and let's face it, who is? – then you need to be smarter to make up the difference. But mate, you're neither strong nor smart. Just the truth.”

When I left he was glaring at me silently.

Denise didn't say a word as we drove away.

A change blew in from the Tasman Sea, cold, wet, windy. Denise stayed at the wheel until we reached Eden three hours later, across the border in New South Wales. We stopped at the first motel we came to, rang the night bell and waited shivering until the cranky proprietor came out.

We booked into adjoining rooms. Ten minutes after I turned the light out my door opened and Denise tiptoed quickly across the room, wearing just a T shirt. She slipped between the covers,
slid up against me. Her skin was warm and very soft. She snuggled up, and I felt her warm breath on my neck.

“Remember I said I wasn't going to fuck you?” she said.

“Yeah, I remember that.”

“Well, I didn't really mean it.”

* * *

Next day we drove north. No one behind us, a smooth, fast ride through the coastal hills of the far south coast, then a left off the highway into the ranges towards the Monaro Plains. The rain had passed, it was sunny and cool. As we drove through the big open hills, talk between us was easy. Denise slid over next to me on the bench seat.

“So, what was the go with this nightclub of yours? And Max's?”

“For your book, is it?” I said.

She smiled. “Yeah. No. Sort of. Not really. More just background. For me.”

“It's a sorry yarn, all right. Max called it the Joker in the book,” I said. “He said it was up at the Cross, a grand kind of place, right? Like the Whisky Au Go Go or something. You know what it really was? A drab upstairs room in Darlinghurst. We called it the House of Cards. Big joke, eh?”

“It's a good name for a club. What about Alex the Greek? Was he a real person?”

I looked at her. “You didn't know him? All that time he spent in Melbourne?”

“The smack was mainly Cathy and Max's thing. Like I said, I was just a dabbler. On the fringe. I never knew . . . was Alex his real name?”

“Yeah. Greek Alex. He was part of it.”

“He still around?”

“Been up the Atherton Tableland for the past two years. Out of the picture.”

“But his family?”

“His uncle is a bad man. Joe Dimitrios. If there's any one reason Bob
really
pulped Max's novel, I reckon it's that. Fear of the Greeks.”

“So are you in hock to him?”

“Kind of. Indirectly. He's with a bunch of knockabouts in Sydney who call themselves the Combine. The number one man there is Abe Saffron. It was Abe who bankrolled our nightclub. You've heard of him?”

“Who hasn't? So it's organised crime?”

“Not that organised. They each run their own race, but they discuss things together – mostly to make sure they keep out of one another's way. And they have some deals in common. They do square-ups for each other too, when it's convenient. Do the wrong thing by Abe, you might find there's a Greek after you. And vice versa.”

“So, you being in debt to one, means you're in debt to all of them?”

“Yeah. The Troubles, I call it.”

“How much you owe?”

“Enough. More than I'd earn gross in two, maybe three years. That's including rorts.”

At midday we stopped in the town of Nimmitabel. I went to the public phone, rang Avalon. The phone rang out the first time, so I redialled. Terry picked up on the third ring.

“We were out the back. Beautiful day here. How's it going?” he said.

“Nothing new. Anything there?”

“It's strange,” he said, his voice dropping low. “That particular bloke you mentioned, well, he's gone
very
quiet. No one knows anything. I mean, there's
nothing
.”

“What do you mean, nothing?”

“I mean nothing. He's not injured. Not dead. Not here. Not there. Not anywhere. Just . . . zip. Gone.”

“That can't be good,” I said.

“Good or not good, Annie and I are going home tomorrow.”

“All right. I'll ring in a couple of days.”

Denise was in the milk bar across the road, sitting in a booth by the front window. We ordered a plate of sandwiches and a pot of tea. As we waited, Denise was writing furiously in a notebook.

“For the novel?” I said.

She didn't look up. “I'm keeping a journal . . . very important.”

She didn't stop scribbling, and I didn't try any further conversational gambits.

We drove through the treeless Monaro high plains for a couple of hours, pulled into Bungendore late afternoon. Some of the bush towns are nightmare zones: random, shitty streets with ugly, rundown buildings. You'd wonder how anyone could even stay there overnight. Then there are others with wide streets and avenues of century-old trees. They have big rambling Victorian pubs with shady verandas, like in a Drysdale painting, where you'd spend an afternoon playing pool and listening to the hillbilly jukebox. Bungendore was one of those.

We pulled up outside a rainbow-painted shopfront at the far end of the main street. It advertised kaftans, Indian cotton shirts, essential oils, Afghan coats, beads, sandals, handicrafts from Asia, books, magazines, Aquarian bits and pieces. Tarot readings and massage – strictly therapeutic – if that's what you wanted.

Inside was a forty-something woman with a wild mane of salt-and-pepper hair, olive skin, high cheekbones, an orange kaftan. Good-looking still. She saw me, blinked, then broke into a big smile. There were hugs and more smiles.

Denise sauntered in behind me. The woman's eyes opened wide. “And this is . . . ?”

I stepped back. “Shirley Hill. Denise Baillieu-Munden.”

They embraced. Denise stood back and said, “You're the ‘Gypsy Woman,' right?”

Shirl laughed then looked at me. “What does she know, Bill?”

“You'd be surprised,” I said.

Eyes narrowing, she turned back to Denise. “And you'd be the ‘Heiress Revolutionary'.”

Denise bowed, smiling apologetically. “That label wasn't my idea.”

“Well, we're honoured to get a visit from the famous,” said Shirl.

If Denise was stung, she didn't show it.

“You staying? Come out to my place. Tons of room. I'm about to close up anyway.”

We followed Shirl's multi-coloured VW out of town, and a little while later we were drinking red wine and lounging in cane chairs under a huge oak tree out front of an old stone farmhouse. The hillside sloped gently away in front of us, down to a woolshed and a nearly empty dam. A mob of galahs was picking through the grass, the afternoon sun threw long deep shadows. The air was soft and mild. Goat curry was bubbling in a pot in the kitchen, smelling good.

Swirling her wine around the glass, looking at us shrewdly, Shirley said, “I was expecting you.”

“Auguries?” I said.

Shirley snorted. “Common sense.”

“Anyone else been around?”

“Other than Max, you mean?”

“I was leaving him out for the moment, but yeah, other than Max.”

She shook her head. “Should I be concerned?”

“I dunno. Max wrote a book. Never quite saw the light of day, but a few copies circulated. He mentioned you in passing. ‘The Sexational Gypsy Woman'.”

She laughed. “I haven't used that name for a while. Not since the 1962 Royal Easter Show. But yeah, he told me he was going to write something.”

“When did you see him?”

“Over a year ago. He came through Bungendore with some awful show band.”

“Hillbillies?”

“They played the bachelors and spinsters ball that year, back
there in the community hall.”

“You must've been surprised to see him.”

“I was. With him being supposedly dead and so on. He'd changed, though. A bit haggard-looking. Have you seen him?”

“I'm looking for him now.”

“I don't know where he is.”

“How's country life treating you?”

She smiled. “I
love
it here.”

“A head shop. In
Bungendore
?” I said. “I wouldn't have picked this place as that great an opportunity.”

“You'd be surprised. Mick Jagger stayed here for a while, making that film.”

“One day I'll tell you a story about that,” I said.

Shirl looked at me. “That's right, there was that business.”

Denise looked very interested. I shook my head.

Shirl's face went totally blank. She gestured at the surrounding hills. “It's nice. People do day trips out from Canberra. Stickybeak at the weirdo's shop. Sometimes the cockies' wives sneak in and buy little bits and pieces, then after a while they ask about a tarot reading. I'm way too hairy-arsed for stripping now, of course. Likewise the other.”

She turned to Denise. “And what's your interest, deary?”

“I'm writing a book.”

Shirl pulled a face, kind of a mock “Wooo, I'm so impressed.” What she said was, “
Another
book.” Looked at me, then back to Denise, her voice suddenly steely, “Just leave me out of it, sweetheart, All right?”

“But you're such a colourful figure, Shirl,” I said.

“I'm the harmless old beatnik lady here, and that'll do me nicely. The locals wouldn't understand the gun-moll/stripper thing so well.”

“Any idea where I should go next, Shirl?” I said.

“To find Max?”

She was silent for a bit. Then suddenly very serious.

“Please, no,” I said. “I don't want a tarot reading.”

She shook her head. “I was thinking more the
I Ching
.”

I'd stopped grinning. “Last time you read the tea leaves I ended up in jail.”

Shirl made an airy gesture and left the room, returning with her book and coins.

“I'm serious, Shirl. Don't do it,” I said.

She looked at me and her smile vanished. Her head tilted, eyes wide, peering into my face.

“Oh god, what's happened?” she said.

Denise looked at me, confused.

“Huh?” I said.

“Oh Bill, something has happened.”

I shook my head, put my hand on top of Shirl's. She let go of the coins. “I need to find Max – that's it, Shirl. Anything you know that'll help, please tell me. He specifically mentioned you in this fucking loony book of his. He's playing some typical bloody unnecessarily complicated Max game. And you're in it.”

Shirl kept staring at me, reluctant to let me change the subject so easily. The frown stayed. She turned to Denise. “He needs a lot more than he lets on, this one.”

Denise nodded seriously, said nothing.

“Ah, just like everyone else, Shirl,” I said.

She turned back to me, and after a few seconds she relaxed, took her hand back, lit a cig. “Our Max. Yep. Only one oar in the water, poor old thing. But he really is a bit psychic, you know.”

“Psy
cho
, more like,' I said.

“Not all that different.” She sighed. “When he was here, I saw him, he saw me, we said hello. We didn't talk that much. He's on the gear, the bad stuff, you know that?”