Johnny pulled a brown rexine suitcase out from under the back seat, and flicked open the locks. He brought out a pair of thick-rimmed black glasses, attached to a large plastic nose and fake black moustache. Wonder, then amusement passed over Chooks’ face. ‘Oh, my God,’ he said, clutching his belly. ‘You’re not shooting the bloke in that get-up?’
Johnny swore through clenched teeth. He pulled his Parker Hale safari rifle from under the seat and climbed out of the car. Chooks scrambled out after him, and stood at his elbow. The street was lined with a ridge of grey trees. Behind them, flat buildings shimmered like plum-coloured fuzzy felts pressed against the sky.
Johnny said, ‘Stay here, keep the engine turning over until I get back.’ He put on his disguise and walked off a few paces.
Chooks called after him. ‘Chin up.’
Johnny grinned and saluted, waving the shotgun. Then, doubling over, he disappeared up a short garden path into the darkness.
Waiting in the Valiant half an hour later, Chooks heard the phut, phut, phut of three shots going home. His mind flashed on a picture of Chubb coming down the steps of his house and collapsing to his knees in a hail of gunfire. Lifting his head, Chooks stared out through the windscreen until he saw Johnny come blundering down the mouth of the road. Chooks’ teeth were chattering, but he managed to engage the gear. Johnny ripped off his moustache and false glasses. He fell on Chooks’ neck, crying like a baby.
Having set himself down at the Gates of Sydney Society, Charlie adroitly got to work picking its locks and slipping inside, and did so with remarkable ease. He was blessed with a certain skill in pleasing, of dropping soft words into the right person’s ear. He knew how to make merry in the right sort of company, but also how to assume the appearance of being steady, or at least of not being too impatient or rollicking, and liable to go off.
Although he was prone to an occasional pang of self-doubt about the shadier side of his arrangements, he generally crammed all such thoughts to the back of his mind, telling himself that nobody wished to employ the services of an overly honest lawyer, being afraid such a lawyer might not be so well up on other people’s tricks. As he swung his new Mustang through the gates of the Royal Randwick Racecourse, everything about him was sunny. He contemplated with great satisfaction the Rollses and Bentleys fanned out around him. Caressing his coat pocket, which contained the ticket that would see him scale the heights of the Jockey Club Committee Room (where the air was rarefied and increasingly thin), he drifted along through the crowd.
The field was swarming with odd characters. Sailors on shore leave, with batik-patterned shirts hanging out around their trousers, country yokels in moleskins and dusty Akubras, shop clerks on half-holidays, red-faced in white seersucker under Panama hats.
Charlie edged his way past a track tout in a muddy brown dustcoat, climbed the stairs of a wooden grandstand, and took a seat beside the balcony. Lifting his binoculars, he spied the grass track, with its rows of white fence posts and carefully watered flowerbeds. He caught a bright burst of silks as the horses shot out from the barrier, and went round the track to the yammer of the race call. He was swept to his feet with the long throaty roar of the crowd as the horses came thundering over the finish line, the noise shutting off suddenly to be replaced by a rustle of paper as the losers tossed up their tickets, and the winners turned back to their race forms to place their next bet.
‘Well, now you’re trying out Her Majesty’s Loyal Opposition, how do you like it?’ said Frank Browne, who had buttonholed the labor leader, Jack Renshaw, in a shady corner of the grandstand.
‘We’re getting along,’ said Renshaw. ‘Enough to give Askin a run for his money. And you, are you also feeling happy with the Premier’s performance?’
‘I should say I’m delighted,’ said Browne, grinning wide. ‘The main thing is that he lets us small business folk get on with our stuff, and he can bring out the vote in sufficient quantity to keep you other fellows out.’
Renshaw spoke on with perfect coolness. ‘I warrant he’s full of cheap tricks and windy words, but it seems that his only real achievement will be making it through to the end of his term without accomplishing a thing.’
‘Ah, yes, but a period of quiet consolidation can be a thing in itself.’
Renshaw scowled. ‘Well, I’m glad you reckon you got your money’s worth then, but don’t be so confident he can go on like he does. Nobody gets re-elected for doing nothing. I reckon you’ll find Joe Public sees through him. Who’s he?’ Renshaw added, pointing at Charlie.
‘He’s one of those tricky lawyers. Makes a fortune sorting out messes for the rich and the infamous,’ said Browne, stretching the truth.
‘Never heard of him,’ said Renshaw.
‘Well, if you haven’t already, I reckon you soon will. I wouldn’t be surprised if he stands for a seat on Bob Askin’s ticket next time around. He’s a smart sort of fellow, knows how to cock his tail and crow before company. I wouldn’t be surprised if he makes a name for himself.’
‘One of Askin’s mob,’ said Renshaw, disdainful. Rising, he moved off through the crowd.
Premier Askin came puffing up the stairs a few moments later. He hadn’t been anywhere near the Committee Room all morning and as he walked in, the local dignitaries started primping themselves, edging their way towards the action. Charlie waited several minutes for the motley assembly to thin before moving forward. Askin, who fancied himself a great tipster, was discussing the finer points of Frank Packer’s horse, and Charlie, who’d been loudly proclaiming the merits of a rival grey mare, found himself singled out.
‘You again!’ said Askin, pointing a finger, before turning back to the crowd. ‘Last week, Charlie here gives me a lead-lined ten-stone ten-pound handicap at twenty to one. I really thought the bloke must of been having a lend of me … then whoosh! In it comes, charging down the straight on two-and-a-half lengths.’
Charlie basked modestly in the glow of Askin’s favour. He ventured another tip. But Askin cut him off.
‘I wasn’t asking for any suggestions. I guarantee you were lucky that time, but this race I’m onto a sure-fire proposition. Leastways, Frank Packer is a sure-fire proposition even if his old gelding falls in a heap.’
Everybody tittered dutifully, if a little uncomfortably. Packer was standing some distance not too far off. But Askin, who already had a couple of whisky-and-waters inside him, was too high to notice.
‘Well, here’s my own rival, Jack Renshaw,’ he said, turning around sharply, and beckoning Renshaw towards him. ‘Why don’t you ask him about Frank Packer’s chances?’
‘What? I’m sorry –’ said Renshaw, taken aback.
‘There you go, Charlie,’ said Askin, with a wink. ‘You heard the man. I don’t think we could find any greater authority on the subject of horseflesh than Renshaw. I guess that means you’ll be putting your money where my mouth is.’
‘Of course,’ said Charlie, sketching a comical bow.
‘Spoken like a true minister of the Crown!’ said Askin, making everybody laugh. ‘With opinions like those you’re a guaranteed high flyer in anybody’s Cabinet.’ Giving Renshaw a nudge, he added, ‘See, that’s how you pull them into line,’ before swinging round on his heel and lumbering back down the stairs.
Charlie left soon afterwards, striking out across the paddock, craning his neck for a sight of Dick Reilly, who was meeting him under the clock tower as the hands swept towards one. Reilly was all got up in his gangster togs, comprising a body-clinching suit with a shiny silver tie. He was lifting his fedora to an awkward assortment of customers, most of them track touts or bookmakers who probably worked under his auspices. Greeting each other, Charlie and Reilly proceeded in the direction of the saddling enclosure, where Askin was copping an eyeful of the horses.
Inside the walking ring, trainers and grooms, dressed in crushed caps and corduroys, were moseying about, waxing loudly about their chances, swatting at stray swarms of blowflies. The scent of ma
nure lay heavily on the air. Askin was standing alongside a nut-coloured gelding. A groom threw a saddle and number-cloth over its back, the strapper hanging hard on both reins, as the horse ground ferociously against the bit and pawed at the dirt. Askin turned just as the gelding threw its head in the air, whinnying, and knocked off his hat. Leaning on a nearby fence post, Reilly let out a laugh, and Askin, edging away from the gelding, made a few steps towards him.
‘Charlie here says we’ve got something to talk about,’ said Askin, taking Reilly by the elbow and pulling him along.
‘Just a few problems with some betting establishments in which I have an interest,’ said Reilly, treading carefully.
‘So Charlie says. In fact, Charlie’s told me you’re a bit of a bastard. But I reckon maybe you’re not such a bad bloke.’
‘Kind of you to say that,’ said Reilly with a grin.
Askin swatted a bluebottle off his face. ‘I used to run SP myself, back in my army days. Kept book for the whole mucking battalion, out in the Pacific, with the Japs raging round us. Only bit of fun we ever had, it was. Rigging up the radio, relaying the racecall over the broadcast. Being an enterprising sort of bloke, I made a few bucks and a couple of killings. I had the foresight to slip the quartermaster a pony, so when they shipped in the newsreel on Cup Day, I’d get myself a sneak preview before framing the odds.’
‘Fair dinkum?’ said Reilly, thoroughly disarmed by this confession.
Askin executed a funny little vaudeville step. ‘Mind, I’m only spinning you a yarn,’ he said, and slapped Reilly on the shoulder.
Then, turning abruptly, Askin set off across the grass, so Reilly and Charlie were hard-pressed to keep up. He came to a halt outside the Steward’s Room, standing by the door, as jockeys in bright-coloured silks, like bunches of tropical birds, entered and exited, lugging their saddles back and forth to the weigh-in.
Charlie, thinking it only prudent to give them the room to say what they would, tipped his hat and departed. Stepping out from the shade of the grandstands, he immediately felt the heat. Sunlight blinded him momentarily as he vaulted over the white picket railing and walked across the grass, where he was struck by the sight of Reilly’s moll, Aileen Glynn, ambling along a small patch of concrete to the end of the green. Aileen smiled at him warmly, advancing upon him with the light dripping through the daisy cut-outs in the brim of her hat. Charlie beamed back recognition, and they immediately fell to talking. After a while, Reilly also stepped out of the crowd, moving towards them.
‘Not now, Dick,’ Aileen said, grabbing Charlie by the sleeve of his coat. ‘Charlie’s offered to take me home and I’ve told him I’m going.’
Charlie, who had done no such thing, perceived he had landed himself in the middle of something. ‘I’m afraid I won’t be leaving for quite some time,’ he said. ‘Maybe I could fetch you a taxi?’
Reilly intervened. ‘Thanks, Charlie,’ he said, grabbing his hand. ‘I really appreciate the thing that you’ve done. But right now I’d be grateful if you could leave us alone?’
Charlie made to leave. But Aileen stopped him.
‘He’s not going.’
Reilly flushed under his shirt collar. ‘What do you reckon you’re up to? Think you can play me like one of them mugs?’
‘I’m leaving you,’ said Aileen.
‘Not again?’ said Reilly, contriving astonishment.
‘I am, though,’ insisted Aileen, with a little more conviction. ‘Do you reckon I wouldn’t dare?’
Reilly laughed, and Aileen burst into tears. Charlie, who wasn’t terribly anxious to have a run-in with anybody, stammered, ‘Well, I guess I’ll be off then.’
He vaulted back over the railing, traversing the lawn until he was free. It was after the sixth race and the crowd was shaking out. Some with money wads bulging out of their trousers, others raking through piles of used betting slips, searching for the illusory ticket that might set them straight. Charlie made his way back towards the home stretch, the finish line, and the winner’s circle. Just off from the track, a band started up, with sun glittering on cymbals and batons. Askin was standing on a small stage covered in red and white bunting, pinning a tri-colour medal on Frank Packer’s chest, before shaking hands with the jockey and congratulating the horse.
Many thoughts passed through Charlie’s mind about the day’s dealings. Things once puzzling to him in political life presented themselves differently now that he had opened his eyes to the way the world worked. Now that Reilly’s matter had been favourably resolved, his mind began branching in all sorts of directions. Imagining how he, Charlie Gillespie, a boy from the slums, a connoisseur of urban blight, might at last take his place in one of the shiny glass skyscrapers that housed the affluent class. With this in mind, Charlie immediately began roaming the crowd, striving to find yet another five minutes of Premier Bob Askin’s company.
Reilly stuck Aileen in a taxi and made his way into town, absurdly conscious of an easy sort of confident calm he’d not felt in years. Strange how only last week he’d felt like he’d run out of dodges, as if the uncharted possibilities of his future were narrowing round him, but now it seemed Askin’s Macquarie Street mob were prepared to do business. He could rebuild his company, penny by penny, sling by sling. He could afford to wait, could afford to bide his time. He was surprised to find himself grinning, and everything he saw, the angles of the buildings, the way their shadows fell simply and plausibly, without any distortion, blended into a happy impression of a world smiling back.
Reilly drove on, through a suburban twilight of orderly houses set back from the road, fronted by patches of green motor-mowed grass, untouched by litter. His thoughts turned to his wife Lyla. He and Lyla, they’d been so damn young when they started. Reilly had always thought that if any marriage could survive the stresses of a criminal career, it should have been theirs. But he was always in the clubs and the bars, and the smoky backrooms, spending more time on making deals with the coppers than on the two of them together. Lyla was gone, and Reilly had to acknowledge it was pretty much his fault. His thoughts turned to Aileen, and suddenly the possibility of losing her stung him so hard he could barely breathe. Consumed by a sudden eagerness to set things to rights, it seemed forever down the length of black-glittering asphalt to Aileen’s Double Bay flat.
But there were other shadows gathering on the horizon. Had Reilly been less distracted he might have noticed the powder-blue Valiant that had been following him about for the last couple of days. He might also have remembered that he hadn’t heard a word from Ernie Chubb. But he was absentminded in his haste, not thinking what he ought to be thinking, and amazed and not a little afraid of the good things that lay ahead. He swung his Maserati into Aileen’s Manning Road driveway, and turned off the ignition. His legs carried him up the front steps, lined two by two with glazed pots of japonica, into the bright white oblivion of the warm room inside.
Chooks had been yanked rudely from sleep earlier that morning by the peal of the telephone. He turned to see if Marge was awake, then threw off his blanket, groped underneath the bed for his tartan felt slippers and – not finding them – padded to the end of the hall, where he stared down at the telephone in a palsy of anxiety. Last week, Johnny had got an electrician from the PMG to come round and put the thing in, so he could ring and tell Chooks when it was time to come over. Consequently, whenever it rang, it scared Chooks to pieces.
Chooks picked up. ‘Hello?’
‘Pipe down, for Pete’s sake,’ said Johnny at the other end of the line. ‘I can hear you as good as if I was standing there next to you.’
‘Right-ho,’ said Chooks, continuing in the same tone. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve got a good feeling that we’re on for tonight. I want you to come round to Enmore as early as possible.’
Out of the corner of his eye Chooks caught the soft flash of Marge’s blue dressing gown and cranked up his voice to make sure she could hear him. ‘That’s real good news, Johnny.
I reckon I can get there as early as half past two.’
Johnny said, ‘Is anything wrong?’
‘Nooo.’
‘It’s Marge, is it?’
Chooks stammered, ‘Okay then. Thanks, Johnny. Cheerio. See you then,’ and hung up.
‘Who was it?’ said Marge, standing in the kitchen doorway. ‘Was that Johnny Warren?’
Chooks looked up at the flies gathered in the bowl of the light fitting, down at the stain on the rag cotton mat, at anything, because he couldn’t look her in the face. Then he did. ‘He’s asked me to help him drive a load of used washing machines up to Newcastle tonight.’
‘Well, I guess that’s all right then,’ said Marge.
Chooks didn’t think so.
Over in Enmore, Glory had been up since well before dawn, making ingenious masks out of black nylon leotards, cutting holes for eyes, and fitting the tops snugly over the crown of Johnny’s head. She had cleaned his rubber-soled shoes, mended his black socks, washed, ironed and folded three sets of black turtlenecks and trousers. They were simple things, ordinary everyday tasks. Glory performed them all in a daze, never once believing in the reality of their intentions. And once these chores were accomplished, and there were no more preparations to be made, she turned her mind to other things. The week’s worth of washing, the chops in the freezer for tomorrow night’s tea, the darning around the hemline of Kimberley’s reach-me-down uniform (next week the holidays were over and Kimberley would be back at school)… all these thoughts, each worrying little detail growing more pressing, more intense, until they threatened to crush her completely. Ultimately, she was relieved to hear the doorbell echoing down the hall. She threw open the front door and found Chooks on the doorstep.
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