Fat, Fifty & F<li><li><li>ed!

by Geoffrey McGeachin

  Jesse looked offended. ‘Give the wrinklies a break, darlin’, they like the classics.’ He nudged Martin and lowered his voice. ‘And she’ll be watching with a hand up her frock, I’ll bet.’

  ‘I heard that, you prick!’

  ‘Love you too, babe,’ the president called.

  As they walked down the corridor, Martin glanced through the doors of several rooms. Each one opened onto a sunny courtyard and had a TV, telephone and en suite. They were individually furnished and there were photographs and other personal mementoes on display.

  Jesse stopped at one room where an elderly man was resting on the bed. He knocked gently on the open door. ‘You feeling okay there, Mr Campbell?’ he asked from the doorway.

  The old man smiled. ‘I’m fine, thank you, Mr James. Just a post-afternoon-tea nap. I think I rather overdid it on the lamingtons.’

  ‘I can get Doris to pop in for a sec if you like,’ Jesse suggested. ‘Not that she’d do your ticker much good.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Mr James. I’ll see you at dinner.’

  ‘Looks more like a holiday resort than a nursing home,’ Martin observed as they continued on.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Jesse said. ‘We should have won Facility of the Year in the last annual nursing-home awards, but the government regulators like to pretend we don’t exist.’

  ‘The bikie thing?’ Martin asked.

  ‘Also our attitude to sex,’ Jesse said. ‘If the oldies want to shack up together or have the odd grope, it’s none of our concern. Long as everyone’s got all their marbles, they’re both into it, and they keep the bloody doors closed so’s not to frighten the horses.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Martin laughed. ‘Faith’s old man seems pretty popular.’

  ‘We’ve got ten sheilas for every bloke, like most of these places. Believe me, anyone with an X-chromosome and a pulse is popular. But, yeah, Wal’s a great old bloke.’

  They turned into a large sunny room with full-length windows along one wall. ‘This is the main recreation room,’ Jesse explained.

  Martin was expecting basket-weaving or knitting. In the middle of the room was a partially dismantled motorcycle. A leather-clad man with no teeth was demonstrating how to strip and clean the carburettor to an enthralled audience.

  ‘When we took over, about half our guests were yanked out by their families,’ Jesse went on. ‘Six months later, they were begging us to let ’em come back. Crocheting or carbie-cleaning, we figure it’s all stimulating activity.’ He knelt down beside an elderly woman who was holding a can of WD40. ‘Keep an eagle eye on him when he gaps those plugs, Clarissa,’ he said. ‘And don’t forget to do up your helmet this time.’

  Clarissa chuckled. ‘Don’t worry, Pres, I’ve learned my lesson.’

  Jesse laughed as they continued on. ‘The ones with reasonable tickers get to go on test drives after the tune-ups. That’s the bit they really like. Costs us a bloody fortune in incontinence pads, but.’

  In a clinically clean and brightly lit kitchen, staff were hard at work preparing dinner. Meals for the nursing-home patients were being loaded into mobile warming cabinets for delivery to their rooms. Martin tried to guess how many nationalities might be represented in this kitchen but gave up. The only common denominators were the spotless uniforms and the smiles.

  ‘This is where we keep our boat people,’ Jesse said as he walked through the door. He picked up a pot and began banging it on a bench, yelling, ‘Immigration! Immigration! Raid! Raid!’

  The staff ignored him, except for someone who threw a bread roll.

  ‘This is Mr Tran.’ Jesse indicated an elderly man in a chef’s toque. ‘Bogroll over there runs the kitchen, but Mr Tran keeps the menu interesting and makes sure Bogroll washes his hands at least once a week. That’s why we let him wear the big hat.’

  Bogroll, a scrawny figure in grubby jeans and a clean white jacket, was stirring a large pot. ‘Fuck you, Headjob,’ he said sweetly.

  ‘Mr Tran taught philosophy in Saigon and drove buses in Sydney,’ Jesse said. ‘Figure that one out. We’re looking after his wife, she’s a bit ga-ga. Hell of a good cook for a uni professor, our Mr Tran. Learned off his mum as a kid in the old country. Started using the kitchen to make special dishes from home to cheer up the wife, and next thing everyone’s demanding a plateful. Your Vietnamese here can cook French, Asian – of which Vietnamese is the most healthy – and Australian, if you explain it to them slowly. Right, Mr Tran?’

  Mr Tran smiled politely. ‘Fuck you, Headjob.’

  ‘Plus they know their place.’ Jesse laughed as he put his arm around the older man’s shoulder. ‘Mr Tran’s daughter June is our on-call medico. She’s got a clinic in town. Great doc, we’re bloody lucky to have her. Good-looking too. Bear goes to see her when he dislocates his shoulder. Used to just pop it back in all by himself before he met our June. Now he’s suddenly a great big wuss who needs his hand held. It’s really quite pathetic. I’m starting to think he keeps falling off his bike on purpose.’

  Jesse picked up a ladle and had a taste from the large pot Bogroll was stirring. ‘Mmm, pot-au-feu. Not too bad, Bogroll. Your stock is getting to be as good as Mr Tran’s.’ He glanced into the pot again. ‘Not as crystal clear, though. Must try harder.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘You and the sheila should have dinner with us. We’re fully licensed, got a cellar full of Grange, and nobody cares if you dribble. And if you need your food cut up, you’ll be in the majority. But mostly that’s just my boys.’

  twelve

  The community of Bowser was 300 kilometres as the crow flies from just about anywhere. The crows didn’t fly to Bowser, though – they had more sense. At the side door of Clancey’s Country Carvery, a man in grease-spattered chef’s whites leaned against the wall and dragged deeply on his cigarette. Thank God the lunchtime shift was over – that fecken kitchen was like an oven. His eyes swept the flat, treeless landscape. Why the hell would people choose to live out here? he wondered. Why was he here? Well, that was pretty obvious – he’d drunk his way out of jobs in some of the better restaurants in Dublin, so he had no-one to blame but himself.

  The town was tiny, only about a dozen houses, and the restaurant was its main activity, along with the pub and the wheat silo. A lot of the customers were regulars, but he couldn’t figure out where they all came from. Not that he really cared.

  He saw the car as a speck in the distance and watched as it drew closer. Drive past, you bastard, drive past. The vehicle slowed and then turned into the driveway. The cook ground out his cigarette on the doorpost. Arsehole, he said to himself.

  There was a clearly marked disabled parking space outside the main entrance and the black Commodore drove straight in. Smith stepped out and carefully removed his suit jacket from the rear seat. He noticed an elderly woman staring disapprovingly at him and he turned slightly to make sure his holstered pistol was visible. She quickly looked away. He slipped the jacket on and adjusted his shirt cuffs.

  The restaurant was almost empty and Smith chose a table where he had his back to the wall and could watch the entrance and keep an eye on his car at the same time. The waitress, a pretty girl of about sixteen, smiled at him. He ignored her and the offered menu and ordered a steak sandwich, medium, with the works, and a glass of water. Then he got up from the table and walked to the men’s toilet. Inside he checked all the empty stalls before methodically washing and drying his hands. Using a tissue from his pocket, he avoided touching the door handle with his bare skin on the way out.

  He had just sat down when the waitress brought his water, and some cutlery rolled up in a paper napkin. He took out the knife and fork and inspected them, then polished both implements with the napkin. Satisfied, he flipped his mobile phone open and punched in a number. He was answered immediately.

  ‘It’s Smith,’ he said, ‘put me through.’

  A gruff voice came on the line. ‘What’s going on, Albris?’

  ‘It’s not him, sir,�
� Smith said.

  ‘Well, that’s good news,’ the voice said. ‘You certain?’

  There was a loud scream from near the entrance. Smith looked up. Two young boys, aged about three and five, were fighting over possession of a coin-operated amusement ride in the shape of a vintage steam locomotive. An exasperated mother was trying to get the older boy to climb down. She gave up and put another coin in the slot. The machine began shaking and tooting and the smaller child started to cry.

  Smith turned his attention back to the phone. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, ‘the natives are restless. Local forensic bods want to do DNA, but I know it’s definitely not him, so we’re still in play.’

  The waitress placed a large white plate in front of him. The steak sandwich was huge, and surrounded on three sides by chips. He looked up at her. ‘What are these?’ he asked.

  ‘Chips,’ the girl said.

  ‘Did I ask for chips?’

  The girl shrugged. ‘It comes with chips.’

  Smith shook his head and carefully pushed the chips off his plate onto the table with his fork. He carried on with his phone call. ‘A big chunk of his bicep got chopped off on impact and thrown clear before the fire took hold. The only bit of him that wasn’t burnt to a crisp.’ He looked at the girl again. She turned pale and walked away.

  ‘Tomato sauce!’ he called after her. Then, ‘No, I’m in a restaurant. Late lunch. Autopsies always give me an appetite.’

  The waitress grabbed a red plastic squeeze bottle from a nearby table, plonked it in front of Smith and hurried off as he continued his conversation. ‘The arm belonged to someone who was heavily suntanned and hadn’t washed for about a week. Plus there was a tattoo. Amateur job, prison design, almost certainly done in the slammer. Doesn’t really fit our man’s profile.’

  He listened to the gruff voice on the other end of the phone and nodded. ‘Sounds good,’ he agreed. ‘But we don’t know what to look for. I didn’t think he’d have the smarts to pull off a switch like that. He might have changed his appearance, for all we know.’

  Smith took the top slice of bread off his sandwich and squirted sauce over the steak as he listened.

  ‘Well, I still think the weak link is that local copper,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the landlines and all mobiles covered. If there’s any attempt to make contact, we can pinpoint him.’

  He took a small, careful bite out of the corner of the sandwich and nodded in response to the voice on the phone. ‘I’m almost positive that’s where he’s headed,’ Smith said. ‘Nothing else makes sense in his situation, and the cop knew more than he was saying. So we just keep an eye on all roads heading up towards Cooktown.’

  He ate as he listened, chewing slowly and deliberately. ‘I understand that,’ he said. ‘Kid gloves. He’ll never even know we’re on to him. Total discretion. You can rely on me, sir, one hundred per cent.’

  He closed the phone and finished his sandwich, then walked to the till to pay. The waitress didn’t bother smiling this time. Smith counted his change and didn’t leave a tip.

  Near the door, the two young boys were still fighting over the mechanical ride. Smith smiled at the mother, who was having coffee and cake with a friend at a nearby table. She smiled back. She could see it was an expensive suit. You didn’t get too many well-groomed and stylishly dressed men in this town, even if he was a little old for her. He went across to the ride, smiled at the boys, leaned over and whispered in the ear of the older one. The boy obediently climbed down and walked quietly over to his mother with a serious look on his face. Beaming excitedly, the younger child scrambled into the cab of the locomotive. Smith put a coin into the machine and the ride started. The boy was ecstatic.

  The woman gave the man a friendly look. ‘You must have kids,’ she said.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly got a way with my boy. Jarrod here usually won’t listen to anybody.’

  ‘It’s all in the way you explain the situation to them,’ Smith said, and walked out the door.

  The woman turned to her son. ‘And what did the nice man say to you?’ she asked.

  Jarrod was very pale and when he spoke it was almost in a whisper. ‘He said if I didn’t give my little brother a turn, he’d rip my fucking heart out.’

  thirteen

  The Eldorado Motel was located behind a large service station, just a short walk down the highway from Ocean View. The motel, abandoned for years, had been bought by the bikies along with the service station. They ran the latter as a business and also used it to work on their motorcycles. The motel’s ’60s façade and rooms had been restored, and a neon sign flashed: ELDORADO MOTEL. NO VACANCIES. BUGGER OFF!

  Martin and Faith were given adjoining rooms, which were reserved, according to Jesse, for ‘dignitaries, honoured guests, or anyone looking for a quiet spot for a quick shag’. Martin was wary after the president offered to phone ahead and have them burn the old bedding and throw a few flea bombs in, but the rooms were spotless and well furnished.

  Dinner was at six, and after a shower and shave, Martin knocked on the connecting door. Faith was wearing a long white terry-towelling bathrobe, and her damp hair hung loosely around her shoulders. Martin whistled. She pulled the front of the robe tight up to her neck and smiled.

  ‘It came with the room,’ she said. ‘It’s Christian Dior. For a motorcycle gang, these guys have great taste.’

  She asked for ten more minutes. Martin was waiting outside when Jesse ambled up.

  ‘Sorry about eating so early, but we can’t break the oldies of the habit.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘Nice to see the Indian’s still in good shape. She was almost cherry when Raymond nicked her. Full military specs and an OD paint job.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Martin asked.

  ‘Olive Drab, Yank military colour. Not quite khaki and not jungle-green.’

  ‘So Harleys aren’t compulsory then?’

  ‘The heavy guys reckon if it’s not a Harley, it’s a postman’s bike.’

  ‘And you guys aren’t heavy?’ Martin asked

  Jesse took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘We have our standards, but we aren’t your full-on psycho outlaw motorcycle gang. We probably slot in somewhere between the Hell’s Angels and the Double Bay Mid-Life Crisis Motorcycle Club.’

  ‘So how did you get into this?’ Martin asked. ‘Ever done anything else?’

  Jesse leaned against the sidecar of the Indian. ‘Ran away with the circus when I was fifteen. Well, carnival anyway. Drifted for a while. Brickie, builder’s labourer, bit of scaffolding work when I needed to earn a crust. Brother who’s a corporate banker and boring as batshit, and a flaky sister who works in advertising in the big smoke. Peter Jesse James, this is your life.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Martin said. ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’

  ‘That’s not prying, mate,’ Jesse said, ‘that’s conversation. In our world, prying’s when two blokes hold your arms and a third hits you in the guts with a pick handle till you tell him what he wants to hear.’

  Faith stepped out of her room and Martin’s heart jumped at the sight of her.

  ‘Sorry we haven’t changed for dinner, but we’re travelling a bit light,’ she said.

  Jesse ground his cigarette out under his boot. ‘A million in cash and a change of socks and underdaks. Works for me.’

  ‘Not all that in touch with your feminine side then?’ Faith said.

  ‘Wouldn’t say that, love. The socks and undies always match,’ he grinned. ‘But tell you what, a couple of our sheilas own the surf shop in town. You could get Martin to buy you a nice frock tomorrow. They’re more than happy to accept cash.’

  ‘I’m up for it,’ Martin said. ‘We’ll pop in after breakfast and you can knock yourself out.’

  ‘Just how did I get to be such a lucky girl?’ Faith asked, linking arms with the two men. ‘Let’s eat, boys, I’m famished.’

  *

  Like everything else at Ocean View, the communal dining room for
the retirement-village residents was not quite as Martin expected. The menu was à la carte, served by the bikies on a roster system, or the residents could line up at a large barbecue where Bogroll was cooking steaks and seafood to order under the watchful eye of Mr Tran. Faith was already seated, deep in conversation with Wal, so Martin joined Jesse among the zimmer-frames in the barbecue line. There were about equal numbers of residents and bikies in the room, and Martin noticed how gentle and patient the bikies were with the older people. He watched as a huge tattooed Maori pulled out a flick-knife and carefully carved up a char-grilled pork chop for a blue-haired lady in a pink cardigan.

  ‘A lot of these old buggers can demolish a mixed grill like there’s no tomorrow,’ Jesse said, ‘which in some cases is actually true. But statistically, our meat-eaters stay out of the nursing home longer.’

  ‘Better for you than creamed spinach, I guess,’ Martin said as he ordered a porterhouse, rare, with salad.

  Jesse ordered a medium T-bone with chips and more chips. And a side order of chips.

  Martin thought for a moment, then added chips to his order. He glanced around the packed dining room. ‘This is amazing,’ he said.

  ‘Saturday nights are formal,’ Jesse said. ‘The boys put their teeth in. Sometimes it’s a fresh seafood buffet, and we usually have a few of them rising up out of their wheelchairs. It’s like a miracle, my son, the miracle of the prawns.’

  He took a handful of chips from the plate of a passing bikie, who snarled at him in mock anger. ‘You don’t want to stand between some of them and the oyster bar. Especially not bloody Wal.’

  ‘I don’t see how this place makes any money,’ Martin said as they collected their huge meals and headed back to the table.

  ‘Well, we do have a lot of volunteer labour,’ Jesse said, ‘plus several alternative income streams, though we’re now restricting our activities to aged care, retail, and the income from our stock portfolio and real-estate investments.’ He gave Martin a sly look. ‘You could say that in the early days we were subsidised in part by a grateful and very wide-awake long-distance trucking industry.’