Last Long Drop

by Mike Safe

  ‘We don’t have a hundred years,’ said Kirsten. ‘Maybe not twenty!’

  ‘Oh, horror!’ mocked Silas. ‘The tide’s going to come in and we’re all going to drown if we don’t run for the hills. This house will be underwater and the local beach will be at the edge of the Blue Mountains. C’mon, Kirsten, stop being such a little lefty handwringer.’

  And so it went. At one stage it became overly heated between Kirsten and Silas, as Harcourt found himself stuck in the middle, exasperated and losing interest fast. He noted that Tess had little to say beyond some initial support for Kirsten and next to nothing as the argument intensified. When she did join in again, it was to use her pacifying skills to subtly change the subject to something more benign, the approaching Writers’ Week at the Adelaide Festival and her part in landing Edmund Harrison as its star attraction.

  Suddenly, Kirsten was more like an eager teenager than an opinionated twenty something, wanting to know if she could arrange an interview for her magazine or at least its website if the deadline was too tight. Even Silas seemed impressed – Harrison being a man’s man and all that, even if he was a bleeding heart lefty.

  Later, Harcourt and Tess sat quietly in the back garden with a final drink. It was peaceful, the summer cicadas had started up in defiance of the cooler weather and they provided a familiar soundtrack to the night.

  ‘There was some real venom going on there, especially from him,’ she said.

  ‘Well, she can be a self-important little thing at times,’ he replied.

  ‘You know, John, I’m glad she’s got opinions and forceful opinions at that,’ said Tess. There was heat in her voice. ‘For god’s sake, in this day and age when no one stands for anything anymore unless there’s a dollar in it for them and they’ll compromise their opinions for that dollar I’m glad Kirsten is the way she is. You should be proud of her and what she’s achieved in a very short time, much more than you or I had at her age.’

  ‘I am proud of her …’

  ‘Well, you should try showing it occasionally.’ She went quiet for a moment, looking into the bottom of her now empty glass.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, surprising him. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. I know you’re proud of her – we’re both proud of her and Jack too – but you might have supported her a bit more when Silas started in on her like that.’

  ‘Well, like I said, those debates end up going nowhere and so I opted out. You didn’t have much to say either.’

  ‘Well, sometimes you take the easy way out,’ Tess said, adding, ‘You like to settle for playing the role of everybody’s favourite happy dad.’

  He didn’t know what to say to that and sat passively, his also-empty glass in his hand. The cicadas continued racketing away and a motorbike with a bung muffler passed along the street and into the distance towards the beach.

  ‘Look, again, I shouldn’t have said that,’ Tess said finally. ‘But I emphasise what I really didn’t like about tonight was the way Silas went at her.’

  ‘No, I didn’t care for that much either.’ Harcourt paused before adding. ‘To say the least, the bloke has an arrogance about him. I don’t think I like him very much.’

  ‘I have to admit I don’t think he’s a very nice person either.’

  As he turned the wine glass in his hand, he was still trying to process Tess’s ‘everybody’s favourite happy dad’ remark.

  ‘So what do we do about it?’ he asked, deciding it was best to move the conversation and his thoughts along.

  ‘I’ll talk to her when the right moment comes up,’ Tess replied.

  ‘And when will that be?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘Better you than me.’ Then he couldn’t help himself. ‘After all, I’m just everybody’s favourite happy dad.’

  FIVE

  Rampart Media was located in a refurbished warehouse in one of those inner city suburbs where the hip young things tended to congregate. The business was small but thriving, or so its owner Darrell Farnsworth claimed.

  Farnsworth’s spiel was that it was online first – the net, Facebook, Twitter and the rest of social media – with the print side as an add-on, for the time being at least. It was the other way around for publishing’s old-timers, he said. They were too far behind to ever catch up. Harcourt had heard all this before, but he let the guy rattle through his shtick. That was his reporter’s way – the subject does the talking while you shut up and listen.

  They sat on low-slung couches arranged around coffee tables strewn with magazines, a laptop someone had left blinking, a couple of tablets and a few newspapers as well as dirty cups and food wrappers. This area in the middle of the floor was ‘like a crossroads’, Farnsworth explained, where the twenty or so people scattered across the space would ‘meet, more or less as they like, have a coffee, sit and talk and come up with all sorts of crazy stuff.’ Over by a side wall, a couple of floppy-haired twenty somethings played table tennis, whacking the ball back and forth with increasing ferocity. To Harcourt, about the only idea taking hold there was to belt the living bejesus out of the white piece of plastic.

  Probably in his late twenties, Farnsworth was dressed in skinny black jeans, winklepicker shoes and what was an imported and most certainly expensive, if ill-fitting, grey tee-shirt. It was topped off with thick black-framed glasses and more floppy hair. Harcourt had vaguely heard of him, maybe from Kirsten. He exhibited the assurance of someone who knew what he was about and where he was going – a sort of hipster version of Silas Korg.

  Farnsworth had telephoned Harcourt out of the blue saying Rampart had a proposal for him and he wanted to talk face to face, and in the meantime Harcourt should go online to check out the website and in particular one of their digital magazines, What Men Want, and then its more in-depth monthly print version, which had just landed at the newsagents.

  The company was owned by a collection of young entrepreneurs, Farnsworth being one of them, although a couple of the names suggested wealthy family connections who had no doubt helped with the start-up cash. Farnsworth was described as editor-in-chief and creative director, presiding over four titles, a couple aimed at women in their twenties and thirties and the other two, including What Men Want, at males in the same age bracket. There were teaser items about more lengthy stories – one on the young guns in national politics, another supposedly the inside story about corruption and murder within a wealthy society family, and finally something of a scoop, an interview with none other than Aussie movie star Mike Vargas by Max ‘Mudguts’ Milligan, an ex-colleague of Harcourt, which was the best piece in the magazine.

  It turned out you had to go out and buy What Men Want in its glossy paper form to get the full version of this and the other features. This seemed something of an irony to Harcourt as Farnsworth lectured him on digital taking over. They talked about this and the idea was that the print version would only exist until Rampart had a digital package worked out that could pay its way. Harcourt felt relieved to think this whiz kid didn’t have all the answers.

  ‘We want you to do a column for us,’ Farnsworth said, finally getting to the point of the meeting.

  ‘Me?’ said Harcourt. ‘I’m hardly your demographic. I’m fifty-five years old and have no idea any more, well, hardly any idea, what goes on inside the head of a twenty something male. I mean, I could interview someone like Mike Vargas who you have in the magazine – nice piece by the way. In fact, I did just that a few years back … but a column? What would it be about exactly?’

  ‘Oh, you know, something a bit edgy, stir it up a bit. The life and times of the different generations, looking back, if you like, comparing then with now from a male perspective. You give us a thousand words and we’ll pay you a thousand dollars which in this climate is very good money for a freelancer.’

  Harcourt stayed silent. He had no idea what was fair payment.

  ‘C’mon, I’m not getting anything here,’ said Farnsworth, looking bemused. ‘So what do you
think?’

  ‘Well, I’ll think about it,’ Even as the words spilled out of his mouth, Harcourt was thinking, hold on, maybe I’m doing myself out of an easy earn here. ‘A thousand bucks for a thousand words? There’s nice symmetry in the numbers. Yeah, well, okay, I’ll give it a go.’

  ‘Great. So it’s the one thousand words within a week, when copy for the next issue of the magazine is due. Remember, stir it up, get a reaction.’

  Outside, Harcourt headed for his car, hoping he hadn’t scored a parking fine. It was around the corner between a low-rent brothel and a storefront coffee shop. As he reached the car, a fat, dishevelled man dragging on a cigarette emerged through the bright red door of the house of ill repute.

  ‘Mudguts Millbank,’ said Harcourt as the shambolic character turned towards him.

  ‘Why, fuck me dead, if it isn’t Johno Harcourt,’ said the figure who was indeed Max ‘Mudguts’ Millbank, a personality of sorts for any number of reasons.

  Mudguts had worked on the same paper as Harcourt, more than a decade ago, when a penchant for drinking and drugging, chasing female reporters in short skirts and taking an inordinate amount of sick days, usually the result of too many overindulgent nights before, had caught up with him.

  He was a talented writer – as good as anyone on the paper – and he had deep and dangerous contacts, especially from the seamier side of life. This had led to an ongoing series of significant exposés about organised crime and its links into the just-as-murky worlds of big business, politics and even the judicial system. For a few years Mudguts had ridden high, very much a star on the rise, his knockabout ways and growing list of indiscretions excused because he was delivering big stories. But as the newsroom changed, such behaviour was no longer ignored. Codes of conduct and journalist responsibility were enforced under the rise of the human resources regime which, according to the old-school grumblers on the editorial floor, was nothing but a coven of humourless, hatchet-faced women in austere business suits who got off on scaring the living daylights out of a bunch of blokes who were too set in their archaic ways to change.

  But change they did as every bad ‘ism’ that had once flourished – from sexism to alcoholism – was slowly purged from the editorial floor, although there was the occasional return during after-hours carousing sessions at any of several nearby pubs where a hard core still congregated and the topic of conversation inevitably turned to how much better it had all been back in the good old days. By then, however, Mudguts was long gone, off for a time to London where his ability to search out scoops was appreciated by the tabloids in their endless cutthroat battle for circulation supremacy, but even there the drink and skirt chasing managed to get the better of him.

  ‘Just ducked in for a lunch-time rub and tug,’ said Mudguts, indicating the red door. He laughed uproariously at this and Harcourt managed a smile. ‘Clears the mind for the afternoon ahead,’ Mudguts explained. ‘Some guys go and play touch footy in the park to work up a sweat. Now and then I get a touch up in there.’

  ‘Good to see you haven’t changed, Mudguts,’ said Harcourt.

  ‘Well, I have changed – I’ve got fatter and older but otherwise it’s all pretty good. All the bits are still working. Well, most of the time, even if some of the more private parts might need a bit of cranking to get firing these days.’

  Hmm, too much information, thought Harcourt.

  They agreed to have a coffee in the next-door coffee shop, although Mudguts would have preferred ducking into a pub up the road. Mudguts also ordered a double beef and bacon burger with the works.

  They had never been close during their time together on the paper where Mudguts, a decade junior to Harcourt, has tended to hang out with a younger crowd. But they had respected each other’s abilities and enjoyed the same suck-it-and-see disposition towards life.

  Between enormous bites at the burger, its overflow of sauce dribbling down into his scruffy beard, Mudguts told how he was on what was supposed to be a lunch break from Rampart Media where he had a couple of days’ casual work a week doing rewrites, principally for What Men Want where the standard of the copy was ‘disgraceful’. ‘They can’t spell let alone write, these young fuckers,’ Mudguts grumbled. ‘They think that’s for someone else to worry about because they’re too cool for that boring sort of stuff. Very postmodern of them.’

  Harcourt told Mudguts about his meeting with Farnsworth and the column he’d be writing.

  ‘Good for you,’ said Mudguts. ‘Just don’t let them mess you around. That’s the only way to treat these guys who’ve got rich daddies.’ He conceded the What Men Want crew were at least paying reasonable money while other publishers, including the newspapers, were cutting to the bone. ‘It’s all changed, mate. It’s moved on to somewhere else.’

  This conversation could become really depressing, Harcourt thought, taking a sip of his lukewarm coffee as Mudguts grumbled on. So he changed the subject.

  ‘Hey, I liked your Mike Vargas feature in the mag, caught the mood nicely. I did a feature with him years ago when one of his films came out. It was that war one – Into the Valley of Death. Kind of like Apocalypse Now, but nowhere near as good. He seemed like an okay guy even though the whole thing was going to shit. It rained almost nonstop and everything was delayed, weeks behind.’

  ‘Well, Vargas was pretty much a dickhead to me,’ replied Mudguts. ‘I had a quick sit down with him at his big house up there at Noosa and then I was straight out the door. Fact is he’s an old man now, well into his sixties for Christ’s sake. He’s no action hero any more, even though he seems to think he is. He’s preparing to do this mega-flick, massive budget, supposedly it’s going to show off his “vulnerable side” – whatever that means. Hollywood bullshit, I reckon. I mean, the guy’s got more money than he could ever count – the house up there, his own island in Fiji, another big house in a private estate on the beach at Malibu, apartments in New York and London, a villa on the Amalfi coast. Bloody hell, he could open his own luxury real estate business. Why doesn’t he just spend it all? That’s what I’d do.’

  ‘Maybe he sees this one as a last big chance – I don’t know. But you’re right – his action man days must be all but over.’

  ‘Yeah, I think he’s dreaming and after we got into it during the interview he pretty much knew that’s what I thought and so it didn’t end up too well. But I’ll tell you what he did say that he didn’t want in my story – he wants to do an autobiography, tell his story his way, and he’s looking around for someone to put it together for him. He’s been in talks with Montacue Publishing, the big outfit that have an office here. Bloody hell, it would be hard work putting that one together, but I guess it would be a big pay day for whoever did it.’ Mudguts took a slurp of his coffee and thought for a moment. ‘I’ve pretty much burnt my bridges with him. But you, Johno, this would be right up your alley. You could write it with your eyes shut.’ He paused for a second before adding, ‘And I’m guessing you need a gig at the moment.’

  Harcourt shrugged. ‘Who knows? He’d probably opt for some American or British showbiz writer, someone with an international profile.’

  ‘Maybe, but, hey, I’ll tell you what,’ said Mudguts. ‘I got to know his management pretty well when setting up that interview. He’s got this old guy, Vinnie Vincenso, came off the boat from Italy not long after Vargas’s dad arrived from Greece way back whenever. Vinnie looks after his interests here, very low key, well connected. My story was nice enough and if they’re still talking to me I’ll run your name by them – Aussie guy, great writer with a solid track record, straight up, reliable, you’ve done stuff with him before and you’re a mad surfer just like him. He’s still nuts about all that. I don’t know a wipeout from an arse wipe. I said something like that to him at the start of the interview.’ He laughed, ‘Johno, you never know, right?’

  They talked a bit more, Mudguts saying he hoped to get work with one of the television networks as a producer on a current affairs progr
am. ‘They’re crap shows, but at least they dig the dirt occasionally. They have all those young blonde cutie reporters you have to lead along by the hand. I swear there’s a baby farm out there that churns them out by the dozen – all sparkly white teeth and totally up themselves.’ Then he smiled somewhat wickedly. ‘But I suppose it could be worse – they could all be ugly.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘I better get back. Rampant Media might have this hipster “come and go as you like” policy, but they’re paying a casual day rate and they make sure they get their pound of flesh.’

  After they paid the bill, Mudguts asked for Harcourt’s mobile number. ‘I mean it, I’ll check out the Vargas book thing, okay?’

  ‘Yeah, sure, whatever you say. That’s what I always liked about you, Mudguts. You’re an optimist.’

  As January gave way to February the holiday crowds dispersed and the surf grommets went back to school, the occasional cooler day backed by a windy southerly became a fixture in the weather pattern. Harcourt started to notice how many of them there were around the beaches – guys like him with time on their hands, or so it seemed. He would see them in the morning as they walked back from the shops with the day’s newspaper tucked under their arm and maybe a takeaway coffee in their hand. He would see them during the morning surf check when he strolled down to the beachfront to see what the waves were doing. And then he would see them simply walking about at any hour of the day as if looking for somewhere to go, something to bring a bit of meaning, a bit of structure.

  He came to recognise the regulars and even knew a few of them, mainly among the surfing crowd, but there were plenty of others dressed in every way imaginable, from smart casual walk shorts that had been bought in upmarket stores during more bountiful days to daggy old track pants and thongs. He would offer a brief hello to some in passing, but there was not much more in the way of recognition, let alone any thought of conversation. It was as though these men, some fit and trim, striding out to greet the new day, others stooped in the shoulders and in obvious retreat from the world, were members of a clandestine society – Yes, mate, I know that for some harsh reason or simply dumb circumstance you don’t have a job anymore, just like me. All they needed was their own secret handshake.