‘Hope ya don’t mind,’ Lonnie said, ‘I’ve booked ya for tonight.’
‘Doing what?’
Lonnie motioned towards the two littlies.
‘Frank, Tony, get lost.’ Carlo clicked his fingers at the pair who these days were more easily dispatched.
When they were out of earshot, Lonnie explained.
‘Tilly’s in deep. The bailiffs are after her.’
‘What’re we gonna do?’
‘A moonlight.’
‘Where to?’
‘Blackburn. All’s fine, mate. I only need a bit of muscle from you to help load up. I’m calling in a favour from another mate to do the driving.’
Without hesitation, Carlo agreed. ‘No worries. Tilly’s a good soul. I just gotta finish this wheel first.’ He beamed fondly. ‘Word’s around you been in a bit of mischief. Gonna show me the scars?’
Lonnie displayed the gashes on his arm and indicated the lump on his head. ‘Can’t keep anything a secret around here for long.’ Still, he was grateful for a bit of sympathy at last.
‘Nasty. But I’m glad you did what you did. Someone’s gotta do something about those mongrels. So, any news to top that?’
‘Pearl’s onto a race fix.’ Lonnie retold the story.
‘Lightning’s just about unbeatable. Someone knows something we don’t. What I wanna know is which horses are running against him.’
‘How do you expect to find that out? If it’s illegal, they’re not gonna publish the info in the Argus.’
‘Bookie Win will be running a book.’
Carlo stood back for a few seconds admiring his wheel-fixing skills. ‘Well, mate, I reckon we should pay him a visit. I’m done here.’ He offered Lonnie a note of caution. ‘D’ya reckon you should take Pearl’s word? She twitters on a bit. You know as well as me what happens when she starts on one of her schemes. Spells trouble with a capital P.’ He counted them off on his fingers, ‘Punch-ups, pranks, pain, past experience …’ He rubbed his behind. ‘Never harmless, mate. I’ll remember that blooming goldfish till the day I die. My arse was so sore I couldn’t sit down for a week.’
Lonnie realised too late he had stepped right into a retelling of what had become known to them all as the Blooming Goldfish story. Carlo could never quite forgive Pearl for the times he’d been given a hiding over one of her hare-brained schemes. All the aggravation came about when Pearl convinced Carlo they should get one of the goldfish on offer from the rag-and-bone man, who was trading fish for rags or scrap metal.
‘Only I got nothing to trade.’
Those appealing puppy eyes of Pearl’s, the undoing of many a lad, fired up. ‘Bet you have Carlo. Things your mamma won’t miss. Or are you gonna be a scaredy-dare?’
Before Carlo had cottoned on about life, the threat to his manhood always seemed to work in Pearl’s favour. Having been so cunningly and willingly in this case, tricked, he could only find an old woollen coat of his poppa’s. One with torn elbows and frayed cuffs that smelt of olives and tobacco. A coat the littlies loved to bury their heads in.
‘Poppa never wears it anymore,’ Carlo said uncertainly, for didn’t Mamma always get round to cutting old clothes down a size or two and passing them on?
Pearl grabbed the coat, ordered him to find a jam jar, bounded outside and swapped Poppa’s jacket for a goldfish before Carlo had a chance to change his mind.
He had to admit he admired the trade. That is until Poppa Benetti came across them. ‘What’s that you gotta there?’
‘A goldfish we’ve just traded,’ Pearl said. ‘Isn’t it a beauty?’
‘So you make a trade?’ Poppa Benetti was amiable enough at first, noting his eldest son’s business prowess. ‘What you trade?’
Pearl burst in. ‘Only an old brown coat.’
Carlo gave her a swift kick in the shin to shut her up. She shot him a glare. The exchange didn’t go unnoticed by his poppa who eyed them suspiciously.
‘From where you getta the coat?’
‘We swapped the old one you never wear anymore.’ Carlo knew Pearl’s loose tongue had landed him
in trouble big time. He gave her another kick. ‘We need to find a bigger jar, Poppa, this one’s too small.’ Mr Benetti was no fool. ‘Never mind look for big jar, swappa the fish back for my coat.’
‘But you never wear it, Poppa.’
‘Now!’
Carlo dragged Pearl off, the order sounding alarm bells in his ears. But Pearl was set on keeping the goldfish. ‘Let’s pretend we dropped it and it died. Can’t swap it back then, can we?’ Pearl had already made up her mind. All they had to do was stay out of sight for a short while, then return with their story. Surely Poppa would understand how this unfortunate accident had left them with no chance of retrieving the coat.
Her entreaties gave Carlo no choice but to let Pearl take home the fish and lie to his poppa. Pearl hadn’t reckoned on Carlo finishing up with a belt across his rear end; Poppa explaining he wasn’t thrashing his son over the loss of the coat, but over the lie. Unfortunately for Carlo, Poppa had watched the rag-and-bone man leave in one direction, while Pearl went the opposite way carefully carrying the fish.
Poppa Benetti was not a hard man. But he was a good Catholic and just to prove it, he tied saintly leather scapulars around each family member’s neck at birth as a badge of their devotion, made them recite the rosary together every evening – ten Hail Marys being the solution to all life’s problems – and would not tolerate, above all things, falsehoods or heathens. The exception was their Syrian neighbour, Moon, who he conceded was kind-hearted by nature and thus was excused; although Mamma prayed late into the night that Moon would one day convert. Faith, like prayer and punishment, was a potent tonic.
So Carlo received a hiding. Within a week, as a kind of divine retribution, conclusively proving Poppa Benetti’s point, the goldfish died.
Carlo could have cited a dozen more mad notions with a capital P as to why he vowed never to be caught up with Pearl’s schemes again. Like the time she persuaded them to stow away on a ship heading to Williamstown, but in the nick of time they overheard the bosun say the ship was heading out over the Tasman and on to the old country. But he rested his case on the Blooming Goldfish story, finishing off with, ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
Lonnie had no comeback. He could only laugh.
‘’Bout time you let bygones be bygones, mate.’
COINS AND A TOKEN
Item Nos. 647, 648, 649 & 650
Various coins. A shilling, a threepenny piece, a Chinese coin most likely used as a gaming chip, and a token halfpenny from Professor Holloways’ ointments and pill company, dated 1860.
After a speedy detour to set up Auntie Tilly’s moonlight flit with their driver mate, the two lads were soon strolling through the back lanes towards Bookie Win’s. The narrow stretch in Little Bourke Street, known as Chinatown, was crammed with furniture marts that were stacked to the ceiling with assorted bamboo baskets and wholesale grocers selling dried bird carcasses, pungent spices and incense. Behind these facades, hidden in a maze of rooms, were the private clubhouses, temples and homes of the local Chinese people.
The boys stopped briefly at a shopfront loaded with crates of swollen, spiky fruit. They picked out a penn’orth, peeled them down to the size of a grape and enjoyed the burst of milky liquid from each bite.
‘Can’t resist ’em, mate,’ Lonnie said appreciatively. At the doorway of a cabinetmaker’s they grinned down at some young children who were crouched like small Buddhas on the front step and yammering ten to the dozen in their singsong language. They passed through the joinery with all its dark lacquered furniture, down a back hallway lined with paper
lanterns and into Bookie Win’s betting shop.
Like most of the locals, his family had come out to the gold diggings. More lately they’d been running an enterprising business of wholesale and supply, with gambling on the side. Bookie’s real name of Li Ha Win had been put out of use
by this current trade.
Lonnie tipped his cap at a group of men who were drawing cards and flourishing counters. These men, dressed in long blue smocks and wearing hats like upturned bowls over their pigtails, didn’t seem to be feeling the pinch of hard times. As they jigged their heads back in friendly greeting, they continued piling up the ante, throwing threepences, sixpences and even shillings into the centre of the table.
Bookie Win bowed. ‘You want make bet today, Lonnee?’
‘Only information, Bookie.’ He lowered his voice.
‘In private, if you don’t mind.’
Bookie led them to a secluded room where the tables were shut down for the day. ‘Business slow,’ he said with a shrug.
As Lonnie expected, Bookie was well aware of the illegal race.
‘How you find out?’ he asked. After all, it was supposed to be a secret. The fewer in, the easier to safeguard them all. ‘Don’t want make trouble.’
Lonnie reassured him. ‘Nor do we, mate.’
Bookie knew the boys well enough to take them at their word. He listened intently as Lonnie broke the rumour about the jockey on the favourite, Lightning, deliberately set to lose the race.
As the bookmaker for the event, Bookie showed great concern. Depending on the amount of money wagered, he could lose heavily. There were too many signs the Melbourne slump would not turn around for a long time. Look at his betting shop, affected already. Further problems could spell the end of his business. ‘Maybe we help each other,’ he suggested.
Bookie told them what he knew. No jockey had yet been named to ride Lightning and money had been mysteriously staked on another horse in the race: Trident. ‘Put on by Crick men. You hear anything from Golden Acre?’
Lonnie shook his head. He tried to make sense of the facts so far. The Cricks were running two of their horses in the race, both Lightning and Trident. If Lightning was the favourite, why wasn’t Thomas Crick down to ride him the way he always did? He had definitely heard Pearl right when she told him Lightning was going to lose. Now here was Bookie telling him Trident was being backed to win. He bet his life the Cricks were behind this fix.
‘At least we know which horse to back,’ Carlo said.
‘My money’s on Trident.’
‘But it isn’t right,’ said Lonnie. ‘What about all those not in the know?’
It seemed clear enough to Carlo. ‘They lose their money. Simple as that.’
‘Nah, it ain’t fair.’ Lonnie thought back to his conversation with Auntie Tilly. Fairness had nothing to do with it.
As they left Chinatown, Lonnie knew he would have to do some more investigation at Golden Acres. Chances were he could pick up some clues, although he already had a good idea what the Cricks were up to.
The day just kept getting busier for Lonnie. His head was throbbing, the night was quickly folding in, he’d promised to meet Pearl at the oyster bar and he still had to honour his promise to Auntie Tilly. He reached into his pocket where the watch lay waiting. Lordy, here was more unfinished business, undoubtedly the most unsettling of all.
THREE EMPTY FRENCH WINE BOTTLES
Item Nos. 31, 32 & 33
Found in cesspit. Thought to have been from one of the more upmarket brothels around Little Lon.
Pearl stood shivering at the corner by the Governor Hotel. It was a grim night, the wind taking bites out of her skin and blowing hints of grubby slum houses through the laneways. She cursed Madam’s choice of dress for her; a lickety-split of such frivolous green material that would surely have floated away with the wind if not for the satin band which pinned down the folds at her waist and refused to let go. She pulled a woollen shawl around her shoulders, cursing that muck-snipe Ruby who was at this very minute working in the warmth and luxury of the Big House, her sacred white feather having well and truly been plucked, while Pearl was left stuck out here in the cold.
She heard her own name being called from inside the Governor. ‘Get yerself in here, Pearl. Come kick up yer heels!’ The shrieks and beer swilling made her feel sick. Only one more customer, she pledged, and then she’d slip away to meet Lonnie at the oyster bar.
Served Madam right if she scarpered for a while. Mind you, she’d be getting more than a belt across the earhole if she were found out. All because Annie had turned Madam’s mood so sour. (Not to mention that mooching Ruby with her whimpering ways, plotting to put Pearl on this miserable street corner instead of up at the Big House or at number four, where at least she would be keeping out of the bitter night.) So what if she took some time off ? She deserved it. The thought of those hot steaming oysters made her want to devour them in one, solid, tongue-licking swallow.
Back at Casselden Place she had secretly stored some bottles of choice champagne. Didn’t see why the toffs or the pollies should have all the fun, when it was her legs going blue with the cold. She had mastered a trick of leaving half a glass in the bottom of each bottle, especially as the night grew older and the clients grew drunker. She would quickly whisk the open bottle away out of sight and return with a full one. Pearl learned quickly that a client always knew if he had ordered three or four bottles. There was never any problem, as long as his bill had the correct number. By the end of a good night, she was able to fill two or three bottles with the leftovers. Mixers, she called them.
Of course, mincing Miss-Ruby-Come-Lately had already stuck her nose into the affair and caught her out. Pearl had threatened her – if she ever spouted off to Madam about the little trick, then wouldn’t she know a proper what for. She’d think twice about messing with the likes of Pearl ever again.
If Lonnie was game, Pearl planned to take him back to number four to sample her latest blend. (And that was only for starters.) The other night when she had cleaned Lonnie’s wounds, she had sensed with a twinkling certainty that manly thoughts about her had crossed his mind. Anyways it was about time he grew up, instead of blushing to the roots whenever she teased him. She knew what men wanted. Only one thing after all. He wouldn’t be any different. She made up her mind to give Lonnie a coming-of-age for which he would be eternally grateful. She really wanted him to like her. And she was as good as anyone to be his first. Anyways, he needed cheering up after that bump on the head. It was a wonder he hadn’t lost his senses altogether.
She hoped Lonnie had been thinking more about the horse race. The right bet with good odds would see her debt fixed up. She worked out the sums. Win more and she could walk right out of the game, have enough to set herself up in St Kilda, with tramcars running past her door and the seaside across the road.
Her mind flitted to her other friend. Pearl loved Daisy Cameron dearly. Together with Lonnie, the three of them were inseparable, even though Carlo always tagged along and put a damper on everything. Daisy was all sweetness and kindliness, especially now she had found the Sally Army. Sometimes Pearl wished she could be more like her.
Strange how fortune played out. Daisy would have been lost to the streets as well, but for some perverse act of kindness from Madam Buckingham. No one had ever fully understood why she took a shine to Daisy, settling her in a room at the Leitrim and then enabling her to make a respectable living as a seamstress. If Madam Buckingham could help Daisy, maybe she would treat Pearl kindly. This had been in the back of her mind, the reasoning behind her move from Annie to the safety of the Big House. (Not that she’d seen any kindness so far.)
She was deciding which to do first, pop in for a quick chinwag with Daisy or drop in at the oyster bar, when a man sidled through the shadows. There’s me answer, she thought, giving a sigh and striking a dramatic pose. (But he’s my last for the night and then I’m knocking off.)
A rough hand grabbed her by the throat. She gave a strangled cry. Only a whiff of stale tobacco smoke and sour sweat, a split second of fear, and then the fist laid her flat with one blow.
OYSTER SHELL
Item No. 27
One of many discarded shells found. Takeaway food of the era, but still something of a
luxury.
‘Thanks mate, don’t mind if I do.’ George Swiggins helped himself to the open oyster shell in Lonnie’s hand. ‘So are you with us or against us?’
The leader of the Push lounged against the lamp pillar. He was nineteen and had an air of instinctive danger about him. He looked like a spiv, dressed like a spiv, and acted like a spiv. His dark hair licked to the back, oiled down sleek. His hat tilted at an angle, shading eyes where a reckless animal lay caged and ready to pounce. When he flashed his smile it was enough to make a girl stop short in panic. His tight jacket was cut away sharp at the hip. The trouser legs, with their fourteen-inch bottoms as narrow as pencils, had creases keen enough to slice fingers. The silk neckerchief was too bright and there was enough shine on his shoes to see his own face in.
‘Come on, George. I’m not exactly built like a brick dunny, am I?’ Lonnie replied, cautiously sidestepping the offer to join the gang. He wanted neither to be with him, nor against him.
This was not the answer George wanted. He bent down to flick an invisible speck of dust from his shoes.
‘It’s the pimpernel in you we’re looking towards. You got a knack of never being caught. Could use a bit of that skill in our gang.’
‘I don’t get caught ’cause I never do anything.’
‘Not what I heard. Word’s around you outran one of Payne’s watchdogs.’
Lonnie grimaced at the reference to his outing in Carlton. Did everyone know? He changed his tack. ‘I don’t get caught ’cause I’m a loner. You lot stand out like dogs’ balls.’ George gave him a back-off look. Lonnie shuffled uneasily; being frank was one thing, but knowing when to stop with the smart prattle was a lesson he had yet to master in life.
In Lonnie's Shadow Page 5