The Stone Dog

by Robert Mitchell

  The driver pulled up outside the Bank of New South Wales. Henry took several notes from his pocket to pay the driver as we climbed out.

  “How much?” he asked.

  “Six Fiji dollars.”

  Rick’s head jerked back. “Come off it mate!” he exploded. “We don’t want to buy the bloody thing!”

  “Six dollars,” the driver repeated, his hand reaching out from the open window, waiting for Henry to drop the notes into his palm, a paler colour than the rest of his skin.

  “Four,” Rick replied, pushing Henry’s hand back towards his pocket.

  “But sir, I am a poor man and my taxi costs such a lot of money and you are rich, sir.”

  “Four,” Rick repeated. “Four dollars Australian.”

  “Five, sir, but only because you are Australians and they are my friends.”

  “Four,” Rick said for the third and what sounded to be the last time.

  The pair of them stared at each other. The Indian stretched his hand out further. “Four,” he said in a dejected voice.

  Henry peeled off the four dollars, handed them over and walked away, embarrassed. The Indian tucked the notes into his shirt pocket and roared off.

  “That was a bit rough,” Henry muttered as we crossed the footpath to the bank, moving through the open doorway into the high-ceilinged building.

  “No way,” Rick replied. “Those bastards expect a bit of bargaining. We probably overpaid him in any case. Don’t worry, Henry, old mate. There’s no way the bugger would’ve left if he hadn’t been satisfied with the deal.”

  We changed five hundred dollars’ worth of Australian traveller’s cheques into Fijian dollars and spent the next hour walking the streets of Suva, watching the tourists pouring into the duty-free shops, some being lured away by small smiling-faced boys full of descriptions of wonderful bargains to be had from shops further along the street.

  “Don’t think too much of the birds,” Henry muttered as a pair of heavy-thighed Bermuda shorts passed by.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “What about that one over there?”

  “Where?”

  “That Fijian girl just going across the road.”

  “No,” he replied. “The tourists, not the bloody locals!”

  “Yeah,” Rick added. “I see what you mean, Henry; but it’s the old story.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “The good-looking ones spend most of their money on clothes and cosmetics and making themselves look even more beautiful, hoping they can trap some poor bastard into picking up the cost of a cruise. The others spend their money on the ticket. Anyway, Andy’s right. That Fijian bird wasn’t too bad at all.”

  Henry gave him a look as though he wasn’t certain whether Rick was kidding or not, shook his head a couple of times, and changed the subject.

  “Come on, you two,” I laughed. “Let’s go down to the market and pick up a few fresh vegetables.”

  The large corrugated-iron-roofed, open-sided building adjoining the main wharf and the Suva bus station lay only a hundred yards or so from where we had been discussing the merits of the various tourists flashing their bright new clothes and other things. We wandered inside, bumping shoulders and hips with the many locals: the women with underskirts reaching right to the ground, coconut-frond baskets swinging at knee level. There were more tourists down by the far end amongst the shell necklaces and souvenir baskets. Henry was fascinated.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “What a shambles. There must be ten different stalls selling nothing but mangoes, and all trying to undercut each other!”

  “They seem to be happy though,” Rick tossed back over his shoulder. “Come on, let’s see if we can find some decent tomatoes. Most of the ones I’ve seen I wouldn’t even bother to put in a stew!”

  “Since when have you been a cook anyway?” Henry yelled at him, and then turned and walked back along a side alleyway to take a closer look at some vegetable that had caught his eye.

  Rick and I kept moving, looking for tomatoes.

  “Hey!”

  We both spun to Henry’s shout, turning just in time to see him skid off around a corner and hurtle down another of the crowded alleyways.

  “What’s he on about?” Rick asked.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Better go and see, I suppose.”

  We took off after him, and turned the corner to find him sprawled on the ground with several fat Fijian women bending over him, a few mangoes rolling around amongst the litter. He got back on his feet as we arrived.

  “What the hell happened?” I asked.

  “I saw Judy!”

  Four

  “You saw who?” I snapped.

  “Judy,” Henry replied. “Rod’s wife.”

  “You can’t have! Are you sure?”

  “Well, I think so.”

  “Did you speak to her?” Rick asked.

  “No. She was up the other end of the alleyway, about twenty-five yards away. I raced after her, but she turned into the next alleyway before I could get close enough to call out. I crashed into some big guy as I shot around the corner stall.” He rubbed his elbow. “The bastard didn’t even stop to apologize.”

  “How did you know it was Judy?” I asked. “Did you see her face?”

  “Not really, just a sideways glimpse. She was wearing sunglasses, and with all that hair swirling around her face it was hard to get a proper look; but it certainly looked like her. Same tight little bum, same height, legs, blonde hair stroking the top of her shoulders, everything.”

  “Hang on,” Rick interrupted. “Blonde hair stroking the top of her shoulders?” Henry nodded. “And swirling around her face?” Another nod. Rick shook his head. “Judy’s got long hair mate, down to her bum; and she always wears it tied up in a ponytail, except when, well ...”

  “Yes,” I interrupted. “Except when she’s in the cot enjoying herself.”

  “Hey,” Henry said. “That’s right, so she does.”

  “Does what?” I asked.

  His face went red.

  “Good God, Henry!” Rick exclaimed. “Not you too!”

  Henry’s face went even redder.

  “It couldn’t have been her then, could it,” he said after an empty moment. “This one had short hair.”

  “No,” I said. “Not with short hair. Not Judy. That hair was the one thing she loved above all else.” Rick turned and gave me a leering look. “Yeah,” I added after a pause. “Probably even more than that.” I turned to Henry. “Wishful thinking, Henry, old mate. Just as well you didn’t catch whoever it was. If she was that well-built, she probably had a big boyfriend.”

  “Yeah, probably the same bastard who bowled me over.”

  “Come on, you two,” Rick called over his shoulder. “Let’s get what we came for and get out of here. The smell’s starting to get to me!”

  Rick quickly haggled over a basket of tomatoes and we headed back into the main business centre to pick up the rest of the provisions.

  ******

  We left Morris Hedstrom’s supermarket loaded down with cartons of foodstuffs. It was another hair-raising ride back to the Tradewinds. Henry insisted that the fare be quoted and agreed upon before we even entered the taxi: four dollars.

  “Why the heck don’t we up anchor and take off now?” Rick suggested. I shook my head. “Come on, Andy,” he went on. “Why not?”

  “No,” I replied. “We stick to the plan. If we head straight to Wakaya it might look just a bit too obvious. Somebody might put us and the treasure together and then we’d be right up the creek.”

  “It’s worth the risk,” Henry said.

  “No, it’s bloody not,” I replied. “Christ! It’s been down there for fifty-five years. Another couple of weeks aren’t going to matter one way or the other.”

  “It is to me,” Rick muttered. “I can already feel the smooth softness of gold coins running through my fingers: and silver, there would have to be silver.”

&nb
sp; “For all I know,” I said. “The bloody chest could be full of diamonds, or rotted banknotes that went out of circulation fifty years ago. Give it a rest, guys!”

  ******

  We spent the next day and a half lazing about the trawler, taking it easy, with Rick now and then listlessly attending to some of the regular maintenance required in the engine room.

  I had lived with Uncle Max’s tale for more than fifteen years and didn’t have the urgency that the other two had; but I knew that if I didn’t find something to take their minds off the iron chest for a few more days there would be no way I would be able to stop them racing straight off to the island on a patently obvious treasure hunt. I caught a glimpse of the calendar fastened to the inside of one of the cupboard doors, a calendar bearing the picture of a girl who had to be an anatomical impossibility.

  “Hey, you guys,” I said. “It’s Friday!”

  “So?” from Rick, still wearing a glum look.

  “So let’s do the town tonight,” I replied.

  “Good idea,” he agreed, the frown quickly turning to a smile. “Got any particular place in mind?”

  “No, but there must be somewhere!”

  “What about the hotel?” Henry asked. “The Tradewinds. There’s a few single women around.”

  “Are there indeed?” I asked.

  “Certainly are; and not too bad either! I’ve been watching a few with the binoculars.”

  “Tourists or locals?” Rick asked.

  “Tourists, of course.”

  “No good, mate. What we need is some local talent.”

  “I know!” I said. “How about one of those nightclubs that second taxi-driver mentioned?”

  “Yeah,” Rick said with a grin. “Why not! What were their names again?”

  “I don’t remember,” I replied. “Let’s go ashore and have a couple of those expensive beers and chat up one of the waiters.”

  ******

  There were two nightclubs, both of which had the dubious reputation of being the noisiest nightspot in Suva: the Golden Dragon and La Tropicale. The Fijian waiter reckoned that the Golden Dragon was by far the better of the two, and added, almost as an afterthought, that there were far too many Indians at La Tropicale. I was beginning to get the impression that maybe there wasn’t as much harmony between the races as the tourist brochures liked to make out. But he also said that there were more girls at the Golden Dragon, and that it had a better band. So, the Dragon it was to be.

  Henry asked him whether it would be necessary to wear a tie.

  “Cava, turaga? Ah.., what is that?”

  “A tie,” Henry repeated, making motions of knotting the old school tie around the neck of his T-shirt.

  “Sega, turaga!” the waiter boomed, grinning. “Not in the Golden Dragon. But, turaga, you must wear a shirt or a singlet or they will not let you in.”

  Good God, I thought to myself. I nearly asked whether it was necessary to wear shoes; but decided to let it pass.

  ******

  Halfway along Queen Elizabeth Drive we could hear music booming out from the open windows above two adjoining shops, one a small Chinese restaurant and the other selling musical instruments, mainly electric guitars. We paid off the cab and stood on the footpath, looking at the source of the blaring noise.

  “Are you certain this is it?” Henry asked.

  I pointed to the dragon painted on the restaurant window. “Looks like it.”

  Henry turned to Rick, who grinned back at the unasked question, punched him playfully on the shoulder, and said: “Let’s go!”

  We threaded our way through the small group of people standing outside the narrow staircase leading up to the nightclub. They were mostly young Fijian men, with only a couple of Indians, and these standing apart, and only two girls, Fijian, both unaccompanied.

  Just inside the street doorway, at the foot of the stairs, stood one of the biggest guys I had ever seen – the bouncer, a Tongan. We paid our dollar entry fee to the old unsmiling Chinese woman seated behind the steel grill set into the wall, her face lined and wrinkled, and squeezed our way past the bouncer’s huge, solid stomach. His grin seemed genuine enough, and I hoped it would stay that way.

  “Hey, Andy,” Rick said in a loud whisper. “Did you get a load of the arms on that guy?”

  “Yes. Is he still smiling?”

  Henry turned around. “Yes, thank God.”

  Cigarette smoke filled the topmost three feet of the semi-dark nightclub. It was still early, not yet nine o’clock, but Henry had wanted to be early so we could get a seat near the band, with a good view of the floor show. It was immediately obvious there wasn’t going to be one of those.

  “Bloody hell!” Henry yelled, trying to make himself heard above the din of electric guitars and crashing drums. “See if there are any seats up the other end of the room. I can hardly hear myself think down here!”

  We stood a foot or so in from the top of the stairs for a couple of minutes, letting our eyes become accustomed to the haze, trying to ignore the eye-watering effect of cigarette smoke. The nightclub was one large room, probably comprising the whole of the top floor above the two shops, with an area for the band at the front, near the open windows. Three-quarters of the way back along the far side of the wall stood the bar; no stools and only three or four people leaning against it.

  With a crash of cymbals the music came to an abrupt end, just as Rick went to shout in my ear. He stood with his mouth opened wide, checked himself, and then started again.

  “What about over there?”

  Henry and I turned and followed his pointing finger toward the wall behind us. Halfway along, and extending back to the rear wall, was a platform raised perhaps eighteen inches off the floor and fenced with a low iron railing. Whether the railing was to prevent drunks from falling into the crowd or to separate the have-nots from the haves, I couldn’t say; but there was one spare table so we stepped across and staked our claim.

  “Where’s the waiter?” Henry asked.

  “Doesn’t seem to be one,” Rick replied.

  “God!” I said. “And they call this a nightclub. More like a speakeasy out of one of those American gangster movies. Rick, I reckon it’s your shout.”

  He wandered across to the bar and returned shortly with two large bottles and three small glasses.

  “No stubbies?” I asked.

  “Nope; and just remember that we’ve got the whole night ahead of us, so take it easy.”

  “Don’t you worry about me,” Henry laughed. “After that other evening, you two had better look after yourselves.”

  “Up yours, Henry!” I said with a grin as I poured him a beer.

  We sat up on our dais; our table one of the four spread out with a little more free space than those on the far side of the so-called nightclub; feeling somewhat like royalty; and watched the crowd as it began to trickle in through the doorway. We were three of the maybe ten or so white male faces in the whole place; with the rest being mainly Fijians, a few part-Fijians and a couple of Indians. There were no white females, and no Indian. The girls were either Fijian; or part-Fijian, with their other parts being a mixture of English, Irish, Chinese or whichever other race may have spread its favours around the islands.

  “Hello,” a small voice murmured at my elbow. I turned. “Buy me a drink please, turaga?”

  I glanced down over the rail at the friendly voice – at a chubby fat face, with a round, dumpy body to match and one tooth missing from the wide white grin. Rick took one quick look, put his hand over his mouth and whispered: “What do you reckon?”

  “You so much as buy her one beer,” I whispered back, “and you’ll never bloody well get rid of her.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” he said, and then turned to the upturned smiling face. “Not right now, sweetheart. Maybe later, okay?”

  “Okay, nice bola.” And with that she sidled off across the room to bother a couple of other white faces, guys who seemed to be strangers like u
s. One of them was stupid enough to pour her a glass of beer. She reached across and grabbed an empty chair from the next table and sat down next to the idiot, attaching herself to the pair of them, the gap-toothed mouth smiling at their every word.

  “Christ!” Henry blurted. “That was close. How’d you like to wake up in the morning with that grin beaming across the pillow?”

  Rick spluttered into his beer, put the glass back on the table and turned to have another look at the trio.

  “Hey, now!” he exclaimed. “Now that one I wouldn’t mind waking up with in the slightest!”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “There!”

  I followed the finger pointing from behind his beer glass and found what had taken his attention: slim, a floral-printed cotton dress reaching just below the knees, a small cluster of pale-pink frangipani flowers placed high up on her crinkled, thick, black, bushy hair; hair that haloed out from her head and made that pretty coffee-coloured face seem even more delicate; but it was the smile that had caught Rick’s attention: happy, carefree, soft and friendly.

  “Mmm, yes,” I said. “Nice. What do you reckon, Henry?”

  “Yeah, well, she’s all right I suppose,” he agreed. “But ...”

  “But what?” I asked.

  “Well ...ah ... well ...,” he stammered. “She’s a local!”

  “Good God!” Rick burst out. “I do believe we’ve got a racist in our midst!”

  “Shh,” I said hurriedly, knowing how his voice could carry, and realizing that the music had stopped again. “We’ll finish up with a punch-up in here if we’re not careful.”

  “Sorry, mate,” he said, although not looking in the least contrite or concerned. “Anyway, what’s wrong with a bit of black velvet?”

  “Nothing, as far as I’m concerned,” I replied. “What’s wrong with you, Henry? You’re not going to go queer on us, are you?”

  “Uh? No, but, yeah, well ... No! Forget it. Just drink your beer, okay?”

  “Yeah, Henry,” Rick kept on. “Come on, mate. What about it? Don’t you fancy the local ladies?”