Amaze Your Friends. Peter Doyle
Читать онлайн книгу.
you know. Kind of a businessman. I sell things.’
She nodded, then glanced at her watch. ‘Gee, I’d better get going. Hey, a gang of us are meeting for a drink after work, up at the Vanity Fair. Pop in if you feel like it. Saloon bar, five o’clock.’
I told her I might just be there.
I called Dick in Adelaide and asked him did he ever encounter dissatisfied customers. I mean, very dissatisfied. He said, sure, just never let them find out where you work or where you live. Everything by mail. They can’t thump you through the post, he said. He asked me if everything was all right. I told him sure, everything was sweet.
That night I met up with Trish and her friends, three girls and a bloke, university people. At six-thirty we went up to Pitt Street for a Greek feed, and afterwards I walked with Trish to Elizabeth Street, put her on a bus to Randwick, where she said she flatted with two girlfriends.
I had a drink at the Elizabeth Hotel and then caught a cab to Wentworth Park Dogs.
I had no real idea of greyhound form, but I bet a few quid while I moved around, refreshing old contacts and making new ones. I had a yarn with George Freeman, shared a drink with Lenny MacPherson, passed on a tip to Chicka Reeves. No one told me to piss off, but nor did they welcome me into their confidence. For all my past lurkery, I suppose in their eyes I still hadn’t done the apprenticeship: a life of break-and-enters, bashings, shootings, ring-in rorts and standovers. Nor had I attended the right schools: Mt Penang, Gosford or Tamworth boys’ homes, Parramatta, Grafton or Long Bay jails. Involvement in a cop-killing might have impressed them, but I didn’t feel like skiting about that one.
At ten-thirty I was taking a leak. A couple of louts came in behind me, one of them singing ‘Heartbreak Hotel’. The other sidled up next to me at the trough and said in a stage whisper, ‘Pssst. Want to buy a transistor radio, sport?’
I buttoned up, turned around. A twenty-year-old bodgie in a red shirt was grinning at me. I looked across to his mate standing at the mirror, carefully combing his black hair.
‘Hasn’t anyone told you the bodgie look is passé now?’
‘Billy Glasheen! Jesus, how are you?’
‘G’day, Les. No complaints. How about you?’
‘Killing ’em.’ He called out to his companion, ‘Hey Kev, Billy Glasheen’s here.’ He turned back to me. ‘You remember Kev, do you?’
‘Yeah. G’day, Kev.’
Les said, ‘Hey, what does passé mean?’
‘It means gone, but not like real gone. More like finished. It’s French.’
‘Yeah? What would those gigs know? I’ll tell you what, it’s really lucky us running into you like this.’
‘Lucky for me or for you?’
‘For all of us. What I said before about the radios—’
A couple of old blokes came in right then, gave the three of us a suspicious look.
‘Let’s meet over at the pie stand after the next race, okay?’
I looked at the two of them, at their loud clothes and couldn’tgive-a-fuck manner, then I glanced over at the older blokes giving them the dirty looks. Before that year was out, most of Australia would be viewing Les Newcombe and Kevin Simmonds the same way. But I wasn’t to know that then. What I did know was that young lairs so keen to draw attention to themselves did not make ideal partners in crime. On the other hand, I needed every zack I could make. Les was waiting for my answer.
I told him all right.
I’d first met Les Newcombe back in 1955 at the Aloha Milk Bar when Max and I were trying to promote rock’n’roll music. Back then Les had been among the inner circle of early rock’n’roll devotees. He turned up again at the Stadium shows with Kevin Simmonds when I was road managing for Lee Gordon. They used to steal cars parked outside. A couple of times I’d slung them comps, on condition they left my car and Gordon’s alone.
I joined up with Les and Kevin after the fourth race. We talked about chances in the next and they asked me what was coming up in the way of rock’n’roll shows. I told them I didn’t really know, I’d lost touch with Lee Gordon.
Then Les got to the point. He asked if I knew anyone who could get rid of some gear. What sort? I said. Twenty German cameras, a whole lot of watches and a dozen transistor radios.
‘Surely you blokes know people,’ I said.
‘We’re in a hurry,’ said Les. He explained that he and Kevin had been working hot for a while and the coppers were on Kevin’s hammer. I said is that why he’s hanging out so inconspicuously here tonight?
So, Les said, could I do anything for them? There were no telephones on course and I wasn’t about to give anyone’s telephone number to Les without permission, so I said meet me later outside, at the public phone in St Johns Road. I got out before them and rang Teddy Rallis, told him the story. He asked me if Les and Kevin were all right, I said as far as I knew they were. We arranged to meet the next day at the Welcome Inn, more commonly known as the Bunch of Cunts.
We did. They all got on okay and everything went off swimmingly. Teddy arranged to collect the gear that same day and I collected a cut for acting as go-between. But the whole business didn’t involve more than two hundred quid, and although Les and Kevin indicated they had more work on, their league was too junior even for me. Or so I thought.
The following week I went to work for two days, got my stuff done as quickly as I could. I kept an eye out for thuggish customers seeking refunds.
Murray Liddicoat’s office was unattended the first day, but he was there when I knocked on the second. He was pale and pasty, sitting there at his desk staring out the window.
I said, ‘Murray, I need some professional advice.’
‘Come in, Bill, sit down. What can I do for you?’
‘Do you ever do debt collecting work?’
‘Within certain limits, I do whatever my clients want me to do. That sometimes includes mercantile management work. Why do you ask?’
‘Jack Davey owes me twelve hundred quid. I may need help in levering it out of him.’
‘A tough nut to crack, from what I hear. I hope you’re not asking me to go around and shake him up.’
‘No, no, nothing like that, I was thinking of using psychology. If Davey thinks I need it urgently, which as it happens I do, I’m worried that he’ll give me the bum’s rush.’
Murray nodded. ‘It’s a sad fact that most people are decidedly reluctant to give their money to the truly needy. A beggar in a business suit will out-earn the poor wretch in rags every time. What do you want of me?’
I told him. Later, after I’d made a trip to the Chamberlain for a half-bottle of scotch, Murray added some touches of his own and made some suggestions about how I should follow up. By the third snort of Johnny Walker the colour had returned to Murray’s face and he was ready to go. He rang Davey’s number. I sat there, listened to his side of the conversation.
‘Hello, Mr Davey. Keith Barnstable here. How are you today, sir? Glad to hear it. I won’t keep you long. I’m a chartered accountant and I’ve been appointed by Mr Bill Glasheen to look after his accounts . . . What’s that you say, bankruptcy?’ Murray chuckled indulgently, winked at me. ‘Hardly, Mr Davey. Rather the reverse, in fact. Mr Glasheen’s business affairs are nowadays of an order that demands a professional to do the books. Which is why I’m ringing. I see here an outstanding item of twelve hundred pounds. No pressure, of course, but I was wondering if you could give some indication as to when we might be able to finalise this . . . I see, I see, yes, of course. I quite understand. Now, Jack, I don’t wish to be indelicate, but if you’re having difficulties, let us know and I’m sure Mr Glasheen would