It is funny how the mind works, but I immediately associated northern New South Wales with our outing, picking magic mushies. It was ridiculous, but I started thinking that these southerners knew about doping with gold tops.
We won on two of the first three races, and did little damage on the one we lost. So we laid the southern horse I supposed was doped to the eyeballs on shrooms. It ran second last. They must have fed it toadstools by mistake.
34
I GAVE THURSDAY MORNING track work a swerve, even though my body clock woke me at 4am. It would be best, I decided, if the early-morning crowd watching Bill Smith’s horse work did not see me near the trainer. Who Loves Yer Baby was always a pretty ordinary worker on the training track. Smith might have a little trouble convincing onlookers that his horse was going so well that he came up with the idea of playing Happy Families and winning the Brisbane Handicap with his son-in-law. He could cop the suspicious glances on his own.
Bill might have asked me some awkward questions about his daughter’s whereabouts too. Best I plodded about the flat for the morning, before tidying up some loose ends later in the day.
I was having coffee and toast when a noise outside made me wonder if Nat had pulled an all-nighter. Atagirl, I thought. It’s a long way to the top of fruit and veg, so you might as well rock ‘n’ roll. I opened my door slightly to see retired jockey George huddling over the lock with a credit card in his hand. Leaning in and watching attentively over the little man’s shoulder was Big Phil. I pulled the door wide open, and their expressions slowly changed from concentration to embarrassment.
‘We didn’t think you’d be home.’ Big Phil surprised me by talking on behalf of the partnership.
‘That’s a reasonable presumption,’ I conceded. ‘However, I’ve seen what you fellows do to a place during a visit, and leaving a credit card to cover damages is no good. I’m strictly a cash man.’
George explained that he was going to use the card to force the lock. This impressed me no end. I asked if he was tired of his effective strategy of a brick through the window. I also wanted to know about his success rate with credit cards. As I suspected, it was zero. So far.
‘I’ve only started practising,’ George said defensively. ‘The credit cards keep getting bent or the edges snap off, and the bank is starting to charge me $5 for replacement cards.’
I nodded sympathetically towards the new international spy, Ratbag of Brisbane, who, like his historical Singapore counterpart Raffles, might soon be working alone.
‘You didn’t tell me that,’ Phil said to his partner. ‘That’s my credit card you borrowed.’
The way these two worked together could only be described as a crime. I invited them in. Their company was entertaining and, while big Phil looked like he could inflict a deal of physical hurt, he was docile enough. George was the surly one, but his instructions from Mecklam probably forbade bodily harm except as a last resort. I promised myself I would not bait this small but easy target beyond his boiling point.
I made the coffees and put out some savoury biscuits for our morning tea, served at the untraditional time of dawn, and asked them how long they had been working for Mecklam. Their contract had been running for three months, but they were becoming jack of the terms, as Mecklam only slung them a few dollars on an irregular basis. He had told them little about Saturday’s race, but they figured he was going to have a big go at All The Favours. At least, George figured that and passed on his hunch to Phil. If Mecklam failed to come good with a decent salary, they were going to ditch him. They might even threaten to reveal to the relevant authorities the illegal jobs he made them do. Phil nodded as George talked.
Of course, they would not do any of that. George was a bitter middle-aged man, but he was too smart to implicate himself in such capers. If he did, chances were Mecklam would end up walking away from it all, while the ex-jockey took the brunt of the blame.
George’s depressing tale was a recurring one in the racing industry. It was a merciless world which often left the prospects of the unlucky trailing in the dust. George had survived as a journeyman jockey for twenty years in Perth. Then a race fall laid him low for six months, and his weight rose. The bachelor had always liked a celebratory drink, and he hit the piss during his recovery. When he was ready to go back in the saddle, he had few rides because of his weight. For a while, he sat in jockeys’ rooms in the forlorn hope that he might pick up a replacement ride on a top weight with good form.
His weight did drop, but this was due to the success of a rum-based diet. On some race days, he did not even try for rides. He went to the pub instead, where he told his life story and gave out tips to strangers, often getting beer and sometimes a few dollars if they won. At the end of one particularly miserable year, George surrendered his jockey’s licence.
Reasonably smart and flat broke in a cockroach-infested boarding house on his forty-second birthday, George decided he wanted to be as far from Perth as he could get. He continued urging in pubs, but cut back on the grog and saved whatever money grateful punters gave him. That was how he had ended up in Brisbane, and he was soon working happily enough in a factory job. This was where he met Phil, who was in his late twenties.
The manufacturing company where they worked went bust and they were forced onto the dole. George knew this was not serious enough money for a man staring at the world from beyond the second half of his working life. He went back to the only industry he really knew, and he invited Phil along to race meetings. They bet a few dollars, but mainly hung around the stables, hoping to put faces to some of the names in the racing form.
They were sure they had scored an in when they met Mecklam, and he told them his gardener needed some help around the Hamilton mansion. George assured Phil that Easy Street was just around the corner after Mecklam paid them well and gave them a six-pack of beer to take home, to boot. They figured the corporate lawyer had any number of contacts to give them decent well-paid jobs.
The pair came to realise that Mecklam liked them having plenty of free time on their hands. He developed ever-increasing stinginess in paying them for occasional work, some of which could have them in a lot of legal trouble if they were caught.
I had caught them, but I would not be giving them trouble, even if they refused to tell me why they tried to break in to my flat. They were happy to trade information for trophies to take back to Mecklam. They were supposed to steal small items from my place, but what they were really after was my telephone answering machine, a gadget I did not have. They were to take the answering machine, among other household items, and to look for any letters or a diary I might have lying around. Anything with the name Gregory Sailor on it was to be seized. Mecklam had gone to track work, and they felt he was going to confront Sailor, but for what, they didn’t know.
I went to a cupboard to retrieve a broken old portable radio that I kept forgetting to throw out, and handed it to George. Looking around some more, I found a writing pad I used for shopping lists. I put my name and address at the top left and carefully composed a letter, beginning, ‘Dear Greg’.
I’m posting this today so I hope you get it before Saturday.
Think he might be on to us.
But there is no need to change our plans, as we both know every loser wins once the race begins.
When you hit the straight on Saturday, make a noise and make it clear. Oh, and I didn’t really mean that crack about the next time I fall in love, it will be with your wife.
Let’s hope all the favours go our way.
Cheers,
Steele
I showed the note to George, who screwed up his face at the doggerel. I said it was better to keep it cryptic. Mecklam could read whatever he wanted into it. I gave George a couple of outstanding household bills I was waiting to pay when I received final notices, and added form guides, circling the recent runs of All The Favours with a biro. Mecklam would have plenty to think about, though I suspected only the Marx Brothers enjoying a
day at the races could come up with answers to my riddles.
George appreciated my being so understanding of their needs. He said maybe the three of us should team up. We should surely be able to come up with some good money-making ideas. I said I would think about it, but, to be honest, these two blokes had desperate losers written all over them. With respect to Nick Berry, there are exceptions to his rule of ‘every loser wins’.
___o0o___
THE SHERATON HOTEL was beside Central railway station; a strange location to my mind, as I had a notion that rich people disliked public transport, fearing that they might catch something besides a train or a bus. I paged Flick’s room and caught the lift to her floor. She opened the door to my knock and dragged me inside.
‘This is heaven, Steele,’ she said. ‘I’ve got all I need and they have a restaurant, too.’
She had given her credit card a solid workout, and I again promised to reimburse her. Flick was the very picture of the glowing pregnant woman. She admitted breaking her promise and ringing her father. ‘I had to, Steele,’ she said. ‘He would have been worried sick. I only told him I was safe and well, and I didn’t mention your name and didn’t tell him where I am.’
I forgave her, but insisted that she had to do everything else we had agreed on, including hiding from anyone she recognised and not leaving the hotel unless she really had to. She could use her credit card to shout a couple of girlfriends lunch on Saturday afternoon as long as it was after 12.30 when everybody we knew would be at the track. Flick was happy with these terms.
We watched a movie after raiding the mini bar for expensive peanuts, soda water and a wee drop of rum for me.
After our pleasant smoko, I headed up the road to Spring Hill to make sure I could meet the ballooning hotel bill.
Mick Clarence’s front door was wide open again, and a tall man walked out without closing it.
He nodded at me and headed towards a 1960s British MG sports car. I had seen the man a few times. We were never introduced, and I picked him for a bit of a mug lair. His name was Marcus Georgio.
35
MICK CLARENCE WAS AT HIS COMPUTER when I entered to tell him how I had found Felicity Sailor. I gave him the full story after I made him promise he would not tell Bill Smith where his daughter was or who had delivered her there.
‘I doubt I’ll see Bill until well after the race, but I might work with him again,’ Mick said. ‘I like his style. None of this would have happened had any of us realised he hadn’t really kidnapped his daughter. We were so busy concentrating on steps B, C, and D we forgot to question Step A, the kidnapping. I must remember that for the future.’
‘So it doesn’t piss you off that we were played for mugs?’
‘No, not at all. People with far worse intentions than Bill Smith play me for a mug every week, Steele. I like Bill. You can’t complain about the outcome either, because you’re enjoying your revenge by kidnapping Flick a second time.’
I nodded, though the reason I had asked Flick to stay at the Sheraton was it seemed like a good idea for me to know her whereabouts when others, such as her father and her husband, did not. To tell the truth, I did not mind Bill running the show. He had a plan of sorts. He had achieved everything he wanted so far, with Gregory riding his horse, Mecklam showing signs of worry, and me supplying him with a drug connection. Now I needed more help from that connection.
‘You know that money you want me to put on Who Loves Yer Baby? Can I use some of it to pay Flick’s hotel bill?’ I asked.
‘I’d rather you didn’t, because twenty grand is such a nice round figure, but I’ll put another grand in for expenses. You may not be able to get the full twenty large on, anyway, without taking ridiculous odds and raising more suspicion. It’s your call. I’ll be happy if you get five or ten grand on at an average price of ten-to-one to win. With ten grand for you and ten for Felicity, that should still leave thirty or more for me.’
He saw my sceptical look.
‘Even if it loses, there’s no great harm done,’ Mick said.
That attitude was a relief for me.
‘At least we won’t be fronting the stewards, unless it jumps the fence. You’ll have to excuse me now, Steele. I’m working, and I just might win that $20,000 stake money this afternoon.
I looked at the indecipherable figures and squiggles on the computer screen. As I walked through the door, I gave Mick a warning: ‘You’ll definitely have to lock the door now. Anybody could walk in off the street and steal that betting system from under your nose.’
Mick laughed and waved me away.
___o0o___
WAKING AT 9 a.m. I mentally noted that this was the latest I could remember greeting a Friday morning. I was sweating and it was shaping up to be one of those sweltering November days that make you wonder how Australian meteorologists can say with a straight face that it is still spring. I am sure the European lunatic who invented the four seasons had the best of intentions in interpreting the natural world, but I pity our convict ancestors, toiling at road building under the lash and being reprimanded for not having sufficient refinement to enjoy our balmy spring weather.
Under the shower – hot, of course, to appease those European genes – I predicted the likely track conditions at Eagle Farm the next day. It would almost certainly be a fast track, as the weather could well provide a stinker like today.
This was promising weather for my anticipated date with the stewards. It would be a barbecue, with me being grilled. In my head, I could hear the stewards asking me if I had any explanation for Who Loves Yer Baby running in a zigzag pattern down the straight, and the jockey not being able to pull it up for 200 metres after the winning post.
‘The heat,’ I practised saying in the shower.
It sounded better when I said it a second time, as I rubbed the hot water through my hair. When I turned the shower off, I heard a pounding at my front door.
‘Keep your shirt on,’ I yelled to my visitor as I donned mine.
Bill Smith was at the door, and he was an unhappy camper.
‘Where have you been all week?’ he asked. ‘It took me ages to find out where you live. We need to discuss what’s happening tomorrow, and you haven’t been at track work. You haven’t rung, and you haven’t dropped by my place. Unless you were the one who messed up my fridge earlier in the week.’
I let Bill unleash a few less important objections before I set him straight. ‘It’s best if we aren’t seen together,’ I said calmly. ‘And I don’t know what you’re on about, messing up your fridge,’ I lied, not to protect wee George, but to deny any association with the man who had lustily ravaged the contents of Bill’s refrigerator.
‘I have everything under control for tomorrow,’ I went on. ‘I told my bookie I wanted a relaxing day out at the races. He wasn’t too keen, but he’s found a replacement. Mick Clarence said you and he had worked out how to give the horse the good gear, so there isn’t much more to it, unless I’m missing something.’
Bill calmed down a fraction. ‘Sheesh,’ he said. ‘It’s just that I want you to put a bet on for me. I can’t be seen betting. Also, I want to find out what you know about Felicity.’
‘Why, is Flick awlright?’ I asked, crossing my brows to appear anxious. ‘I said you could let her go without it changing the score one iota,’ I reminded him for good measure.
A touch of shame crossed the trainer’s face, but my money was on him reciprocating my lie. I was right.
‘I saw her earlier this morning and she’s fine,’ he said. ‘She just said she had run into you, that’s all.’
I had the advantage in the fibbing department, because I knew all he did about Flick and then some. Flick had not dobbed on me, or else Bill would be calling me all sorts of names for re-kidnapping her without telling him.
‘When did you say you looked in on her, again?’ I asked.
‘She rang early today,’ he said, which I would wager was the truth.
‘I mean, I we
nt to see her early this morning,’ he corrected, steering back to the lying course that he had resolutely followed for more than a week.
Bill now produced four wads of notes, each with a rubber band around it.
‘Where’d you get that?’ I asked, fearing he might tell me he had robbed a pub in the early hours.
‘I took out a bank loan,’ he said. ‘The bastards made me take out a second mortgage on my home for a lousy five grand. Put it on each way, Steele. There is 1250 dollars in each bundle. I’ll look after you when Who Loves Yer Baby wins.’
The whole world would be looking after me, following the win of a horse racing above its class and doped on a substance that might make it do anything with the probable exception of running faster.
‘This is mad, Bill,’ I said. ‘You could finish up doing your house, because I doubt you can afford to pay back five grand on top of your other commitments. Just put the money back. If the horse wins, you can pay back whatever interest and fees the banks saddled you with from your trainer’s percentage.’
I was wasting my breath. Smith put the four bundles down on my kitchen table and pushed the cash towards me. Sighing, I gathered them up in my hands. I drew open a kitchen drawer full of cutlery and tossed the money in.
‘I wish I had a lock on this cabinet,’ I said.
‘Have you ever been robbed?’ he asked, more out of curiosity than concern for his thousands of dollars.
I realised that I had never been robbed in my life, though I often kept the doors to my flat unlocked and usually kept windows open when I went out in summer.
‘Being involved in your silly scheme will probably take a few years off my life, one way or another, Bill, so I guess this will be the first time I’ve been turned over in my life,’ I said.
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