Last Long Drop

by Mike Safe

  ‘So is it going to be a hagiography?’ Harcourt said in what was as much a statement as a question.

  ‘Will it be all about me pumping up my own tyres as they say? I guess so.’

  Vargas paused, took another hit on the cigar and then blasted more smoke aloft where it hovered like a dull cloud on a winter’s day.

  ‘So how will I know it’s the truth?’

  Vargas laughed. ‘Well, I guess you won’t. But I can hardly afford to tell outright lies, can I? I know how the game works. A little bit of controversy goes a long way, too much can tip you over the edge. The same with lies – there are lies and then there are lies.’

  ‘That’s getting a bit mysterious.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Vargas looked straight at Harcourt. ‘But, hey, I’ve made a fortune making out I’m someone else.’

  He paused, sipped the cognac. ‘Look, my father was a hard case. He came here with nothing and made himself something. He loved it, saw the opportunity as soon as he arrived. He didn’t want to get stuck in some ghetto with a bunch of other Greeks reminiscing about the good old days back in the old country – he wanted his share and he wanted it fast.’

  His father, Apodemio, found work in the fruit and vegetable markets, said Vargas, and soon opened his own fruit and veg shop, which quickly morphed into several others. He became known as Apo to his true blue Aussie customers who said ‘he wasn’t a bad sort of bloke for a wog,’ which he laughed at as he already had a handle on the warped local vernacular and its use of such putdowns as terms of endearment, even if some of those using the word might have had unfriendly intentions.

  By then he had linked up with Vinnie Vincenso, an urbane Italian, also not long off the boat, who was of a similar go-getting mindset. Apo handled all the buying, selling and in-store details while Vinnie masterminded everything else – branching out into telephone sales and home deliveries, all but unknown at the time, and even advertising and promotions while also building links back into the burgeoning migrant communities.

  Apo, who came to love a beer and weekend barbecue, fell for a golden-haired Australian beauty, Mary, the winner of several beach girl contests, who he’d met at just such an occasion in a seaside park. Her working class family lived in a big spacious flat not far back from the water and her dad was a patrol captain at the local surf lifesaving club. It was well before the coastal suburbs became expensively yuppiefied and, although Mary’s parents had their suspicions, their only daughter and this good-looking Greek imposer were soon married.

  Baby Michalis arrived somewhere short of nine months later and after some parental ructions that were supposed to have been kept in house, although the whole neighbourhood soon knew, everything more or less settled down to happily married life. Michalis, soon known as Mike, grew up with sand and surf between his toes. Even Apo joined the clubbies for a time, although after his wife and boy, the fruit and veg business remained what mattered most. Apo and Mary were trying for a second child when she was killed by a drunken driver who ran her down while she was using a pedestrian crossing on the busy road that led to the beach. Mike, by then six, was not with her at the time but at his nearby grandparents’ home.

  ‘My father was devastated,’ said Vargas, turning the last of the cognac in the bottom of his glass.

  Apo immersed himself further in the business and Mike spent more time with his grandparents and Vinnie Vincenso. As the years slipped by his grandfather taught him about waves, while Vinnie wised him up on life’s potential in this bountiful land. Then, suddenly, Apo remarried. His new bride was older than him and had money and property of her own from a divorce settlement. It seemed an odd match – he an immigrant turned successful greengrocer, she a privileged divorcee and social page regular. They ended up moving into her Sydney harbourside home with its tennis court and swimming pool. Mike was shipped off to an expensive private school not far up the road, forsaking the beachside suburban school he had previously attended.

  By then, however, he was a fully fledged beach boy. Into the 1960s the surfing craze took its full grip on Australia’s young and Mike, into his secondary schooling, fell under its spell. His grandfather’s surf club occasionally raised funds by screening grainy sixteen-millimetre surfing movies shot by the likes of Americans John Severson and Bruce Brown that were shown up and down the coast. For the first time the surf-mad Australian kids got to see perfect waves in exotic locations like California and Hawaii being ridden with laidback style by young, blond warriors who looked as if they’d been fashioned from bronze. Mike, who inevitably snuck in the back without paying, was soon hooting and hollering with the rest of the rowdy audience.

  ‘For a kid back then, that was about as good as it got,’ said Vargas, his smile irrepressible. ‘From then on all I wanted to do was go surfing, summer or winter, but I was also starting out at this snooty private school that I didn’t like and so there were problems. Before long I was wagging it to hang out down the beach and that sometimes meant having to dodge my grandfather who was knocking about down there as well.

  ‘Over the next few years it all got a bit too weird, a bit too strained, I guess. While my dad was a forward thinker in a lot of ways, there was still enough of the Greek patriarch in him that he started to push the line that I should think about going into the greengrocer business with him. I mean, he was making money hand over fist by then – he was the cauliflower and carrot king of Sydney – and he and my stepmother, who was always pretty standoffish with me, and me with her as it worked out, could see I wasn’t going to amount to much academically and most importantly they didn’t like the idea of me turning into a surf bum.’

  But along with his growing surfing prowess, Mike, by then a young man, had something else going for him. He had inherited attributes from both sides of his family – his father’s upfront confidence and rugged good looks, his mother’s golden allure and easy charm. The astute Vinnie Vincenso, all the while hovering close by, picked up on this and through his advertising and media connections found the unsettled but striking-looking teenager almost immediate media work as a catalogue model for newspapers and magazines. He took a good photograph even when wearing cheap and horrible clothing and this turned into television ads which led to bit parts in various series, usually outdoorsy adventures, and then a regular role in a teen-centred soap opera.

  By then any thoughts of further education or the fruit and veg business had disappeared as the star on the rise cut something of a swathe through the ranks of pretty young women, including a couple of budding starlets. His father and stepmother were surprised and somewhat alarmed at the speed at which all this happened and Vinnie Vincenso had to pull his young charge into line.

  ‘In lots of ways, Vinnie saved me from myself,’ said Vargas, finessing the ash on his smouldering cigar. ‘He got me out of my share of scrapes back then, both professionally and personally, without going into any graphic detail.’

  He laughed and added, ‘I learned an early lesson about picking and sticking. Way back then I was just a smart-arse kid and he saw me through – and that’s why he’s still around. Dexter might be my on-the-spot guy now that I’m of a certain age and still stupid, well, some of the time at least, but Vinnie’s never far away when I need him. Pick and stick – it’s a very important element of life, Johno. Don’t ever take it for granted.’

  Harcourt couldn’t help the momentary thought that Vargas’s last statement was delivered as much as a threat as a sort of homily. If he took on this project, it would undoubtedly mean giving himself over to the Vargas mindset, picking and sticking throughout whatever and wherever it might lead. Was he up for that?

  Vargas was in nostalgia mode now, telling how within a couple of years of his homeland breakthrough he had headed to the promised land that was California, schmoozing and surfing, not necessarily in that order. He spent as much time at the classic breaks like Malibu and Rincon as he did knocking on Hollywood producers’ doors. Still, it came reasonably easy, a replay of what had ha
ppened in Australia – bit parts, some television, support roles in B-grade films and then, suddenly, leading man status. But, of course, this was Hollywood, the dream factory. As his profile rose, and casting agents responded to his intriguing mix of trans-Pacific outdoorsman with a touch of European heartthrob, so came the starlets, the wives, the scandals, the money and, most of all, the fame.

  ‘Well, all that’s for another time,’ said Vargas. ‘But I wanted you to have an understanding of where I came from, what I was about – this young punk from nowhere who crossed the ocean and made it in the biggest show on the planet.’

  He shrugged, rose and walked across the room to the bar where he poured another generous helping of cognac. He turned to face Harcourt. ‘In many ways it’s been a charmed life, a lucky life, if you like. And I certainly appreciate that. Like I say, I’ve had my share of mess ups and for everyone who wants you to succeed, there are a dozen who want to see you fail. Your friend this week can be your enemy next week. But I worked out the rules early on.

  ‘Maybe it’s been too easy in some ways – I managed to maintain a solid relationship with my father and even he came to realise there was more to life than the fruit and veg business when I started making money, big money. My mother … As I’ve gotten older, realising my mortality, I guess, I’ve found myself thinking about her more and more, even though I barely remember her … I wonder about her and whatever she gave me I’m thankful for. But even my stepmother came around after she got to meet the occasional Hollywood star – she was nothing if not impressionable in that regard. She and my father are long gone now, but they had good lives and, again, I’m glad for them.’ He shrugged and added, ‘Even the three ex-wives, well, to varying degrees, don’t appear to hate me too much anymore, even with all the transgressions I put them through.’

  He took a swig of the cognac, its warmth adding to the colour in his already tanned face. ‘But all that said, there are certain statements that I want to make with this book. Yes, wrongs to be made right, scores to be settled, if you like. As we’ve already discussed, bullshit abounds out there and I want my bullshit to outdo that bullshit – but we’ll cross those bridges if and when we get to them.’

  Vargas went on to surmise that it might be a matter of putting the book together in and around his blockbuster film project. ‘It might get messy but it would be worthwhile to have both ready to go at the same time for maximum impact, one feeding the other – if that’s doable, I’m not sure.’ He smiled. ‘You can see I remain at the front of the line when it comes to making a dollar. Do I need the money? Not really. Am I risking a lot? With the film, yes, because I want to retain control and so a fair wack of my cash will have to be tied up in it. With the book, no, because it will be somebody else paying for it – and paying for me, of course, even though I’ll retain control of what and how it’s said. Hopefully, it will be a win–win, as they say, for me at least.’

  The subject turned to surfing, with Vargas saying he’d long ago lost touch with all the guys he’d grown up with. ‘I guess they’re either retired, shuffled off to play lawn bowls, or dead. There were some pretty hard cases back in the day and booze took a toll. Drugs came along, guys completely wasted, dropping by the wayside and never heard from again. Anyway, I don’t get down to Sydney, at least since my father died. I might pass through on my way up here, but good ol’ Vinnie is first port of call for any stuff that might matter down there or generally in Australia. He still loves getting in and mixing it up and, like I say, it’s pick and stick.’

  He asked about Harcourt’s family and what he was doing now that he had left the newspaper business. Harcourt told him about Tess and the ongoing trials of the book business.

  ‘Maybe her outfit could do my book,’ suggested Vargas. ‘Would that make it some sort of nepotism if you ended up writing it?’

  ‘Yeah, probably. Or at least it would look like it.’

  He told Vargas about Jack’s situation in London and the death of Elmore Bruce.

  ‘That’s a bad one. I saw it on online. Didn’t know your kid was mixed up in it. Best he gets out of there for a time is what I’d say.’

  ‘I’m starting to think that too.’

  Vargas asked if Jack surfed.

  ‘Of course,’ said Harcourt. ‘He’s a beach kid.’

  ‘Get him home then. Let the ocean wash the bad vibes out of him.’ Vargas smiled his movie star smile. ‘That’s the best cure-all I know.’ He stretched and said he had to work on the script. ‘But, hey, all this has been constructive – let’s talk some more in the morning, maybe have another quick surf, our own little cure-all.’

  Harcourt went to his bedroom and prepared for bed.

  Still feeling somewhat fuzzy-headed from the wine – he hadn’t been drinking since the press reception for Edmund Harrison where he’d had more than his fair share – he headed for the darkened kitchen to get a glass of water.

  The light was still on in the updated Jungle Room and he caught a glimpse of Vargas writing away on a pad. He quietly got the water and was drinking it slowly when there was a buzzing at the front door. Vargas rose quickly and came out to answer it.

  There was Poppy Parmadour, the surfer girl of red bikini fame, only now she was wearing a red mini-skirt, matching stilettos and an off-the-shoulder whiter-than-white top that contrasted against her tanned skin. There was even an exotic-looking flower in her swept back hair.

  Vargas took her in his arms. A long and lingering kiss followed before the door was closed and they headed off out of sight to somewhere else in the sprawling house. Harcourt, watching from the darkness, was relieved that wherever it was hadn’t taken them through the kitchen.

  You randy bastard, thought Harcourt. Well, one’s sixties were supposed to be the new forties, weren’t they?

  By the time he boarded the plane back to Sydney the following afternoon, Harcourt’s feelings about the Vargas experience were mixed. They’d surfed again in the morning, catching some fun if nondescript waves as the swell rapidly dropped away on the open beaches south of Noosa. Before that Vargas had undergone his daily rise and shine workout with Dutton, who drove him mercilessly through a series of exercises, runs and weight drills on a strip of lawn visible through the dining room’s picture window. Sucking down a freshly squeezed orange juice while still feeling at least a little tardy from the previous night’s drinking, Harcourt could only wince at Vargas’s application. At moments his age showed, with some of the bending, twisting and stretching that the ex-Seal put him through, but there was no doubting his commitment as he drove himself up and down the stretch of bowling-green-perfect grass. There was no sign of Poppy Parmadour who, Harcourt could only surmise, had given Vargas a workout of a different kind before disappearing back into the morning’s earlier hours.

  After surfing and returning to a breakfast of potentially tooth-busting super-crunchy muesli smothered in yogurt and various tropical fruits, free-range eggs in any style desired and several cups of freshly ground coffee, all prepared by Dutton, Harcourt and Vargas had talked further in the Elvis jungle room, with the continuing recognition that the book was all going to be done Vargas’s way.

  Still, he had seemed at ease telling Harcourt about cheating on each of his three ex-wives, wondering out loud how much of this kiss-and-tell should make it into print. ‘As I said last night, I get on more or less okay with all of them now – god knows I paid enough alimony before they found new husbands, all rich guys by the way. Maybe they’d like a little notoriety back in their lives, but probably not. Anyway, that’s another bridge to be crossed if we get to it.’

  Yeah, he can be a bit of a douche, Harcourt had thought as Vargas let various other thought bubbles drift off into the ether … movie executives who’d doublecrossed him and how he’d doublecrossed them back, co-stars who he’d admired, others who he’d hated. At least it was sounding like there’d be plenty of true confessions and cheap scandal to turn the book into a bestseller, although Vargas’s version of ‘tru
e’ would probably be debateable throughout. Sure, it had been fine just sitting around and shooting the shit on the Jungle Room couches, but perhaps that wouldn’t necessarily hold when Vargas got to see it on paper in a first draft. Harcourt’s years of frontline reporting had taught him that enthusiastic interviewees could become considerably less so when their words appeared in print, at least when those words were controversial and others took exception, especially those with pockets deep enough to hire go-for-the-jugular lawyers. Still, Vargas had been around the block enough times to understand that. Or so he’d said.

  On the drive back to the airport Dutton turned towards Harcourt and offered a smile. ‘He likes you. I can tell.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Harcourt.

  ‘That you’re old school – like him. You’re from where he’s from, if you get my drift. You have the same roots. Well, more or less, even though you’re from different times. But it’s the same understanding. I’ve known him since I came out of the military and that’s a long time now, but I don’t know him from the point of view that you do. For all sorts of reasons, that’s important to him, that’s part of him, of why he is who he is. You hard-core surfing types, you’re something else from somewhere else.’

  Dutton laughed as he pulled Harcourt’s bag from the back seat of the Range Rover. ‘Have a nice trip home now.’

  When he arrived home Tess was on the sofa in the lounge room, laptop open, what looked like a gin and tonic in her hand and a muted smile on her face.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said, ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

  ‘What? Is it about Jack? What’s happened?’

  ‘No, it’s about our daughter.’

  Harcourt knew from her face whatever it was couldn’t be good.

  ‘She’s been down in Adelaide having a fling, having it off, whatever you want to call it, with Edmund Harrison,’ said Tess.