The Big Whatever (26 page)

I drank up and wandered a block along Oxford Street and into a phone booth. After I dialled, it rang a long time, then a husky, unencouraging “Yes?”

“Fred, it's Bill.”

“Ah. Himself.”

“Got a question for you.”

“Of course you have.”

“You ever see any of the books that came out about those bank robberies Max Perkal was involved in? The Hippie Gang and all that.”

“Never paid any attention.”

“Did you ever hear any police gossip about Barry Geddins being involved?”

A long pause. “Involved in what?”

“In the robberies. In the Footscray shootout. In the car crash.”

Another long pause. “I believe he
was
involved. I don't know how much. His name never came up officially because he was in thick with Russell Street.”

“Is he still?”

A long sigh. “You don't know about Noelene Gray and her kid?”

“No.”

“She was a Melbourne moll. Had a son, twelve or so. Not quite right. Sub-normal or something. Well, Geddins was keeping company with Noelene, and one weekend he took the kid for a fishing and camping trip, while she stayed in town working. The kid never came back. No explanation given. That was too much, even for Russell Street. Wasn't the first such incident, either.”

“So why don't you lot do something about him?”

“She never put in a complaint. Too scared, I suppose.”

“Get him for something else then.”

“Like doing standover work for Phil?”

“What if I gave you something you
could
act on? Something solid.”

“Bill, these things aren't as straightforward as you might think.”

“That's what I pay you for. You're what's known as a corrupt cop, Fred. It's quid pro quo. That's how it works.”

“How it works, son, is you do whatever it is you need to do,
then
your corrupt cop looks after you. But I wouldn't advise anyone to go up against Geddins. Not without a team.” Another long sigh. “Anyway,” he said, “you're going to need another mate in the force soon enough. My days are numbered.”

“Really?”

“There's no one going in to bat for me. Not any more. After all this time, after all the looking after and fixing up, and all the money that's been kicked in, suddenly,
now
, the New South Wales government is developing scruples. They've watched the Labor boys take over the federal government, they know their run here can't last much longer, and now – fucking
now
– they want to clean house. Which means get rid of old Fred Slaney, or else.”

“Or else what?”

“They all end up in the shit.”

“Life's so unfair,” I said.

“What they don't realise, they're in the shit anyway. That new state Labor bloke, Wran. He's going to win next time.
Anyone can see that. Wran's a mate of yours, isn't he?”

“I knew him a bit, years ago. I'd have no influence there now, if that's what you're thinking.”

“Ah, well. We must strive to accept the things we cannot change.”

“Fred, you know that place, the Third World Bookshop. Down there off George Street??”

“The commos? What about them?”

“I could use some leverage with the proprietor, bloke named Gould. You got anything?”

“I'll ask around.”

I strolled back to French's. A group of Maori female impersonators had stationed themselves in front of the band. They were all Mandraxed-up, and there was much whooping and calling out, some falling over. The place had filled up with junkies and longhairs, getting rowdier by the minute. Maurie was at the bar, swaying, well on his way. I listened to another song then left.

I had the cab drop me a mile from the secret redoubt, got back there just before midnight. Everything undisturbed. I cranked up the pressure lamp, lit a coil, sat down with the book.

SATORI OUT THE BACK OF FUCKING NOWHERE

I tracked down the Croaker. He'd been known years ago as ‘the Doctor,' as in, “send for the doctor,” as in, make that horse go faster. Or slower. Make that athlete jump higher. Or not. Fix that injured bloke who'd rather not go to Saint Vincent's casualty department. The Croaker was a decrepit old fucker you wouldn't trust with a knife and fork let alone a scalpel. Hence the change of nickname. But his writing hand worked well enough, and after a bit of bullshit from me he duly gave me the scripts I needed.

There's been a lot written, proclaimed, and gobbed-off
about the various methods of self-managed drug withdrawal and their relative merits. One authority will favour slow reduction, another the Chinese water torture. One fiend will swear by methadone substitution, another speak up for straight-out cold turkey. Some junkies just drink their way through the worst of it. But your old uncle has the mail on this, learned under the tutelage of Harry ‘Big Sleep' Bailey, the crazy Sydney shrink, so pay attention, my young psychic buccaneers. It's as simple as this: you take enough stoppers to snooze your way through the whole thing. However long it takes. Harry keeps his patients unconscious for a whole fortnight, but that's not practical when you're self-managing. Four or five days is the recommended snooze. Wake up when all the shit is out of your system. There you go. New life, blank slate. Bye bye now. Go thou, and fuck up no more. That's what I had in mind.

I carefully chopped a small piece off the heroin brick, rewrapped it and put it inside a poly bag, wrapped that in oilskins and gaffer tape, then bagged it up in a heavy-duty fertilizer bag. Packages within packages, until I was sure the precious stuff inside was super watertight. I drove into the ranges, up through the tall timbers, onto the high country, further west to the slopes, and kept driving until I was well west, way out in the flat, low, miserable landscape of inland New South Wales. When I reached a certain town I knew – never mind the name, my little snoopsters – I took a turn down a dirt road. Drove a long way, then took another turnoff. Found the place. It was just
a
place, kind of random, me following my instincts. But I felt in some way I was being guided there – dig, I wasn't the most rational gazabo in the country at that point. Anyway, I found the spot, dug the hole, buried the H. Drew my map. Work done. Quick blast, back into the car, drive out. I slept by the side of the road for a few hours, took all but the last skerrick of dope, started driving again before dawn. Back east, the long way round, across the border, over the hills and far away.

I came to a rundown tropical town. It was a dump. There was no surf, just shitty farm land round about. No natural features to speak of. No hippies, no trendies. Just white trash and blackfellas. It would do nicely: all I wanted was a place warm enough for a detox. Trust me, young ones, you do
not
want to do your hanging out in a cold climate. I spotted a motel on the edge of town called the Weary Swaggie and checked in. Blowsy old sheila behind the desk barely registered my presence through her Valium haze.

Back in town, I presented the Croaker's scripts at the chemist shop. Which just happened to be Cat's place of business. Yes, I had another reason for choosing this particular dump of a town. I let the Cat know what I intended, told him where I'd be. He did the right thing – threw a few more pills into the bag for good measure, wished me well. I was ready for lift-off. Or splash down. Whatever.

I'll spare you the details, my delicate ones. It's kind of messy. Thumbnail sketch: draw the blinds. Turn on the telly. Lay out the various preparations. Stuff to slow down bodily functions, especially those of the more liquid sort. Opiate substitutes. Muscle relaxants. And sleepers. Plan was, I'd be in la-la land while my body detoxified without me. Surface after twenty-four hours, drop enough stuff to go out for another twenty-four. Until I woke up clean.

It would all have worked fine, but as the stuff was starting to take hold, the dope draining from the bloodstream, a surprise turn of events. I started shaking. Couldn't stop. It got worse. I was fitting. Oh shit. I'd heard cold turkey could do that to some people. Never thought I was one of them. I was.

The fit subsided, but by now Mr Sandman was doing his thing. I was off to the land of Nod, no turning back, with full withdrawal still a little way down the track. And the likelihood of some serious fitting before then. Last thing I remember thinking: I'm going to die.

I didn't die, obviously. But plenty happened. The Cat
found me on day three, in poor shape. He helped me with a few matters.

Now, as I write this, tapping away on my old Olympia by the light of my kero lamp, crickets clicking away outside in the dark, mossies hovering around me, I recall only bits and pieces of what went down the next few months. As time passes, more comes back.

I came through the detoxification. Haven't used any smack since. Haven't been back to the buried treasure. I know that for sure. But I don't know how I got here. I must have fitted some more during the hanging out. And it fucked with my head. Yeah, my children, there's brain damage. Terrible, right? But maybe it's a blessing, too. Forgetting.

This much I know: I split from the motel. Kept my few possessions. Drove inland again. Headed south, baby, behind the sun. I drove, and kept driving.

At some point I doubled back, then criss-crossed further inland, then back again. Quite unintentionally I described a big hexagram. Or maybe a pentagram. Whatever the fuck. But in that way, without meaning to, I worked up some bad hoodoo, because right there by the highway outside West Wylaong, I came upon the Devil. Standing at the crossroads. Thumbing a ride.

He was waiting for me, and he knew I'd stop for him, because he picked up his bag, ready to climb aboard, before I even touched the brakes. I stopped, he jumped in. A clear-eyed, fresh-faced young guy, with a pleasant manner, a nice haircut. The face was familiar. Pressed shirt, well-shined shoes. He didn't fool me.

“I'll beat you yet, you craven swine,” I said.

He chuckled merrily, started whistling a show tune I couldn't quite place.

“For all that fancy get-up, you smell like what you are,” I said.

He stopped whistling.

I said “Tell Barry . . .” But I didn't know how to finish
the sentence. “Tell him whatever you like,” I muttered.

We drove on for a while in silence, then I pulled up at the next crossroads. He turned to me and smiled. He had no eyes, just cold empty space in there. He nodded and got out.

I said it was the Devil, but I realised then it wasn't the Man himself, just an emissary. The Devil's flunky. The Devil's roadie. The Devil's booking agent. Something like that.

Kept driving, it felt like a long time. Wandering Aengus, Flying Dutchman, Ghost Rider in the Sky kind of thing. But maybe it was just a few days.

Driving along out there one night, Nat King Cole came on the radio, slow and sad, crooning about what a mess he'd made of things, how wrong he'd been. How his heart had gone bad. He'd forgotten to eat and sleep and pray. The road sped beneath me, the headlights opening up a circus tent out front as Nat just kept it coming. He cried a little bit, when first he learned the truth. But don't blame it on his heart, just blame it on his youth. A bit of static and the radio went off again, the little light behind the panel faded out. Dig, my young seers, that old beast hadn't worked in forever. Had come good for that one song. I pulled the car over, got out. Big empty sky. Big empty everything. I'd been listening to heaven's radio. I knew I'd be forgiven. Not yet, quite, but sometime.

I don't know how I came across the Old Cunt. These bush towns and dusty farms are riddled with weirdos, fugitives, perverts, vagabonds, wetbrains and the like. If they keep to themselves and stay out of sight, no one worries too much. And to tell the truth, there's not that much difference between them and the supposedly upright ruddy-faced squarehead country party squatter baron chamber of commerce country women's association stock and station moleskin-wearing Cessna-flying polo-playing moron fucks who run things out here. It's just a matter of who's in control and who isn't.

My guess is, I knocked on the Old Cunt's door and he picked me as a walking numbskull. Thought to himself, he'll
do nicely as a Man Friday. I'm not sure what me getting my marbles back will do for our employer-employee relationship. Him having to pay me and all. We'll see.

Since I snapped out of it, I've had a look around the district. Even during my long blackout there must've been
some
sort of reasoning going on: because I
know
this place. I've got history here. Way back. You know the place I mean, Johnny? I told you all about it. Remember? When I was a cowboy out on the western plains? The dwarfs? The cowgirls? Come-a cow cow yippee! Mel the Geek? Relax and don't pry, little ones – a secret authorial message to my old compadre there.

It's flat nothing out here. Flies and crows, cow shit and dead ground. Grey trees, dry river beds. Squawking cockatoos. Buildings falling down. There's a dopey bush town not that far away, with an ugly Catholic church (what is it with the Micks and their fucking architecture?), a Masonic hall, a few stupid shops, and a boredom that's palpable. Also a few retard locals, given to drinking and shooting roos, and touching up their kids, probably. The blackfellas have their knowledge and their magic, but they've been hounded to the edges and beyond, and they're keeping it to themselves.