The Big Whatever (30 page)

I looked in the bag. A Colt and a box of bullets.

“It's army, Bill, American. Safe as houses. Very good nick. Plus you got your concealed carry. Fits in your daks. A nice piece.”

It was that, if a word like “nice” could be applied at all to such a thing.

“All right.” I rolled up the bag, looked at Rat.

He glanced at the greaser then back at me. “Three Cs?”

I handed them to him. A big chunk of my remaining funds.

Rat smiled, and put the money carefully in his pocket. “Not turning to armed rob, are you?” He kept grinning, so he could pass the nosiness off as banter, should I take his prying amiss.

“There's a thought,” I said.

“'Cause every other cunt is,” he said, and the greaser laughed.

I looked at him, and wondered.

Rat glanced at the greaser, then said to me seriously, quietly. “He's okay. It's all okay. Same as ever.”

And I knew it would be.

It was late when I got to the Cross, late enough to find a parking spot close to the Bourbon and Beefsteak. I needed a shave, probably looked like I'd been on the road all day, but the bouncer let me in with scarcely a glance.

An indifferent band was plugging away at ‘Midnight Hour.' The place was half-filled with a rowdy mix of Kings Cross lunkheads, spivs, pros. But no Barry.

Out again and up the road to the Texas Tavern, a subtly different version of the same crowd. A cowboy band was playing ‘Looking at the World through a Windshield.' Over in the corner, in a group of drunk and unruly standover thugs, Barry Geddins. I turned and went to the bar, ordered a middy, dropped back behind a pillar.

Barry lurched away from the laughing group, his face
suddenly serious. He scanned the room in a nervous, jerky manner. I dipped further behind the pillar. When he turned back to the group, I finished the middy and left.

I scanned the street up and down, but couldn't see his car. I went back to mine, drove up to Macleay Street, parked a little way down from the entrance to the Texas Tavern. And waited.

Forty minutes later, Barry walked out briskly. He turned left, towards the Cross. I let him walk on – there were few enough people about that I could easily keep track of him. When he got near the corner I started the car, cruised slowly up Macleay Street, nearly caught up with him at the fountain, pulled over and let him walk on again.

A little past the bend in the road he suddenly stopped and turned quickly, looking hard in my direction. I pulled over. He stepped into the road, whistled and shot his arm out, and a Red Deluxe Cab pulled up.

It was easy to follow. Left into Bayswater Road, down the hill into New South Head Road, then the back way through Darling Point, down the hill to Double Bay. The cab stopped outside a block of flats in William Street. I pulled up fifty yards behind, took the Colt out of the bag on the floor, put four bullets in it, stuck it in my daks. Concealed carry. I got out of the car, closed the door quietly and stood behind a paperbark tree there in the nature strip, waited while Barry finished paying the driver. As the cab drove away, he walked towards a building further along the street, reaching into his pocket, drawing out keys. Another car door slammed somewhere nearby.

Barry disappeared into the unlit driveway between two blocks of flats without turning around, but when I got there, I could see him dimly in the shadows, standing still. He was facing me. The driveway smelled of jasmine.

I stopped. We were fifteen feet apart. The gun was in my hand. I lifted it. He raised his arms away from his sides, palms up. At least, that's what it looked like.

There was nothing to say. I pulled the trigger. It roared in the confined space, and surprised me the way it leapt in my hand.
There was a sudden movement and Barry wasn't standing there anymore. A dog barked, someone cried out.

I turned and left.

I drove back towards the city, not sure where to go or what to do. I couldn't go back and see what had happened to Barry. I either hit him or I didn't, it was too late now to do anything more. I continued driving along Parramatta Road, then onto the Hume Highway. I kept going for three hours, right out of town and into the Belanglo Forest, then pulled off on a dirt road. I slept in the car, well out of sight, and drove straight through to Melbourne the next day.

It took me three phone calls to get Lobby's address. A large Victorian building in South Yarra.

At six that evening I knocked hard on the door, waited a few seconds then knocked again. A voice inside called out, “Holy
fuck
, what is it?” then the door swung open fast.

Lobby, in jeans and faded black t-shirt. He looked blankly at me a for a second.

“You were trying to contact me?” I said.

“Billy?”

I nodded.

He ran his hand through his short hair, then over his face. “Yeah, okay, all right. Come in.”

I stepped into the big front room. Gypsy scarves hanging from the light fittings, old leather couches, a couple of guitar amps, a stuffed owl on a pedestal, full ashtrays, cups and saucers, an Aubrey Beardsley poster on the wall, the smell of cat's piss and patchouli.

“You want a cuppa then?” he said distractedly. Then with more liveliness, “Or a drink?”

“No.”

“Are you okay? Sit down. You're making me nervous.”

I exhaled slowly. “Sorry, I've had a long drive.” I flopped onto the nearest couch. A tabby cat slunk over to check me out.

Lobby sat down opposite, still shooting quick glances at me.
“Yeah, well I rang your ex's, 'cause I thought she could get a message to you.” He smiled. “I didn't know you were in Melbourne.”

“Well, here I am,” I said.

His turn to exhale slowly. “So, Bill . . . Last time we met would've been at the House of Cards, back in, what, 1968, 69?”

“Thereabouts.”

“Great days.”

“Yep.”

A pause. He sighed. “Yeah, well, it's about this Max business.”

“What Max business?”

“The book. Him being alive.”

“
Is
he?”

“Well, with that book and all. Seems obvious, doesn't it?”

I shrugged.

“And now with you here,” he said.

“I was in town anyway.”

There was someone moving about in the other room. A woman's voice called out, “Lobby, you in there?”

Lobby shook his head quickly, looking over my shoulder to the kitchen doorway, and the voice said, “Oh.”

I turned around. A tall, good-looking woman. Dark hair, bobbed. Angular features. Looking at me nervously. She smiled. “I'm Jan.”

“This is Billy,” Lobby said, giving my name a particular emphasis.

I said “Hi” and turned back around to catch Lobby signalling something to her. He grinned at me. “Hey, let's go up the pub. For the one.”

Five minutes later we were in the back bar of the Station Hotel. Lobby with a scotch and dry, me with a lemon squash. A packet of Marlboros and a lighter on the table in front of him.

“So?” I said.

“Well, yeah. See, I was asked to make contact with you.”

I waited. Lobby got a smoke out, held the pack out to me. I shook my head. He lit his smoke, took a deep drag, exhaled slowly.

“By Denise Baillieu-Munden,” he said, finally.

“Ah, ‘the heiress revolutionary'.”

“Yeah, her. She's an old friend.”

“And what does she want with me?”

“She wanted to talk to you. Discuss the whole business.”

“What whole business?”

He shrugged. “Denise keeps her head down. Has to, since she's still on parole. No interviews or anything like that. She did one thing with the
Women's Weekly
when she first got out, and that nearly got her slotted all over again. So the family keep her wrapped up. But she wants to meet you, and have a talk. She asked me to get in touch with you.”

“I'll talk to her. But I have some questions for you first.”

A flash of nervousness, quickly concealed. “Yeah? What?”

“About Max. Back then, Max worked with you, right?” I said. “You're obviously the ‘Bobby Boyd' in the book.”

“Yeah,” he grinned and shook his head. “He took some real fucking liberties there. Max came around and asked me for work. He
did
play with us for a while. Not that long. Actually, he was, you know, a bit old for us. Even with the afro. But he played Hammond for a bit. He makes out he was right at the heart of things, but really he was working mostly with trad jazz bands. Wearing a straw boater and a red vest, playing banjo at shopping centres. Did something with an old rock'n'roll band too, stuff like that. But he worked with Gully too. Gully thought he looked a bit of an elder statesman, like Allen Ginsberg when he still had hair. Or Garth Hudson. So he let him hang around. He was in that film clip on
GTK
.”

“What about the speed?”

He looked at me, brightening. “You got some?”

“I mean Max. The dealing.”

“Oh yeah. He had
plenty
.”

“You've read the book?”

“Denise got a copy. I skimmed it.”

“There's a character in it, called Vic. A bikey.”

“That'd be Vic the Bikey.”

“Speed guy?”

He smiled. “Fuck, was he ever? Yeah, he was the speed guy. And Vic is his real name. Vic Messenger. I haven't seen him for yonks, though.”

“Any idea where he might be?”

He shook his head. “He comes from Echuca. Maybe someone there knows him.”

“And the one they called the Boy Wonder. The chemistry whizz.”

“Yeah?”

“What's his name?”

“Mark. He was
well
on the gear last time I saw him. Not speed. The bad stuff. Haven't seen him in, shit, two years at least.”

“How about ‘the Captain'? Who's he?”

Lobby shook his head. “Never trusted that guy, myself. Edward something. The Maoists always reckoned he was a spy. Then again, they reckon
everyone
is a spy.” He smiled. “Maybe they're right.”

“Where's he now?”

“Don't know.” He shook his head. “Smack. Not good. Don't like smack or smack sellers.”

“So,” I said, “if Max really is alive, where is he now?”

He made a quick convulsive movement. “That, my friend, is the question on everyone's lips.”

I looked at him for a long moment, saying nothing. Then I leaned forward, and spoke quietly. “Listen, I don't know how many people Max stiffed down here, and I don't know how many people might think they're owed something. But they're going to have to stand in line. Because I'm first. Understand that, Lobby? There are people waiting for me to collect, and if I don't do the right thing by them, they'll want to know why. And they'll find out why, and then they'll come looking, for you or anyone who gets in their way. You get that?”

“Oh shit, Bill, you've got this all arse up,” he said. “It's not about the—”

“
Here
they are!” said a cheery voice behind me. A woman with very long, very shiny fair hair sat down busily on my right, her hair flopping around. Behind her stood a bloke who was looking at me, not kindly. Then he pulled out a chair and sat down too. The woman put her bag on the floor, took out a packet of cigs, tossed her hair again, smiled at me.

Lobby was obviously relieved. “Allow me. Denise . . . Richard, this is Bill. Bill, Denise, Richard.”

“I'd guessed that much,” I said.

I took another look at the two of them. Brother and sister. He was for protection. A few years older, a little pudgy, sun-bleached boyish hair. A sportsman going to seed. Her long hair was parted in the middle. She had large, intelligent brown eyes. An even and symmetrical face, slightly wide. A generous mouth, but a hint of petulance. Not exactly the raving blond sexpot Max had described.

She reached forward and put her hand over mine, gave it a squeeze. “It's so
amazing
to finally meet you. After all I've heard. I really do know you. Feels like it anyway. Max spoke about you so, so much.”

“Did he tell you how much money he owed me?”

Not fazed. “Yes, he did, actually. It was on his mind. A lot.”

“So,” I said, “Lobby said you wanted to talk to me. Here I am. Go for it.”

She smiled again. “Bob Gould said
you
wanted to talk to
me
.”

“Yeah, I do. What happened on the highway? How come Max is alive? Did he
really
write that book? Where is he now? What's your interest? And where's my money?”

Denise took a long breath, and the brother piped up. “You should understand that anything Denise says here is strictly off the record. And furthermore, matters that may be
sub judice
will not be discussed. Got that?”