The Big Whatever (29 page)

“You know his name?”

The kid shook his head slowly. “He's come in here once or twice.”

“This might sound odd, but I'm looking for someone who might be known to his friends as the Old Cunt.”

The kid grinned at me, thinking I was making a joke, waiting for the punchline.

“That guy,” I said, “could it be him? Anyone ever call him the Old Cunt?”

“He
is
an old cunt, that's for sure,” said the kid, “but I've never heard him called that. Never heard him called anything.”

“Would he have a property somewhere around the district? Maybe have another feller staying with him, a bloke maybe called Max. Black hair, goatee, skinny.”

He shook his head again. “Wouldn't know.” It was obviously genuine.

I took the car to the garage the kid had recommended. The mechanic looked at the radiator, the rusty water stains, the water pump I'd bought, and shook his head doubtfully, like I was asking him to find a cure for cancer by this afternoon. Said he was that busy, gestured to various cars about the place, on hoists, on blocks, bonnets up, wheels off, entrails pulled out. Couldn't look at it till this afternoon at the earliest, more likely tomorrow. I said, Sorry, I'd obviously misread the sign out front which said
‘Mechanical Repairs.' He said I could suit myself. I got my bag out of the back, left the car with him, and we parted, both of us with the shits.

I found a motel. Spent the rest of the afternoon rereading Max's book. Ate a counter meal at the pub recommended by the old girl at the motel desk, then back to my room, spent the rest of the night reading.

I was sure this was the right town. That stuff at the end of the book about the dwarfs and the dancing cowgirls, that was true. Max had told me about it more than once. How he'd been out here with a tent show in the fifties, and they'd got themselves marooned when the entire district flooded. How they'd been bailed up for a week in a shearers hut, got up to all sorts of hijinks. The hut was on an old cattle station called Native Dog Creek, I remembered.

Next morning I ambled up the main street, went into the first Greek cafe I came to, ordered a grill. And thought about my next move.

I needed to ask a few questions, discreetly. I'd dressed as inconspicuously as I could: pale open-neck shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, nondescript brown strides and brown shoes. A middle-of-the-road bloke with some bit of minor business in town, maybe a tradesman or a cocky. Or a family man with wife, kids and caravan in tow. But you wouldn't care who he was, and you wouldn't look twice.

I finished the breakfast – not bad – and went to the hardware, which had just opened for the day. I bought a can of WD40 and some insulating tape, the most neutral items I could think of. I was served by a genial, round-headed, middle-aged Lions Club type. I offered that it looked as though they could use some rain in the district. They certainly could, he said. It'd been a dry season, and they were overdue. We touched on the price of wheat and wool, whether or not it was time to devalue the dollar again. The conversation rolled on. He held Gough and the Labor mob in low regard, especially Jim Cairns, to all of which I murmured
noncommittal responses.

I steered him back to local matters. We discussed the grand attractions of the Wee Waa district. I told him my mum used to come here as a girl, and if I remembered correctly, used to stay at a station called Native Dog Creek. Oh yes, he knew the place. A slight narrowing of the eyes: might I perhaps have an interest? Before I could think of the right answer, he went on to say that if I did have an interest, he could let me know the name of a good agent in town. The way things were in Wee Waa, he said, confidentially,
everything
was for sale, all the time, whether it had a sign out front or not. So I gave him to believe that, as a matter of fact, a friend had asked me to have a quick look at it on his behalf, since I was passing through. He nodded, smiling. He
knew
it. He'd picked me as Sydney, he said. Satisfied, he gave me directions to the place. And if I wanted to look at any others, I should come back and he could give me some good tips.

The car still wasn't ready – another hour – but the mechanic, a different one today, obligingly said I could take the old Austin over there if I wanted, so long as I paid for the petrol I used.

Ten miles north of town the bitumen road became a well-graded dirt road, then a bumpy, rutted track. I went through two gates and over a couple of grids, reached a final gate with a weathered, once-ornate sign: Native Dog Creek.

There was no one there, hadn't been for a while. The old house was deserted, locked up, a window broken. I strolled over to the shearers quarters, where Max and the hoochie coochie girls had been so famously marooned back in 1952. It was an old stone building divided into a series of little compartments – spidery, dusty, wasp-infested – that obviously hadn't been used for a long time. Except the last one, which had been swept in the last year or so. There was an iron bed frame with no mattress, a blackened kero lamp next to it. Nothing else at all, except in the corner, next to the bed, a dog-eared copy of Meher Baba's
Discourses
.

I went out and sat on a stump, let the wave of defeat wash over me. Sucked in once again by a Max Perkal scam. I'd allowed
myself to believe there might be a way out of the Troubles, that he really might have the goods this time. It was pure, vintage Max – the cloak and dagger, the needless complications, the misdirections, the blurry divide between truth and fantasy. Then at the end, the no-show.

But he had been here all right, and maybe he
had
entertained the idea of squaring up with me. If he really had a housebrick of compressed smack – which was feasible – how long would it take before he went back, dug it up, started nibbling at it? At any rate, he was long gone from this place.

I went back to the hardware shop. The owner brightened when he saw me. “See anything you like?” he said. He obviously knew I'd driven out to Native Dog Creek.

“Interesting,” I said.

He waited.

“Yes, very interesting,” I said, hoping to imply that I was quite near making a positive decision on the real estate front. “Something maybe you can help me with,” I said.

He nodded, ready to oblige.

“I was out there at the wreckers yesterday. Saw an old feller there, might've been a foreigner. A rough old cove. Talking to himself.”

He nodded again.

“Well, after I left, it occurred to me he resembled the description I'd heard, of a friend of a friend. I wouldn't mind catching up with my friend while I'm in the district, but I lost his address. It occurred to me that old feller might know where my mate is.”

The shopkeeper's expectant smile had been replaced by a look of mild confusion.

I pressed on. “The old straggly-haired bloke, would you have any idea who he might be? If he's the person I have in mind, he has a property out here somewhere. And my mate, a bloke named Max, could be helping him out around the place a bit.”

Complete confusion now. I'd obviously overplayed my hand. But it didn't make any difference – the guy clearly hadn't a clue what I was talking about. He shook his head slowly and looked
a bit embarrassed, wouldn't quite look me in the eye. “It's a disgrace,” he said, with surprising anger.

“Huh?”

“The derelicts and drifters. They wash up in Wee Waa, loiter there down at the river, or in the park, even. No better than blackfellas. The fighting and drinking. And the language! You couldn't go for a walk with your wife around town after dark here. Disgraceful.”

“So, the bloke I saw at the wreckers, you don't know him?”

He shook his head. “Town's full of them,” he said.

The car was sitting exactly where I'd left it the day before, obviously hadn't been looked at. The mechanic was sorry, but what could he do? Tomorrow morning.

Back to the motel, a boring night watching the local TV.

I picked the car up next morning. After I'd paid, as he handed me the keys, the mechanic said quietly, “Copper was in a while ago, looking at your car. Asked whose it was.”

I stared at him a couple of seconds, wondering how could that be. I shrugged theatrically. “Bit of a snoop, is he?”

“Just thought I should let you know.” He looked away, down the street, then stole a quick, searching glance at me. Wondering who I was to bring the coppers in.

As I drove away, I wondered the same. Not a soul in Sydney knew where I was. If the cop checked the car rego, he'd find the name of the previous owner, since Terry always turned his cars over before the two-week grace period expired. I could rule out the number plate, and the car itself was completely unsuspicious. So it had to be just time-killing nosiness on the cop's part. Still, it worried me.

I headed back south, kept driving until I was well clear of the district. Late morning I pulled into a garage and rang Terry and Anna's place. The phone rang for a long time, then a breathless Anna picked up.

“Oh, Billy. Thank god you rang. There's trouble.'

My heart thumped hard. “What trouble?”

“You better ring Eloise. Something happened with the kids. Everything's all right, no harm done, but she's shaken up.”

“What happened?”

“Someone approached them after school. Nothing actually happened, but the kids were frightened. Wait, Bill. There's something else. We got home last night and there was a dead cat—” She paused, and I heard a gasp of breath, “
nailed
to the front door. And your sleepout had been broken into, messed up a bit.”

She sobbed a little, then stifled it again. “We're clearing out, Bill, going to stay with Katie at Avalon.”

“I'm sorry, Anna. I really am. I'll deal with it.”

Eloise was no less upset. It took a few minutes to get the story from her. She'd found an envelope pinned to the front door when she came home the night before. Inside were polaroids of the kids, taken as they were coming out of their schools.

“Did they know anything?” I said.

“James said a man fronted him outside school yesterday, said
you'd
sent him to pick him up. James gave the guy the slip. But he's was freaked, even though now he's pretending he wasn't. Who
was
it?” Her voice was louder and higher now. “Was it that Barry person?”

“Yeah. Eloise, take the kids and go away. Right now. Somewhere safe out of town. Your sister's, maybe. I'll deal with this, and I'll ring you when the coast is clear. Don't tell anyone
anything
, though.
No
one, understand?”

She was quiet for a second or two, then, more calmly, “Yes, I understand.” She'd heard this sort of thing before, the upbringing she'd had. The word comes, go to ground, keep your mouth shut, wait a while. Something here needs dealing with. Afterwards, never refer to it again. She understood.

Then she sighed and said, “Something else. A friend of yours rang here, twice.”

“Who?”

“From Melbourne. That musician guy, Lobby?”

“Lobby Loyde?”

“Yeah. He wanted to talk to you.”

“He leave a number?”

“No. I told him you didn't live here. And that I wasn't your secretary. But I thought I should mention it.”

I made a call to a Sydney number, was told to ring back in an hour. Which I did, from a town sixty miles further down the highway. It could be done, I was told, but not till tonight, eight or nine. I said I'd be there.

It was hard to keep my driving careful and steady like before. My foot would get heavier on the pedal, and I'd find myself going way too fast. I'd slow down very deliberately and stay that way for a while before the cycle started over again.

At sunset I crossed the Hawkesbury, then slowly threaded my way around the western outskirts of Sydney, through Parramatta, down to Fairfield. I stopped at a Caltex on Liverpool Road and made another phone call. Got a quick answer this time. Twenty minutes later I pulled up at a workshop on a scrubby track in Georges Hall. The light was on, so I went in.

It was cluttered inside. Two stripped-down motorbikes, parts spread over the floor. A long-haired, bearded man hunched over a bench grinder. He glanced at me and went back to his work. I waited.

After a minute he turned off the grinder, put down the steel gizmo he was holding. “Bill,” he said.

“Rat.”

He looked at his oily hands, smiled apologetically.

“Best not shake,” he said. He picked up a packet of White Ox and started rolling a ciggy.

Ray King was one of those short, talky men who'd normally be nicknamed ‘Mouse' or ‘Sparrow,' but since his actual Christian name was Ratko – Ratko Kis, in fact, from Yugoslavia, via Villawood Migrant Hostel – he'd become ‘Rat.'

He lit the cig. “Greg's coming over. Shouldn't be long.” Shooting quick glances at me from behind his greasy fringe. Curious, but unwilling to ask me anything outright.

Presently a car pulled up outside and a thick-necked greaser came in carrying a plastic shopping bag. He said nothing. Rat took the bag from him, peered into it and held it out to me. The greaser retreated to a stool in a corner of the shed.