Iraqi Icicle

by Bernie Dowling

  ‘You should have more confidence in your mate, Mick Clarence,’ Bill said. ‘He knows it’ll work out well with those mushrooms. We have a really good plan for getting them into the horse. We’re gunna . . .’

  ‘I don’t need to know,’ I interrupted. ‘I am sure you two madmen have it all worked out, but you’re kidding yourselves if you think Who Loves Yer Baby is going to race like Phar Lap with that stuff in it. Even if it does, the stewards will hound you until Doomsday.’

  ‘I doubt it, Steele. I’ve been feeding the journos with all sorts of stuff about how much it has improved on the track.’

  Yes, we all read the papers. The trouble is, a lot of us, including the naturally suspicious stewards, do not believe all we read. I asked the trainer how the horse had worked on the previous morning. Thursday morning track work was often a reliable predictor of Saturday afternoon performance. The trainer tried to exude confidence in his voice, though I noticed he quickly cast his eyes down before lifting them again for his report.

  ‘I asked Sailor to give him an easy time, and he ran four furlongs in fifty-five,’ Bill said.

  Buddha, 800 metres in fifty-five seconds. On the strength of that, I wouldn’t be confident backing the horse to win a bush maiden. The bad news continued when I asked what Mecklam’s horse had run. Smith told me it also worked over the same distance, but it had covered the ground in forty-nine seconds. I was definitely putting $100 on All The Favours to win the Brisbane Handicap.

  ‘That’s good isn’t it?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s very good – forty-nine seconds, when it’s been set for 1600 metres,’ I agreed.

  ‘No, not its time; our slow time. It’ll make the smarties and Mecklam think his horse is a good thing. We’ll get our price tomorrow.’

  I gave up trying to bring any reality to the conversation, and considered the logistics of trying to punt $25,000 on Who Loves Yer Baby. The exercise would be throwing money down the drain, but I owed it to myself as a professional to get as much on at the best prices I could.

  ‘I have a fair whack of Mick’s dough to put on,’ I told Bill.

  ‘You’ll work it out. You put mine on first, and then yours and then his,’ he said, still trying to call the shots.

  ‘I think not,’ I replied. Smith looked petulant as he waited for further explanation. ‘You see, Bill, you have kept me in the dark over a few details. If your horse wins, it will be down to Mick’s theory about the mushies – which, by the way, involved only him and me, keeping it nice and simple. You, on the other hand, have come up with the most complicated plan, involving a cast of thousands like Mecklam, Sailor, Felicity, the journalists you’ve been lying to and Buddha knows who else. I’m surprised it has come this far without falling apart, and, as I said, I probably still don’t know the half of it.’

  ‘I can’t keep you in the picture if you’re never around,’ the miffed trainer replied.

  ‘I’ve been around,’ I told him, ‘tidying up loose ends, and tomorrow I’ll be the one drawing all the attention, when I go splashing a lot of dough around the betting ring. I think that entitles me to play the game the way I see it. Half of Mick’s bugs bunny goes on first, at the best prices around. Your five grand is on next, and then as much as I can get on of the rest of Mick’s.’

  Smith pondered my betting strategy, and decided to back down. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘And I tell you plenty. Yesterday morning, we gave the horse a few of the mushrooms before his gallop, and he ran just normal. You wouldn’t know he’d had anything.’

  Well, that was promising news. Bill Smith imagined the next day’s race meeting would gain him fame and fortune. All I wanted was to be able to go home from the track without the expectation of being locked up.

  36

  I BUMMED A LIFT WITH BILL to the nearest newsagent to buy a copy of The Sportsman, the punter’s Bible, carrying Australia’s most comprehensive form coverage.

  Seventeen starters had put up their hoofs to play in the Brisbane Handicap the next afternoon. In the early market, Purple Haze was the two-to-one favourite. Mick Clarence had to have some measure of confidence to even consider backing against Purple Haze. Hendrix would be looking down and shaking his head. Mecklam’s All The Favours was at five-to-one and Who Loves Yer Baby a distant twenty-to-one.

  Purple Haze was a five-year-old gelding, trained by the experienced Bart Wood. It had won six races in open company, including two out of its past three starts. The favourite would have been at an even shorter price, but it had only once raced over 1600 metres, and that was fourteen months earlier. An on-pace runner, drawn well in barrier 5, it was likely to run in the first four or five until they entered the straight. Then it would make a quick sprint to catch the staying types, back in the field, flat-footed.

  Mecklam’s horse did not live up to its name, as it received no favours in the draw. It would start from barrier 15, and this accounted for its price being about a point longer than most punters would have expected. All The Favours liked to sit mid-field in his races, and preferred the pace to be on all the way. I fancied Mecklam’s horse had every chance of an easy run, and I doubted the wide barrier would stop the lawyer from having a real go, just as he had been planning.

  Who Loves Yer Baby drew barrier 8.

  I did the form on every runner in the Brisbane Handicap, and then repeated the exercise. I was sure Purple Haze was a false favourite. All The Favours would win unless it was caught wide or found trouble during the run. I planned to put $150 of my own hard-earned on Mecklam’s horse to win. This should not only return me plenty of bugs bunny, but also make the stewards ponder if I got caught. I was just putting other bets on for someone else, on commission, as we call it, without a clue as to why my employers wanted to back Who Loves Yer Baby.

  For luck, I went through the form again, and came up with the same result. It was 11:30 a.m. and I rang the mobile phone number Mecklam had given me. The lawyer was pissed off at me for ringing him at work, which must have had good conditions as I heard laughter, clinking glasses and talk of meal orders in the background. Mecklam was celebrating early his horse’s win tomorrow, and was ill-pleased at being interrupted, which made me feel good. I said I had important news about the big race, and I would need to see him in person to talk about it. Now he was interested. He said to meet him in the public bar of the Hamilton Hotel at 3:30 p.m. That was a disappointment. I would have liked to go to his mansion so that one of the domestics could tell his wife I was there again or, even better, for Prue Mecklam herself to see me haunting the family domicile.

  I still had to work out what important news I was going to share with Mecklam. My real reasons for our meeting were to embarrass him and to try to find out how confident he was of his horse winning.

  At 3:25 p.m. I eased the EH into a vacant space in the pub car park. The Hamilton, which goes by the obvious nickname of the Hamo, has the distinction of being the closest pub to the Eagle Farm and Doomben racetracks. I was never a regular, but I knew my way to its public bar, where a suited Jim Mecklam sat at a table by himself, unless you counted the scotch he cradled in his left hand.

  I sat down opposite him and nodded a silent greeting, which he returned with a nod of his own. Mecklam looked like he had indulged himself at lunch, and this was confirmed by the trace of a slur in his voice. You meet all sorts on a racetrack, so I know the ways many of the other halves live, if you get what I mean. Heavy social drinkers, in business like Mecklam, are adept at feigning sobriety after a session, so he must have had more than usual to slightly give away his condition. Or maybe I didn’t rate enough on his radar to have him don his verbal disguise.

  ‘You better have something good, to get me out here before the close of business at work,’ he said.

  ‘I’m putting a packet on Who Loves Yer Baby,’ I said, before walking to the bar to buy a schooner of beer.

  I placed the large beer on the table opposite Mecklam. He looked at me with interest, but if he was after more information, he was
to be disappointed. I remained silent, and the lawyer tried with little success to hide his annoyance.

  ‘So?’ he asked, trying to make me keep the ball in play.

  ‘So, someone in the Smith stable thinks it’s a winner,’ I said, and took a gulp of beer.

  ‘And who might think that?’ Mecklam asked.

  ‘All I know is, Smith asked me to put a bundle on it at the track tomorrow. We both know Smith hasn’t got a cracker to his name, so someone’s gotta be putting up the dough.’

  ‘Why?’ Mecklam asked.

  I was thinking it was lucky this bloke was a corporate lawyer. These monosyllabic questions wouldn’t win too many court cases.

  ‘Well, obviously someone thinks the horse will win.’

  ‘Why?’ Mecklam repeated, beginning to sound like a three-year-old pestering his mum on a bus.

  ‘I guess he or she thinks the favourite’s a dog, and your horse can’t win from its wide barrier,’ I said.

  ‘They’re probably right about my horse and the barrier, while the favourite could be a risk. But eight other horses should still finish in front of Who Loves Yer Baby.’

  ‘You don’t think your horse can win?’ I asked, but Mecklam just shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I was thinking of backing All The Favours, myself,’ I said, trying to bait him into giving me a hint. Which he did.

  ‘Has someone been feeding you info, Hill? Who is it?’

  I was pleased to see his agitation, but I denied receiving any inside information. ‘I never listen to tips,’ I said, wishing it were true, as I would have sat there a wealthier man. ‘I’ve just studied the form and come up with your horse.’

  Mecklam thought that over. ‘I might take a few quinellas and trifectas around my horse, just for an interest,’ he said, before delivering the crucial rider. ‘But, if we were to have a go at one of my horses in the future, I would be most annoyed with anyone who backed it before us and knocked off the good price. Anybody would be annoyed at that, and start seeking justice,’ Mecklam warned.

  ‘But that won’t worry you tomorrow, Mr Mecklam, because you’re not going to have a go at All The Favours.’

  ‘It could happen on any race day,’ he said.

  It was as close to an admission as Mecklam was going to make that he intended to have a big lash on the Brisbane Handicap. My $150 bet would be peanuts compared to what he put on, but, if I could put on my stake before his crew unloaded, it might give the bookies a bit of a leg-up as to what was about to go down. It would not make me any more money, but I would be satisfied if Mecklam won a little less than he expected.

  ‘You still haven’t told me why these knuckleheads think Who Loves Yer Baby can win the race,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I lied, or admitted – take your pick. ‘They asked me to put the money on, because the bookies will take the bets less seriously coming from me. They might get more on at a decent price that way.’

  ‘What’s in it for you?’ Mecklam wanted to know.

  ‘I’m doing Bill Smith a favour, that’s all,’ I said. ‘Of course, they reckon I’m in for a good sling if it wins, but I’m not holding my breath.’

  Mecklam wanted to know where my calculations placed Who Loves Yer Baby. I said I doubted if it would run in the first six.

  ‘That’s good,’ Mecklam said. ‘I’m holding you to that.’

  I laughed but he didn’t.

  ‘You can’t hold me to that,’ I said. ‘I’m not Nostra-bloody-damus; it’s an opinion, that’s all.’

  ‘And it’s my opinion that Who Loves Yer Baby better not come in the first six.’

  ‘What do I get if it doesn’t?’ I asked, pretending to be as greedy as the man opposite me.

  ‘Continued good health,’ Mecklam said in a sinister tone.

  I gulped the last of my drink and stood up. ‘Thanks for the beer and for the hints on punting,’ I said. ‘Good luck tomorrow. I’ll let you get home now, Mr Mecklam. If you ask me though, I think you should seriously consider backing your horse for heaps. I know you’ll hate paying out the winning jockey’s and trainer’s percentages, but it’ll still be worth it.’

  He picked up on my sarcasm and scowled, only to find me keen to have another go at him.

  ‘Don’t work too hard,’ I advised. ‘Those four-hour lunches and unpaid training fees are such bastards to have hanging over your head.’

  Mecklam drew my face down towards his by crooking a finger back and forth. ‘The best you can do for yourself is to call in sick tomorrow. Tell Smith you can’t make it to the track,’ he said.

  ‘And lose the chance to watch you in action, Mr Mecklam? I wouldn’t miss that for quids.’

  ‘Stay out of my way, Hill, that’s all I ask. Is that too much to ask?’

  In normal circumstances, I would run a hundred metres to stay out of Mecklam’s way, and it would not be much to ask at all. But whether our paths would cross at Eagle Farm the next day was anybody’s guess.

  Mecklam was on his mobile blower before I could push my chair back in. I heard him tell someone where he was, listen to the reply and say he did not want to take a taxi. He told the person on the other end to bring the four-wheel-drive if they did not want to take the BMW to the pub. He was halfway through another sentence when he stopped and swore. Looked like he was in the poo with Prue after all. I congratulated myself on my good deed for the day, and whistled on my way out.

  37

  FEELING TIRED after an eventful week, I needed a blast of harder, faster music to refresh my mind. Nat had taken a recent liking to the Beat, a Fortitude Valley gay nightclub, after it had bunged on a Madonna night. Half of us being a big Madonna fan, of course we had had to go. Some hipper straights also embraced the Beat to exorcise their homophobia, and some perhaps to exercise it. The music was too ‘dancey’ for my liking, too much synth-and-drum-machine sounds. I mentioned this to Nat one night, and was unkindly labelled a rock pig.

  I have no objections to musos mucking about any way they like when they make it big, as long as they remember the basic equation: two guitarists plus one drummer equals one rock band.

  As it turned out, I had wasted my time practising my part in our Friday evening pre-gig squabble. We had tickets to the Go-Betweens’ return-to-Brissie concert at Queensland Uni. I had bought the tickets weeks earlier, and luckily My Cucumber remembered this, as well as which drawer I had put them in.

  The Go-Betweens were Brisbane’s fave indie band, who had left for London as their first port of pillage on the way to world domination. As Those Who Must Wear Black could tell you, by 1986, the Go-Bees were possibly the best alternative pop-rock band in the world, and definitely Australia’s answer to American band R.E.M.

  It turned out in the end that R.E.M. were Australia’s answer to R.E.M., but the vanquished Go-Betweens, after a warm-up gig playing to Queensland’s future potato farmers at Gatton Agricultural College, were now returning to the uni where they had started.

  I first saw the Go-Betweens at the Cloudland ballroom in Bowen Hills in 1981, a couple of months after I left the orphanage. Cloudland was an interesting place as it had opened in 1940 so it could claim to be a venue that provoked there generations of romance.

  I caught the train to Bowen Hills and climbed the steep rise to bluff my way in.

  Quirky Pommy ska band Madness headlined, supported by Melbourne outfit the Sports and the Brissie three-piece, the Go-Betweens.

  The previous year, duo Grant McLennan and Robert Forster had returned to Brisbane and formed a three-piece with drummer Lindy Morrison. The Go-Betweens had most of their engaging mix of clever lyrics, catchy melodies and edgy sounds ahead of them.

  In the taxi home, I had to admit I was a little disappointed in my first live rock concert, but it was a good adventure with skin-heads rubbing shoulders with the grungy, the cool and the unclassified, such as me.

  In the summer of ’82, Cloudland’s owner decided that he had pandered enough to the rock crowd, and tore down t
he ballroom to make way for yuppie apartments. As a teenage rock punter, living happily in a cheap flat, I was pissed off to the max. But I did little, short of screaming ‘bloody yuppies’ when I walked past the building site, where virginal-white hilltop apartments were reaching skyward to kiss God’s down-stretched hand. The Go-Betweens wrote a song about it.

  Four years later, clever lyrics, experimental musical structures, and the addition of pretty fiddler Amanda Brown could not push the Go-Betweens to the top of the alternative credibility pole. R.E.M. still teetered at the top, despite the usual sell-out jibes from hip punters as well as competition from a group of British social misfits calling themselves the Smiths.

  This poppy Britband’s outrageous lead singer and lyricist, Morrissey, voiced his poetic angst and depression at the world and his place in it, abetted by music writer Johnny Marr, who came up with some nifty arrangements. The band had a following among gays which was often a positive for an alternative pop-rock band. But I figured the core record-buying constituency for the Smiths were males in their late teens and early twenties, largely students and the unemployed, with bleak views on personal relationships, masking fears of betrayal by any inhabitants of the social world they got close to.

  I didn’t mind the Smiths myself.

  I even started to pen a tribute song to the band in that summer of 1986. I didn’t get much past the chorus, but I was pleased with that effort. It went:

  Never been laid

  Never been paid

  Morrissey save me

  It was my most productive summer of song-writing, as a warning letter from a collection company set me to writing another chorus.

  Who you gunna sue now?

  Sue now, sue now?

  Who you gunna fuckin’ sue now?

  Sue now, sue now.

  A callous disregard for writing verses stymied my burgeoning career as a lyricist. Still, My Cucumber and I knew decent street poetry when we heard it. Whatever was happening among the cool crowd, where life started with sex and ended with death and in-between consisted of a loop of the two, Nat and I still liked the Go-Betweens, circa ’86. Not because they made it big, as Those Who Knew Them Before might have hoped, and not because they failed to make it big, and in that failure evaded abuse as sell-outs from Those Who Crave the Failure of Others. We liked the Brisbane band just because.