The Persimmon Tree (87 page)

‘And the navy captain?’ I asked.

‘Hams. Needs a cover up. He sold fifty to his girlfriend’s father who sold dem on da Christmas black market.’

‘But you won’t get those back! It’s already February,’ I said ingenuously.

‘Nick, Nick, you gotta be educated!’ Kevin cried, almost despairing. ‘Next week we send out a t’ousand o’ dem hams to the fleet. Five short here, another five dere, who’s countin’? F’chrissakes, it ain’t difficult ta lose fifty goddamned hams. Dat not da problem here, see. If dat captain bin on a ship, den his crew, bad luck dey’d just be short of a bit o’ ham to go wit der eggs in the mornin’. But he ain’t at sea. He’s in charge of one of our biggest depots — de sonofabitch been depot dippin’. We can’t have officers doin’ somethin’ dishonest like dat. It just ain’t decent!’

‘It’s a disgrace!’ Lewinski said cheerily. ‘Tut, tut, life’s tough, one US Navy captain just got himself busted. He’s just a greedy small-time crook, but worse than that, stoopid!’ He reached for the pack of Camels on his desk, then glancing at his watch said, ‘Nick, why don’t you go with Da Judge, take a deck at how we work? He’ll show you around, fill you in. I’ll see you both at t’irteen hunnert in the lounge at the Bellevue.’

It was easy to see the little bloke had landed on his feet. The key to everything was that they never dealt in actual goods as the naval captain had done. ‘Goods is evidence,’ Kevin said. ‘Cash ain’t.’

‘So your mob didn’t heist the beer?’

‘No way!’ Kevin said in a hurt voice. ‘We ain’t common thieves, Nick.’

We’d reached the outside of the building where I expected to catch the bus to the hotel. But one of the naval patrol guys, not the one who’d taken me upstairs, ushered us to a huge Packard sedan with two stars on the fender pennant. He opened the back door for me and the little bloke went around to the other side of the olive-green car and climbed in. Behind the wheel sat a big black guy.

‘Meet Joe “Hammer-man” Popkin,’ Kevin said.

‘Howdy,’ the black bloke said, glancing back. ‘Nice meetin’ yoh at las’, Nick.’

‘You’re kidding!’ I pointed towards him, not believing my ears. ‘
The
Joe “Hammer-man” Popkin from Illinois State Reformatory?’

‘One an’ da same,’ Joe Popkin laughed, drawing away in the Packard.

The little bloke was grinning like a chimpanzee. ‘Joe and me, we got ourselves together again.’

‘A coincidence?’ I asked, knowing it was probably no such thing. I was learning fast.

‘Dis war not long enough for coincidence, buddy; yoh wait for coincidence, ya gonna be an old man.’

‘Opportunist?’

‘Yoh got it.’

Joe Popkin, steering expertly through the lunchtime traffic, glanced quickly backwards. ‘I’s glad you’ve come, Nick. Since we seen you in da noospaper I ain’t heared nothin’ else. My head got so many Nicks in it, it bleedin’ internal, man. My friend heah, he owes you big time, but he sure don’t stop talkin’ ’bout it.’ He paused. ‘Like I owes him big time. One day I’m workin’ in da blacksmith shop in San Diego wid dah Seabees, de navy construcshun crowd, an’ da next I’s comin’ here.’ He laughed. ‘I ain’t even evah heard o’ dis place, Australia, man!’

The big Packard parked outside the Bellevue Hotel and we got out. ‘You want me to wait?’ Joe Popkin asked.

‘Nah, go back to Turbot Street. I’ll call yoh, buddy,’ Kevin said.

‘Joe’s not coming to lunch?’ I asked.

‘Nah, this fuckin’ navy, army, air force — black guys wash da dishes, dig da ditches, pick dat cotton, tote dat bale… even dah chief ain’t got enough influence to change dat,’ Kevin replied.

It accounted for the fact that there were no black marines at Guadalcanal, something I’d been curious about but hadn’t dared to ask why. ‘It’s the same with our Aborigines,’ I said. ‘Although many of them fought with distinction in the First World War they still have to deny they’re Aboriginal when they enlist. They say they’re Maoris or Islanders to get in, or pass themselves off as dark-complexioned whites. Once they’re in the ranks they mysteriously turn back into Aborigines, by which time, of course, nobody gives a stuff; they’re totally accepted for what they are — mainly bloody good soldiers. Make no mistake about it, we’re also a racist society, mate.’

Kevin stopped at the entrance to the hotel and turning to me said, ‘Da blacks is not accepted wit us, buddy. If dem Southern recruitment sergeants say ya black, den yoh is black. Den it’s diggin’ ditches or kitchen dooty for you in a labour battalion. Wit’out Joe, I’d ’a been a dead kid up-State in dat reformatory. Like you, buddy, he is my brudder. Fuckin’ brass pissin’ in der boots again! Most o’ dem from da fuckin’ South.’

We walked into the Bellevue Hotel — a posh-looking hostelry and certainly not likely to be mistaken as the corner pub. It wasn’t hard to see the little bloke was well known, with greetings flying around like bats at twilight. The clientele was essentially businessmen and officers, American and Australian, who seemed to have less of an antipathy towards each other than did the enlisted men. I guess at the officer level access to the good sorts evened out a bit.

The little bloke, with me not far behind, was probably the lowest rank in the room, yet seemed to command a great amount of respect. Prosperous-looking business types called out greetings and one or two came over, but Kevin gave them the brush-off. ‘I ain’t doin’ business today,’ he said, smiling. ‘Call me in da office, day after tomorrer.’ He withdrew a card from his shirt pocket and handed out one; I noticed it was blank except for a number. ‘Say dis number when you call,’ he instructed. They nodded, grateful to have been granted an audience.

‘You still in the numbers racket?’ I joked.

‘Wit’out a number dey don’t get no appointment. No names until dey sittin’ in da chief’s office and dey bin checked out.’

One bloke, well dressed, with a rather pretentious air force moustache, a gold wristwatch and starched cuffs showing under an expensive suit, approached. ‘I can explain, Mr Judge, it was a —’ Kevin put up his hand to silence him. ‘Not here, not now!’ The bloke with the moustache quickly backed away. ‘Asshole! He tried to substitute blade f’r sirloin in a beef contract to the officers’ mess at naval headquarters. Big mistake. Stoopid!’ I was quickly learning that the facts of life involved more than knowing where babies came from.

A waiter, his dark hair combed straight back and plastered with Brylcreem so that it shone and looked like a lacquered shell closely fitted to his head, and wearing a white apron that hung from his waist to his ankles, came over. ‘Your table is ready whenever you are, sir,’ he announced, his manner polite, bordering on obsequious.

‘Thank you, Fernando, we’ll have a drink at the bar while we wait for Chief Lewinski to get here.’ Two bar stools mysteriously appeared and a truly terrific-looking barmaid with breasts as nice as Marg Hamilton’s came over. She had a great open smile and gave me a quiet up-and-down appraisal, so that I reckoned it might be well worth returning at a later date to check out its meaning.

‘Afternoon, Mr Judge,’ she said, giving what she had upfront just the tiniest nudge forward. ‘Same as usual?’

‘Thanks, Sally,’ Kevin replied.

She turned to me, her eyes widening slightly — or perhaps I imagined that bit. ‘Coke, please, miss,’ I said politely. She was an absolute knock-out.

‘Coke? Wha’ cha mean, Coke!’ Kevin cried out, horrified.

‘Jaundice — can’t drink for another six weeks. It’s a bitch — er, bugger,’ I said colouring, realising the nice-looking barmaid was still present.

‘Irish over ice and a Coke,’ Sally said as she moved away, giving me a look that seemed to suggest she’d prefer me sober. Oh God! Her breasts were lovely.

‘She likes you, buddy; half this cockamamie town is tryin’ to get into her pants.’

‘What about you, then?’ I teased.

The little bloke shook his head. ‘Nah, she’s outa my class, buddy. Money don’t buy her sort.’ Then he added, ‘Beside, she gets all the chocolates and nylons and whatever she wants free. She don’t have ta put out for nuttin’ to nobody.’ He paused. ‘I got an arrangement wit a young widda, her husband was killed in North Africa.’ He didn’t explain any further.

I hadn’t brought up the subject of accommodation. The bus from the airport had taken me to Brisbane Railway Station where I’d left my kit in the luggage room before walking to Turbot Street. ‘You didn’t happen to find a boarding house where I could kip?’ I now asked.

‘Sure, you staying right here, buddy.’

‘Here?’ I laughed. ‘Mate, I’m on a naval lieutenant’s pay.’

‘On da house,’ he smiled. ‘Matter o’ fact, da owner’s suite. Da publican gives it to us for nuttin’. He owes us big time, dis de only hotel in Bris-bane dat never runs outa Scotch.’

‘I thought you said you don’t deal in goods.’

‘We don’t. Not like dem hams. We buy it ourselves from ourselves. It’s all fair and square on the books. It’s what Chief Lewinski calls “kosher”.’

‘Thanks, Kevin. I could use a bit of luxury, but what I had in mind was a firm mattress, clean sheets changed once a week, a hot shower and a good breakfast.’

‘Dey got all dat here upstairs, Nick.’ He chuckled. ‘And Sally downstairs.’

‘I should be so lucky,’ I said, grinning.

‘Well, dat your only problem, Nick. You gotta work out how to bring her from downstairs, up da stairs. Other dan dat, I pick up da tab while you’re here.’

‘I can’t allow that, mate,’ I protested. ‘Let me pay for drinks and meals.’

The little bloke sighed. ‘Nick, it ain’t a big deal, buddy. We don’t pay for nuttin’ in dis establishment.’

‘A little Scotch goes a long, long way,’ I said.

‘It ain’t such a little,’ Kevin replied. ‘Give me da luggage ticket. Joe will go fetch your kitbag an’ bring it here.’

The drinks arrived, carried by the magnificent eyeful. Not long afterwards Chief Lewinski joined us. We finished our drinks and the waiter with the lacquered head led us to a table in a private alcove. ‘I’ll send the drinks waiter right away, sir,’ he said.

One or two minutes passed and Sally arrived. She looked at me and grinned, eyes twinkling. ‘The drinks waiter was busy, sir, I hope you don’t mind?’ she explained in a mischievous voice.

I laughed. ‘I want to make an official complaint to the management, miss,’ I replied. Then I added, ‘Please, call me Nick.’ I was trying not to look at her breasts, fixing my eyes on her very pretty face, freckles around her nose.

‘Thank you, Nick. Same again?’

I nodded. ‘The Coca-Cola kid.’

‘Don’t take no notice I’m here,’ Kevin grinningly complained.

‘Irish over ice?’ Sally asked, throwing him a gorgeous smile and then turning to Lewinski. ‘Scotch on the rocks?’

‘You’ve got me in one, young lady,’ the chief replied. ‘Mr Johnny Walker.’

We watched as she left — tall, nice legs, and the way she swung her hips wasn’t at all painful to the eye. Thinking about her later created a definite stirring elsewhere. I was recovering from hospital fast.

The owner’s suite was more luxury than any one man needed: big bedroom, lounge and its own bathroom. I’d never been in a place as posh as this. Kevin explained that sometimes they needed to use the lounge for meetings they couldn’t hold in the office, but he’d let me know well in advance.

On the second night, Sally agreed to go to the movies with me and then dancing later at the Trocadero. She was a terrific dancer and undertook to teach me, picking up where Mary Kelly had left off, and managing my clumsy big feet with expert ease. The Yanks had brought jitterbug and jive to Brisbane; Sally already had the hang of both and I had a go, though I wasn’t very good. Holding her and swinging her around, we laughed a lot and by the end of the evening I hoped I was getting better at them. I took her home in a taxi. She lived in a block of red-brick flats and shared with three girlfriends. I said goodnight at the front door, and although I’d flung her around all night like a rag doll, I didn’t attempt to kiss her despite multiple stirrings.

The following night I met Kevin’s widow lady, Brenda. She was a plumpish, pretty girl in her early twenties and the three of us went to dinner together. She appeared to be quiet and loving, and although nothing was said (how could there be with her still in mourning?), it wasn’t too hard to see she liked the little bloke a whole lot and, while he was acting a bit tough, it was obvious he felt the same about her. She was even tinier than he was and he referred to her as ‘Bren Gun’, a weapon I didn’t know he knew about. ‘She get mad at yoh, it rapid fire, she don’t take no shit,’ he explained in her presence at dinner.

Brenda’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Kevin! I beg your pardon? Mind your language! Wash your mouth! You’re not with your navy friends now, Kevin Judge. Apologise at once!’ I must say her chastisement came out spontaneously without too much pausing for breath.

‘See what I mean?’ the little bloke said happily, not apologising. I guess, like Father Geraghty, the cruel cut of a nun’s tongue at the orphanage had left a mark on the little bloke. We never quite recover from our childhood, him with this and me seeking the comfort of a woman’s breasts.

After we’d dropped Brenda and Kevin at her flat in Ipswich and Joe Popkin was driving me back to the hotel, he casually enquired, ‘How ya going wid da barmaid, Nick?’