Of course, as soon as I heard the bodgie term ‘turfologist’, I was a furlong ahead of Ms Billings. (Some of you younger punters may not know a furlong is an old distance measure of about 200 metres. Forgive my anachronistic lapse and just put it down to an amateur horse-racing historian saluting the gambling bloodline. I know little about punching time clocks, but I can tell you Archer won the first Melbourne Cup in 1861.) If you look up ‘turfologist’ in a dictionary, it’ll probably say something about lawn care.
‘So you concede you might get the job?’ Ms Billings asked.
I was conceding zilch. ‘If I get it, what if he doesn’t pay me?’
‘I’ve spoken to Mr Jones. He sounds an honest businessman.’ She played it straight and so did I; neither of us smiled at ‘honest businessman’. ‘In fact, he sent me a copy of a bank passbook entitled “employee’s wages”. There’s thirty-thousand dollars in that account, Mr Hill.’
I bet her eyes lit up at the sight of the thirty with a dollar sign in front and lots of noughts after. How much was in her joint account? She and her boyfriend, who sold insurance, were saving for a house deposit, and visiting lovely three-bedroom display homes beside artificial lakes on Brisbane’s outskirts.
Bank accounts were totally secure documents in our age of manic security. You needed 100 points to open up a bank account: a birth certificate, a driver’s licence, school results, membership of a trade association – this, that and the other, ticked off down the stiff’s checklist.
Some stiffs had trouble getting those 100 points. The Caulfield Joneses of this world could put together 1000 points over a cup of coffee. That was why they owned a dozen bank accounts, some from actual banks.
Ms Billings would probably think I was skiting if I showed her my six bits of plastic, from the Bank of Earnest Endeavour and Dedicated Printing Reproduction, but I knew I was small potatoes.
As for the thirty grand? In one day and out the next, or a friendly computer printer offering you noughts to infinity.
Still, I did not mind going to this interview. Might be an angle in it for me. Who’s the easiest person to sell to? A salesperson. Who’s the easiest person to hustle? A hustler.
‘This looks promising,’ I said.
I meant I could not see much danger in it. That was bad luck number one, and I would soon find the dead body to prove it.
7
AS SOON AS A STIFF BUYS an alarm clock, The Man’s got them. To ruin my Christmas holidays, Ms Kathy Billings from the dole office was sending me to see turfologist Caulfield Jones for an early Friday morning job interview. Ms Scrooge might have ruined my Christmas, delivering the first of an inevitable three parcels of bad luck, but I wasn’t going to let her wreck my Thursday night’s rest with the eruption of a devilish noise.
I have not owned an alarm clock for almost ten years. I used one for a few months after I left the orphanage. I never liked that relentless shrillness frightening me awake, and the continual waking even before that in fear the alarm wasn’t working. I read once that we all have a pleasant little alarm in our heads. It works if we trust it. Mine works pretty well, but then I don’t scold it if it misbehaves. And I hardly ever anticipate it and wake early.
It worked pretty well that Thursday night and woke me at 11 p.m. A quick shower; grilled chicken, tomatoes with basil, toast with coffee for a midnight breakfast, and off to work.
I turned my old grumbling EH ute into an inner-city service station. You wouldn’t want to know where, and if you did, I wouldn’t want to tell you. I parked the car beside six taxis, flying the flags of three companies, and hopped out to greet the midnight below the sign A & A Fiorini managers.
Anita was serving some suit, chasing cigarettes and coffee after a night of business, booze, drugs, tom-catting, whatever. When she saw me, Anita flashed that big smile of hers, and nodded towards the wall behind her. She was indicating what was behind the wall.
Anita and Antonio Fiorini managed the servo on behalf of an international oil company. In the seventies the newlyweds bought their own little garage in the burbs. The eighties shake up in the industry saw that go, along with a lot of other independents. Then they landed this job, running what was basically a twenty-four-hour convenience store that sold petrol, as well as newspapers and magazines illegally. Since the business-is-beaut eighties and the following recession, everyone wanted to get into everyone else’s business. As proud Italians, the Fiorinis did not like working long hours for someone else, but they persevered and managed to keep smiling too.
When the suit had taken his coffee and cigarettes outside, Anita came from behind the counter to punch me lightly on the shoulder.
‘Steele, you look so handsome tonight. You should be taking that Natalie out on the town.’
‘Some of us have to work, Anita. The back door open?’
‘Of course, Steele. Feeling lucky tonight?’
‘I don’t know. Lucky might object. There’s just a slight technical hitch, Anita.’
‘Oh, Steele, you don’t tell Tony, eh?’
She reached behind cases of soft drinks stacked eight high, to fetch a leather handbag. From its contents, which I couldn’t see, came a hundred, a fifty, a twenty, a ten and four fives.
Handing me the stake, she asked, ‘You got the fifties?’
I showed Anita three plastic coin holders crammed with 50c pieces.
‘You always got the fifties, Steele.’
‘Tools of the trade, Anita. Ta for the loan.’
‘That’s fine. Just don’t tell Tony.’
I wouldn’t. After all, I never told Anita when Antonio lent me money.
I went through the narrow archway bearing the warning ‘Staff only’. Behind the table cluttered with magazines was a door, which opened into the garage. I nodded happily at the magnificent sight, cut off from outside view by the small door on one side and a huge aluminium roller door to the right. A third entry was an inconspicuous metal door. Three keys to that door were kept under a rock in a garden bed.
The round hydraulic platform for working on cars had been raised to table height. The green felt from a billiard table was draped over the platform. Eight men sat around the table. Six were cabbies. The others were Antonio Fiorini and his mate, Luigi ‘Lucky’ Leggo.
The game was Manila poker, sevens up. The cards 2 to 6 of the four suits were not required. Not that I had to look to know the game was Manila. The game was always Manila. I pulled up a chair and placed it to the right of the dealer, a wiry cabbie called Phil. A couple of the players said hello. The rest just nodded, refusing to break concentration on the hand in progress. Antonio flicked his finger in the direction of the refrigerator in the corner.
I opened the fridge, ignoring the dozens of cans of beer stored there. I took a glass and poured from the carafe of Chianti, placed squarely in the centre of the fridge. I also ignored the open jar with its pile of gold coins and a few notes. This was Antonio’s pocket money, earned from the grog he sold to the poker players and other select customers, and he used it to buy his wine for the week. It was not quite legal. To be fair, if you pushed the point, it was downright illegal, but authorities had failed to push it yet. The money also covered expenses such as coffee and sandwiches for the game and a cab home for anyone who got too pissed, so no one cried foul if it also bought Tony a few glasses of wine.
I rarely needed a cab. A few glasses of Antonio’s chilled Chianti saw me through the night and in shape for the drive home. I made the mistake once of putting money in the beer kitty for the wine. If you have ever seen the carry-on of an Italian who feels his hospitality has been insulted, you know why I didn’t make that mistake again.
By the time I sat down, Herb Willmott, fifty, fat and florid, was shuffling the deck. I asked to be dealt in, and exchanged a proper how-you-going with each player.
Forget your five-card stud. That is regarded as a uniquely American game, and the Red, White and Bluers haven’t yet realised that no other nationality has a high enoug
h boredom threshold to play it. By the Holy Law of Averages, a high pair will win most hands of five-card stud. So much for those American movies where a straight flush wins the cattle ranch, the fair maiden, and the honour of beating Nick the Greek who holds a lousy four aces. To get that straight flush in a two-person showdown, a filmmaker would need 32,000 takes, unless the deck was doctored.
No, forget your five-card stud; Manila is the only game of poker. The cards come round with two dealt face-down to each player. Everybody antes, in our game it’s 50c a head. This entitles you to bet on each of the next five cards, turned over one at a time. These five cards are communal. Using the two cards in your personal hand and any three out of the five communal cards, you make the best poker hand you can. Simple and sweet.
The best hand can win you lots of money. If you consider $150 or so a lot of money. That Friday morning I did. Most Friday mornings I did.
As always, I played the percentages. I never doubt the existence of the God Probability and his wife Lady Luck. The Lady is a fickle Goddess, while Probability is a harsh God who suffers fools endlessly as He takes them to the cleaners. Neither God is to be taken lightly.
By one o’clock I was $300 up. It was my deal.
‘By the way, I have to finish at 4:30 on the dot. I’ve got a can’t-miss appointment for 7:45 this morning.’ I said this emphatically, as much for my own benefit as for the other players.
‘Gotta see the duty solicitor before your court appearance,’ said Laughing Laurie.
The last time anyone remembered seeing Laughing Laurie even smile was when U.S. President Kennedy was shot dead in ’63.
‘Yair,’ I replied. ‘I’m prepared to swear your wife thought the blond lad next door was over sixteen.’
Some players laughed and Laughing shut up.
I dealt out the two down cards each, deciding that whatever cards fell my way, I would go in hard, to pretend I would play the rest of the night on muscle rather than maths. I spread the five common cards face-down across the centre of the table. I looked at my ‘hole’ cards. Seven of diamonds, ace of spades, worst possible hole: ace and seven of different suits.
If you don’t know ten and jack of the same suit are the best possible hole cards, you shouldn’t play Manila. But you are welcome in my game anywhere, anytime.
A ten of diamonds was the first card I turned over from the communal five. A bet of 50c was doubled by a second player and doubled again by a third. By the time it got around to me the bet was $4. I doubled the bet on a hand that I had a principled politician’s chance in Canberra of winning. I committed myself to the bluff.
Four of the nine players dropped out. No one raised me back. Next card up, nine of spades. Looking good. I badly wanted a small straight to win the hand, so the other players would remember my bluff. If a big hand such as a full house or flush won, my efforts in throwing away money would be ignored.
The first bet on the second communal card, the nine of spades, was, as always, to the dealer’s left. Thankfully every player, up to me, checked, so they could all stay in the game, providing they matched a subsequent bet. I bet $8 again and another player dropped out, leaving four of us.
Card three was the Queen of hearts. Best possible hand around the table was a king-high straight, if someone had a Jack and a King in their hole. Everyone checked again, and I bet $16. They had to pick me for the king-high straight. I figured at least one of those three bastards really had the king-high and was foxing.
Fourth card was seven of clubs, and I smiled. There was no chance of a flush with four suits showing on table. With a lonely pair of sevens, I had no chance of winning the pot, but no one could be sitting on a full house or four of a kind. With one communal card left, the best possible hand so far was still the King High straight.
Laughing Laurie was the first to bet – $8 when he could have bet $32. Chances were he had the king-high and he was testing me out. I doubled to $16. Only Lucky stayed with me and Laughing. What Lucky was staying in on I couldn’t guess, maybe three of a kind and a miracle.
Fifth card was a ten of spades. With two tens on the table, the best possible hand was four tens, but the odds were against it, with a full house based on three tens a more likely winner.
Laughing looked at me suspiciously before he bet $16. For all Laughing knew, I had four tens, or the full house tens over queens, after I had bet on the first ten. Lucky doubled the bet to $32. I doubled again to $64. Lucky looked. Laughing threw in his cards.
‘A pair of sevens with the tens,’ I said, as if my world had collapsed. My starting bank certainly had shrivelled after my outrageous bluffing.
‘Queen-high straight,’ said Lucky, showing an eight and a jack with one hand while raking in his winnings with the other.
‘Shit,’ Laughing said. ‘I had a king-high straight. What the fuck were you doing, Steele?’
What I was doing was establishing my credentials as a bluffer, giving Lucky a false sense of security, ruining Laughing’s concentration for the night and losing most of my winnings in one hand. I knew, from then on, I would have a good night.
At four o’clock I said, ‘Half an hour and that’s me.’
‘What the fuck you talking about?’ demanded Laughing, looking at the pile in front of me.
At a rough guess, I would have said I had at least $900. Lucky and Laughing had contributed about $300 each to the haul.
‘I said that hours ago,’ I insisted.
‘He did.’ Antonio, who was winning a couple of hundred himself, wouldn’t mind seeing the back of the big winner.
‘What the fuck,’ Laughing said. ‘The game finishes at 5:30. Everybody knows that.’
I began to fold up my money. For me the game was over. Laughing slammed his hand to my left wrist. It reminded me of when I was seven-years-old and a nun slammed her coffee cup on my left hand, breaking three bones. I half-rose from my chair, with extreme malice on my mind, as the door opened and in walked Detective Sergeant Frank Mooney and Detective Senior Constable Bill Schmidt. Bad luck number two for me.
Mooney looked at the scene with mild interest as he handed Schmidt two coins. Schmidt returned with two cans of beer. Laughing withdrew his hand from my wrist. Mooney leaned against a pile of tyres, while Schmidt rested against the wall beside his senior officer. No one in the room said anything.
I continued to rake in the dough, wondering why everybody had shut their traps just because a couple of dees had intruded. Uniformed coppers had been strolling in and out all night, buying beers, drinking them and going back to what they called work. They didn’t worry any of the players. What difference did Mooney in a cheap leather jacket and Schmidt in a trendy sports coat make?
‘Knocking off early, Hill?’ Mooney eventually asked. He didn’t expect an answer. He was probably pissed off he’d walked into agro when he just wanted a beer, but there was too much copper in him not to ask a sarcastic question.
‘Steele’s got an appointment in the morning,’ Antonio explained. He waved the tension away. ‘Let’s play cards.’
I stuffed the money in my pockets and went out through the door. Shutting it behind me, I smiled towards Anita and rapped two fingers towards the ceiling.
‘You win?’ Anita smiled back.
I dragged some money from a pocket and handed her $250.
‘Two hundred, that’s all, no more,’ she said.
‘Take the fifty,’ I insisted. ‘Buy yourself some flowers.’
‘Why you don’t buy me flowers?’ mocked Anita.
‘Because they spray flowers with deadly substances to keep them alive even after they are dead.’
‘Do they? Oh, you only joke again.’
‘Buy some flowers, awlright, Anita? From me.’
‘Awlright, but you should laugh when you are joking. It’s not so funny in a foreign country.’
Tell me about it, Anita, I thought.
Every day I make my way
Through the streets of your town.
; Even in the bad interior light of the car, I counted more than $750. The 50c pieces were threatening to burst their three plastic pockets, and I poured some coins into the glove box.
I was exhilarated driving home, with just a niggling tiredness at the back of my head. Lady Luck was in the passenger seat. Her winning smile lit up Nudgee Road at four in the morning in a way a thousand streetlights could not. Under her glorious spell, I was convinced my short run of bad luck at the dole office and running into the dees had stopped at two.
8
UNDER THE SHOWER, I began to fantasise about making a packet from Mr Jones’s touting job. I pictured myself letting Jones dud me for a few months, while I learned the nuts and bolts of the hustle. No harm in that if it meant I could start my own touting business. I could see the ad: Steele Hill International Tipping Service, Est. Ascot, England, 1922. I read somewhere a number with double digits such as 1922 impresses the mugs. I really have to stop remembering all this shit I read.
I walked down to the Feed Bin in Nudgee Road for breakfast. At 4:45 the café was crowded with trainers and jockeys, along with the odd owner.
All owners are odd. They pay thousands upon thousands of dollars to feed and house and exercise and otherwise maintain horses, just for the slim chance of one day getting to stick a photo on the lounge-room wall of their nag winning at Eagle Farm. Still, Buddha bless their photograph-loving souls which, no doubt, are very much under-exposed in their other business activities. Without these owners, all of us there in the Feed Bin would have been out of work and scrounging for a feed.
Veteran trainers Eric Kirwin and Roy Dawson chatted jauntily to their respective stable foremen. Chris Munce, then one of Queensland’s top two jockeys, was telling a joke he had picked up at the wharfies’ club. Talented apprentices Jim Byrne and Nathan Day were looking through form guides.
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