The Big Whatever (37 page)

“Your brother and his private school pals. At least the Combine lets wogs in.”

Denise went quiet again, then got up and walked off into the gloom, unbuttoning her jeans. “I hope there are no snakes out here,” she called out as she ducked behind a bush.

“Too cold,” I said.

When she came back, she used her boot to roll the largest log back into the centre of the fire, got under the blanket again as it flared up.

“About that old boys thing—”

“Forget it,” I said. “Your brother and his mates are probably all good chaps.” I'd meant to sound neutral, but it came out sounding even more bitter than what I'd said before.

“They don't
only
look after themselves,” Denise shot back.

“No doubt.”

“It's true. These friends of mine who have a housing co-op in Collingwood? Richard put them in touch with the Housing Department, even negotiated on their behalf. The department bought the whole street in the end, set up a bunch of public housing co-ops.”

“The state government?” I said.

“Hardly,” she said, irritated. “No, the federal Labor boys. After all that time in opposition – twenty-something years? – they don't really know anyone in the business and finance world. Richard voted Labor. Lots of his friends did. Now they have the government's ear. You don't see the Labor boys telling them to piss off – they welcome the help.”

I said, “Yeah?” trying to keep my voice even.

“Yeah. There are things happening no one has heard about yet. Not just the tax concessions for making films. Education projects in inner Melbourne. Richard is very involved in all that.”

I kept my trap shut. After five minutes of uneasy silence Denise said, “Would you go another joint?”

We didn't return to the matter of Richard and string-pulling.

I woke up sometime late in the night. It was cosy in the tent. The river outside, unrelenting. The cold, the stars. I thought about the reason I'd given Denise for why I wasn't covering our tracks any more. What I'd told her was only half the truth. The other half was that having her along made me feel different. Like things could work out. Like she'd bestowed something on me. I thought I should tell her that in the morning.

I didn't get the chance. First thing, Denise announced she was bailing out, heading back to Melbourne. No, it wasn't because I'd sneered at her brother and his clique (though neither of us addressed that directly). What it was, she needed to get back home, back to her writing. Being on the road with me had been fun, but you know . . . And if I happened to get a hot tip on Max's whereabouts, then let her know and she'd be back in a flash. But meanwhile . . .

She had me drive her back to Bathurst, so she could catch the train to Sydney then a plane back to Melbourne. A long goodbye hug at the station and she was off. She left me a stock-cube-sized chunk of hash.

* * *

I went to the public phone at the station. Terry and Anna were back in Balmain. All was good, no trouble. Still not a peep, not a whisper from or about Barry Geddins. Which was maybe the worst thing I could've heard.

Then I rang Eloise, still at her sister's. She was irritable, distracted.

“Everything okay there?” I said.

“No, it's not. The sprouts just
have
to go to back to school.”

“Hang on another day or two, will you? I'm working on it.”

“Where are you?”

“The bush.”

“
Working
on it?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I know it's a pain.”

“It is. Anyway, Phil's houses.”

“Yeah, what?”

“Well, nothing really solid yet. But it's interesting.” Her tone changed, suddenly pleased and conspiratorial. “I asked a young friend of mine, in real estate, if he knew anything—”

“Jesus, I said keep it under your hat.”

“It is. My friend will keep it quiet.”

“Who is he?”

“No one you know.” Somehow I guessed that meant a boyfriend. “Anyway, when I mentioned the street – in a roundabout way – I got a strange reaction. He was surprised, because another party had asked him about that street a couple of days before. He's looking into it now. So wait a couple of days, see what he can find.”

“All right. I hope he can keep his trap shut.”

“Oh, he can.”

“Listen, Eloise. I haven't kicked in for a while, I know. I'm a bit short right now—.”

Eloise interrupted me with a long, weary sigh. “When you can.” No bitterness there.

I rang a number on the Central Coast, was given another number to ring, which I did, and finally got a name and a number back in Sydney. I made that call, wrote down an address in the town of Wellington, New South Wales. Less than a hundred miles from where I was, according to the NRMA map.

Back on the road, the day was cool and clear. A deep blue spring sky. The car drove well enough if you kept it slow, which I did. The muffler was noisy, but no worse than plenty of other cars on the bush roads.

By day's end I was pulling into Wellington. A mid-sized town
at the junction of two rivers. Grain silos at the end of the main street, a grand 1930s pub. Not much else. I found the house I was looking for in Falls Road, on the other side of town, the last building before the paddocks.

The house was turn of the century and surprisingly large, red brick with an ornate timber veranda around it, a huge walnut tree on the left, old plum trees on the right, sitting on a few acres of what looked like good riverside dirt.

I parked on the road and walked the thirty yards up the house. The sun had just set, and the trees cast deep dark shadows. The closer I got, the more I could tell how run-down the house was. A wooden sign in the front yard, red lettering on white background, said “Church of the Living Spirit.” Underneath in smaller letters, “Rev. Murray Leonard” and a phone number.

I stepped onto the veranda and up to the heavy front door, which had an ornate knocker and a leadlight glass panel. A dim light somewhere deep inside the house. The trees hadn't been pruned in an age, and no sun had shone on the veranda in a long time.

I knocked loud and slow. Heard footsteps approached almost immediately, and the door opened to reveal a tall, thin older guy with straggly grey hair. A long, mournful face, sad eyes. Alistair Sim with hair.

He looked at me a long time, standing there in the gloom.

“Murray, you old cunt, doing all right for yourself?” I said eventually.

He smiled and shook his head slowly. “
Open rebuke is better than secret love. Faithful are the wounds of a friend, but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful
. Proverbs, 27.”

“Too true. Listen, Murray, I've been driving all day and I'm going to fair dinkum cark it if I don't get a cup of tea into me soon.”

He put his hand out and we shook, then he stood aside and gestured me into the hallway. “Straight ahead into the kitchen.”

I walked down the long wide hall. A large room on the left had fifteen or twenty upholstered chairs and couches arranged
in a rough circle around a small table set on a Persian rug. A standard lamp with a weak bulb beside it.

I went to the end of the hall and into the large kitchen. A newspaper on the table, turned to the sports results. Next to that a book, closed. The room was comfortable, well equipped. Frilly stuff hanging from the shelves.

“You married that Salvation Army lass, didn't you?”

He shook his head. “She and I parted company years ago. This is Maria's doing. She's Estonian. She's away at the moment.”

I sat down at the table, picked up the book. I read the title aloud. “
The Teachings of Silver Birch
. Becoming a tree surgeon, Murray?”

Murray filled an old kettle, put it on the gas.

“Delightful though it is to see old friends – especially you, Bill – I know you're not here to chat about the old days.”

“Maybe I need that special comfort which is offered by the Church of the Spirit,” I said.

It got no rise from him. He busied himself at the counter. Then said over his shoulder, “You in trouble?”

“I'm looking for Max Perkal.”

Murray waited for me to go on. I waited for him.

He bought two mugs over to the table. “Max was cutting quite a trail for a while there, wasn't he? Armed rob . . . and then writing a book.”

“How'd you know about that?”

“He told me.”

We sat in silence while the kettle boiled. Then Murray stood up, poured the water into the pot, brought it to the table.

“So, looks like a beaut old rort here, Murray.”

He looked at me sadly.

“Oh, I'm being suspicious and unkind, right?”

“You know me well enough to think that, I suppose.”

I did. Murray, who used to be known as Murray Liddicoat, had at various times been a private inquiry agent, a drunk, a gambler, a street-corner preacher, and one of the most able bloodhounds who ever drew breath, like the one in the book
who could shadow a drop of salt water from the Golden Gate to Hong Kong without losing sight of it. He was a crook and a wastrel who took his religion seriously. Bits of it, anyway. Last seen in Sydney doing late-night television advertisements for a furniture warehouse, promising a percentage of the profits would “go to charity.” The gig went well until a journo from
This Day Tonight
decided to follow the money.

“You teetotal, still?” I asked. “Except when I'm not. I try to save the sprees for special occasions.”

“Nice house.”

“A grateful member of the flock lets us live here rent-free.”

“Right.”

“She has cancer. She appreciates my ministry . . .”

“Well, that's nice,” I said. “Not having cancer, of course.”

A long sad sigh from Murray. “I do no harm,” he said. Then in a very different voice, not the god-bothering sing-song but a lower, street-corner tone, “But don't think you can meddle with what I've got here.”

“I know, Murray, I'm being an arse. You never did the wrong thing by me. Not to pry, but would cancer generally be involved in what happens here?”

“People need help. All sorts of people. All sorts of need. Illness is a big part of it, but I don't offer cures. I'm not a quack.”

“Yeah, fair enough. Anyway, as you guessed, I'm looking for Max. I only found out a couple of weeks ago that he's still alive.”

“I didn't think it was
that
big a secret,” he said.

“I've been keeping my head down, my trap shut.”

“
Whoso keepeth his mouth and his tongue keepeth his soul from troubles
,” he said.

“Well, up to a point, yeah, that was my reasoning. But now . . . now it's gone way past that. When did you see Max?”

“He came through town a year and half ago. I let him stay here a couple of nights. Maria didn't take to him. Said there was evil following him.”

Murray glanced at the clock on the wall, and didn't try to
hide it.

“Someone coming?” I said.

“A service tonight at seven,” he said. “You're welcome to attend, of course, provided you don't misbehave.”

“Thanks anyway. Out of interest, how many mugs coming?”

“Twenty brothers and sisters, thereabouts.”

“Not to mention the spirits, eh?”

“You'd be surprised who and what turns up.” He fixed me with a look, smiling slightly. I couldn't tell whether it was smugness or something way creepier.

“Sorry to say it, Murray, but you were much more fun in the old skid-row days.”

“You too,” he said, smiling again. “But
whoredom and wine and new wine take away the heart
.”

“Right.”

“Hosea, 4:11.”

“Good-o. So, any thoughts on how to find Max? How would
you
go about finding Max?”

“If it were here, at one of our services, and someone asked me that, I'd cite Mark, 11:24.
What things soever ye desire, when ye pray, believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them.”

“Yeah? And . . . ?”

“And maybe I'd quote James, 1:5 to 6.
If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him. But let him ask in faith, nothing wavering. For he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed.”

“Meaning?”

“Then I'd say, the Holy Spirit knows the location of every lost thing and every hidden thing. And He can tell you.”

“Meaning, cross Murray's palm with spondulicks.”

“Meaning, if you have faith. Meaning, if you listen to the quiet voice. Meaning, if you don't fuck about.”