Last Long Drop

by Mike Safe

  He had left Vargas on the beach – ‘I didn’t give a fuck if he went back in and drowned’ – scrambled back up the cliff and drove out to the main road where he found a phone box. The police arrived eventually and questioned Woodrell at length and then took a still-dazed Vargas away. A search plane went up but there was no sign while the inshore sea remained too dangerous for any worthwhile water patrolling.

  In the end, Flipper simply collected Tommy’s clothing, shook the sand out of his sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers, climbed back up the cliff and drove home. By then, the police had informed his parents who were waiting for him when he arrived.

  ‘They’d known about Vargas,’ said Woodrell, ‘but they had no idea what he’d done to mess up Tommy. They thought he was just another smart-arsed kid from the beach. I told them some of it, but not about the robberies or pills, never any of that stuff. They were shattered, Mum in particular. I’m sure it hastened her death and, like I said, she was already depressed over Dad’s drinking … and, well, I started getting into it too and in the long run that messed up my footy career if I’m brutally honest. Nineteen sixty-seven, boy, was that a lousy Christmas.’

  No sign of Tommy – body or surfboard – was found. The finding at the inquest was death by misadventure.

  Flipper told how both he and Vargas gave evidence at the inquest. ‘I hadn’t seen him since that day on the beach. He’d never even fronted at the funeral. But I kept it straight, in check if you like, as far as the inquest was concerned. I didn’t say anything about the robberies and next to nothing about how Vargas had led Tommy along. That was for Mum and Dad – they ended up going to their graves not knowing about any of it. Vargas, well, he played it straight too – got just a little bit upset.’ He took a final mouthful of beer and then crushed the can in his hand. ‘You could say he showed the makings of a brilliant career as an actor … And then a year or so later, it got really interesting.’

  The story was left hanging as Flipper went out to the kitchen to fetch a second beer – and another for Harcourt, who had barely sipped at his first. Down the hill, the restless sea continued to heave, seagulls soared on the breeze as he settled back in his chair.

  ‘I was in the pub one night after training and I’d had a skinful. By that time I’d reached the stage where I was drinking way too much and I was losing the chance of making it in the top grade. I was sort of in one step forward two steps back mode – I had some good moments but the more I drank the worse I played.’

  His parents’ problems – for six months after Tommy’s death, Flipper had continued living with them – had exacerbated his situation. ‘With Tommy gone, they just seemed to lose interest, Dad dived deeper into the bottle and got more and more morose while Mum was a nervous wreck. In the end I couldn’t cop it anymore and so I moved out. I felt guilty about that and, if anything, it only ended up adding to my own problem with the grog.’ He smiled at Harcourt. ‘All sounds kind of pathetic now, doesn’t it?’

  Harcourt shrugged. ‘Who’s to say?’ Easy listener’s way out, he thought to himself, but let the guy talk – he was unloading, telling it all.

  ‘Anyway, there I was in the pub that night when who should walk in but Mike Vargas. It was fairly crowded, kind of an inner suburban trendy place, and I don’t think he saw me from the other end of the bar. He had a really hot looking girl with him, long hair, legs up to here, kind of exotic, dress barely covering her arse. She looked like a model and from memory he was pretty sharply dressed himself, suit and tie, kind of smooth. He was doing some modelling by then. I’d seen him in a couple of TV ads for jeans and stuff – almost put my foot through the fucking TV.

  ‘So I was well on the way to being drunk and started giving him the stinky eye but he didn’t see me through the crowd as he was distracted by the girl, Miss Exotic. He ordered some drinks and then ducked downstairs where the loos were. So I thought, okay, I’m going to put the frighteners up you, you prick, and followed him down there. He takes a piss, eyes fixed straight ahead on the porcelain as you do, while I’m behind him making like I’m washing my hands. He zips up, turned around and I’m in his face. I think he almost shat himself. I gave it to him big time, told him he was the reason my little brother was dead, that he’d showed neither Tommy or our parents due respect and that his moment would come, that I’d get him somewhere, somehow and he wouldn’t see it coming.’

  Flipper paused, took a pull on the beer can, and shrugged, ‘I mean, he was just as big as me, but, hey, I was a feisty fucker back then and could go a bit.’

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ said Harcourt.

  Flipper looked both embarrassed and annoyed. ‘Yeah, well, we’ve all had our moments. Anyway, he bolted up the stairs and by the time I took a few deep breaths, calmed down a bit and got back up there, he was disappearing out the door with Miss Exotic in tow.’

  ‘So you were going to bash him?’ asked Harcourt.

  Flipper shrugged. ‘Probably not. Well, who knows if I ran into him in a dark alley and I was really tanked? But when I was sober and thinking straight … Did my parents need a son in jail for assault or worse when they already had one who was dead? I mean, they’re gone now, decades gone. Yeah, I still hate the guy, but what the fuck …’

  He rose from the chair, walked to the picture window and looked down the hill towards the sea. ‘Besides, there’s more to the story.’ He turned back towards Harcourt. ‘And it’s not something I’m proud of.’

  A few weeks after the encounter in the pub, he’d finished training and was heading out to the car park to drive home. ‘Suddenly this bloke was there, wop-looking in a loud suit, tinted aviator glasses, slicked-back hair. He introduced himself, an Italian name maybe that I’ve since forgot, friendly enough, a smooth type. Said he had a proposition for me from Mr Apo Vargas in relation to his son Michalis who he believed I was acquainted with. Then he pulled out a brown envelope, I kid you not, a brown paper envelope, out of his coat pocket and said “this is for you, Mr Woodrell.” I said “what is it?” and he said that Mr Vargas and his son had been saddened by my brother’s death and, to use his words, “after much consideration and a respectful passing of time” this was to compensate me and my parents, to use his words again, “as humble a token as it might be” for our loss.

  ‘I looked inside the envelope and it was thick with notes. Twenty thousand dollars. That was a massive amount back then, more than I’d ever seen. I was stunned and I was also kind of mad. I said “what the fuck, are you trying to buy me off?” or something like that and he just shrugged and smiled in an apologetic sort of way. I said “how do I even know you’re from Vargas and his father,” that it wasn’t some sort of gambling set-up, to lead me into throwing a game or something like that. He nodded back over his shoulder to another part of the car park and I looked over and there was Mike Vargas sitting in the front seat of a flash car, trying to look calm, cool and collected.’

  Flipper returned to his seat, leaned over to scratch the sleeping dog’s head, keeping his eyes lowered as he continued. ‘So the guy said to me the only thing I had to do was leave Mike Vargas and his family alone, rule a line under the whole episode of Tommy’s death as far as they were concerned. So I was just standing there, kind of half angry and half tempted. I looked around and there was nobody else nearby … and then I grabbed the envelope, stuffed it into my gear bag, turned my back and walked to my car. I drove off, never saw either of them again, Vargas or the wog guy.’

  There was silence for a few seconds. Then Harcourt said, ‘His name is Vinnie Vincenso, the Italian guy, and he’s still around. Old man Vargas is long dead, Vinnie used to be his behind the scenes fixer, now he does it for the famous son when he’s back here.’

  ‘Oh, okay,’ said Flipper. ‘That name kind of connects with me, but it was so long ago … Anyway, there’s something else I’ve got to say.’ He was resigned to telling it all, Harcourt thought. The recounting had become a sort of confession. ‘I used most of the money to buy myself a car, a Ho
lden Torana like Vargas’s. His was red, mine a funny burnt orange sort of colour, but I didn’t think it was funny back then. Well, I still don’t know why the hell I did that. I guess I thought it put me up there, made me look important, an up-you-too to Vargas in a weird way. When my parents saw the car, I lied and told them I’d had my footy contract upgraded and I told the club I’d received an inheritance from a long lost relative.

  ‘The truth was I was making bugger all money and was still trying to sort myself out.’ He laughed, almost resentfully. ‘I bought my parents a new TV, that’s the best I did for them. Anything that was left I pissed away. I hated myself but I came to hate all sorts of shit for all sorts of reasons, not just Tommy’s death.’

  Again, he stood and walked to the picture window. ‘So my little brother’s life was worth twenty grand. I’ve never forgiven myself for that and, like I said, I’ve never told anyone that bit of the story before.’ He turned to face Harcourt. ‘So there you have it – my experience of Mike Vargas, Australia’s Mr Hollywood.’

  Harcourt joined him at the window where he stood for a few seconds before speaking. ‘That’s quite a story. I doubt that Vargas would want the money changing hands bit in any book. And I guess he wouldn’t be happy with the details of his involvement with Tommy, his death, the pills and the robberies, being out there either. I don’t know … But maybe some of it, somehow.’

  ‘Well, that’s up to you. I’m simply telling you the truth, the whole truth as I know it.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Harcourt. ‘I mean, you’re putting yourself in the frame here as well.’

  Woodrell drank the last of his second beer. ‘Sure, and I have no proof that Vargas and his old man paid me off just as I have no proof he and Tommy pulled those stupid robberies back then. I don’t think this Vinnie character is suddenly going to be forthcoming about any of it … and the stickups, well, the cops never came up with anything and are hardly going to investigate now, even if any sort of files on the robberies still exist.’

  ‘So what do you expect from me?’ asked Harcourt.

  ‘I don’t expect anything from you,’ Woodrell said.

  ‘So why tell me?’

  ‘Because you rang and asked.’

  FOURTEEN

  Harcourt’s head still hurt, but it was no more than a dull ache behind his eyes as he arrived at Sydney’s international airport to pick up Jack the following afternoon. The headache was the result of what had turned into yesterday’s unneeded drinking session with Flipper Woodrell, who had sunk as many cans of beer as quickly as possible after baring his soul about his brother’s death and its consequences, especially the 20,000 dollars he had pocketed to stay out of Mike Vargas’s life.

  Ten or more cans down, Woodrell had finished the worse for wear while Harcourt, on a mere four, had been simply relieved to get out of there more or less intact. He had a vague memory of Woodrell having told him at the start of their conversation that he’d expunged heavyweight bouts of boozing from his life, well, most of the time. Yesterday must have been the time that was left after the most bit.

  After driving away from the otherwise tranquil environment of Starlight Bay, he’d sensed the alcohol coursing through his blood and with that came the dreaded thought of being random breath-tested somewhere along the road back to Sydney. He stopped and bought a greasy hamburger and strong coffee, which he downed in the burger joint’s car park. Did they lower his blood alcohol level? Probably not, but at least his head felt clearer.

  Deciding to linger a little longer before driving on, he’d phoned Tess. After the usual wait, she’d come on the line and told him she’d managed a brief conversation with Kirsten. She and Harrison were due back in Sydney the next day – that being now as Harcourt searched for parking at the airport – and that Harrison was to fly on immediately to New York.

  ‘She didn’t give any times,’ Tess had said. ‘But she sounded calm about it all. Initially she might have been blasé but that was before this whole media drama unloaded on her. Now she seems to be more or less in charge again.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember at the start how she dropped the old line about any publicity being good publicity,’ he’d replied. ‘Maybe she’s back to thinking that. Such is the “look at me” world we live in now.’

  Harcourt was still thinking about it as he waited in the airport’s arrival area for Jack to clear Immigration and Customs. And then there he was, among the earlier passengers to make it out. His hair was unruly, his faded jeans and a battered leather jacket, one of his most prized possessions, looking a bit too big for him. His months in London had seen him lose weight, his hair had a brown dullness, having lost its saltwater blond streaks, while his skin was sort of faded. On spotting his beckoning father in the crowd, a smile lit his face. After steering his baggage trolley through the mob, son and father embraced, something they hadn’t done a lot in Jack’s adult years. Suddenly, Harcourt went a little misty-eyed, almost surprising himself. Perhaps Elmore’s unresolved death had something to do with it. There but for fortune … It could have been Jack. Life and death were often so random.

  ‘It’s good to be back,’ said Jack. ‘See, the sun’s even come out for me,’ he added, looking through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the arrivals area at the expanse of blue sky.

  Harcourt grabbed the familiar acoustic guitar case from the top of Jack’s luggage. No doubt it contained the Martin D-42 that Jack had bought after the Solar Sons had started to make some decent money. It had cost double that of Harcourt’s battered Martin OM-21 but Jack was twice the guitarist and had used it to write some of the group’s hits.

  ‘Yeah, couldn’t leave that over there,’ he said as his father gripped the case’s carry handle. ‘It’s too much of a good friend.’

  As they wheeled their way towards the exit, Harcourt faced the inevitable question.

  ‘So what’s all this stuff about Kirsto?’ Kirsto was what Jack had long preferred to call his sister, especially when she’d start to boss him around, as older sisters were wont to do to younger brothers. ‘I couldn’t believe her boobs being all over TV, the internet. They were even in the London tabloids apparently.’

  ‘Well, as I texted you, it’s a long story…’

  As they dodged between bodies and crossed the taxi-laden road towards the car park, there was a sudden blur of movement on the opposite footpath. An imposing-looking man in a dark suit hurled himself at an older and slighter male in a casual fawn jacket and jeans. The older fellow went down hard and the luggage trolley he was pushing tipped, spilling a sizeable suitcase and what looked to be an overstuffed carry bag onto the pavement. A dark-haired woman who appeared to be with the older man yelled angrily and attempted to push the younger attacker away. People around them stopped to watch.

  Harcourt blinked. Fuck me dead, he thought. It’s Kirsten and Harrison – and Silas Korg.

  ‘Silas! Stop it! Stop it now!’ Kirsten shouted as she stood between her amped-up boyfriend – if he was still her boyfriend, that is – and Harrison, who was left sitting on the pavement looking somewhat bewildered as he felt his forehead where a slight scrape of blood showed, apparently where Silas’s fist had made contact or maybe where his head had met the concrete.

  Kirsten pushed at Silas but she, probably half his weight, took an awkward step back, losing one of her high-heeled shoes in the process. Not really thinking anything at all, Harcourt ran across the remaining road, and reaching the pavement, swung Jack’s guitar case at Silas. It was a hard-shell case, a solid object meant to protect a precious instrument from the rough and tumble of travel, and it made contact with Silas’s ribs. The resulting sound was a dull thwack with Silas letting out a burst of air. He sat on the pavement looking at Harrison, who was looking at him from a couple of metres away. Kirsten, somewhat awkwardly in one stiletto shoe, stood between them, as did Harcourt with the guitar case in hand.

  ‘Dad, what are you doing here?’ she asked, a look of bewilderment on her face.

 
‘I came to pick up Jack,’ he replied, unable to come up with a more pithy answer than the obvious.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, looking beyond him to Jack who was manhandling his reluctant trolley off the road and onto the pavement. ‘Jack, you’re home. I knew you were coming. I didn’t know it was today.’

  ‘Hi, Kirsto.’ He smiled. ‘What’s going on?’

  Of the scattering of people around them, ominously, several had mobile phones in their hands – and they weren’t talking on them.

  Oh, no, thought Harcourt. Here comes the next act of the tabloid drama that keeps on keeping on. He could already picture the photographs in tomorrow’s newspapers if not on tonight’s TV news, and this time he was part of the cast.

  Silas, his tie and pinstriped suit jacket askew, swore at Harrison from where he sat on the pavement. ‘You fucking bastard! I should tear your fucking head off.’

  Harrison, likewise still on the cement, looked at the seething, much younger and no doubt stronger man with a mixture of confusion and caution. ‘Who are you? What the hell are you doing?’ Then it appeared to dawn on him. ‘Oh, yes, the boyfriend … Okay then.’

  For a second, Silas appeared eager to leap to his feet and have another swing. ‘No, Silas, no!’ shouted Kirsten, like a scolding mother. Then she lowered her voice. ‘Please, can we stop this?’