The Life and Crimes of Harry Lavender

by Marele Day

  Then I found it. Out on the balcony, in the innocent mist of lavender leaves. The card that had sweetly said ‘To my Valentine’ had been replaced by another:

  THE LIFE AND CRIMES OF HARRY LAVENDER

  Ominous black letters, the same letters as had spelled out TERMINAL ILLNESS.

  Whose Valentine was I now? I stared at the clues looking for answers. But there were none. Or too many. Valentine Lavender, the letters slipped anagrammatically, Valentine Lavender Valentine Lavender Lavantine Valender . . . No, no!

  I flung the pot of lavender down into the street, watched it smash and the pile of dirt it left on the road. Lavender. Instead of remedying giddiness and faintness it was causing it.

  Harry Lavender. Every person living and breathing, and many that were dead, knew the name of that cancerous growth that went by the sweet name of LAVENDER. Lavender owned this city. Had it sewn up. Its life and crimes.

  I had a special reason to know it. Lavender had turned my father from a top journalist into a shadow that haunted the parks of the city, quoting headlines that no-one believed, sleeping now under the newspapers he used to write.

  It was time to plug into the old boys’ network.

  ‘BRIAN Collier please.’

  There was a few seconds delay then a male voice said: ‘Newsroom’.

  ‘Brian Collier?’

  Off-stage I heard: ‘Hey, Brian. Phone.’

  A few more seconds delay then another voice, a deep voice, the sort of voice you’d be safe with up a dark alley. The voice of Brian Collier.

  ‘It’s Claudia Valentine. Guy Valentine’s daughter.’

  He said that was my tough luck.

  ‘I know.’ How many tears I had cried for suffering humanity, for all those whose shortcomings were bigger than themselves and must be borne by others. ‘I have to talk to you.’

  He said that he was listening.

  ‘Not over the phone. Can I meet you somewhere?’

  He started reminiscing about Guy Valentine’s kid, remembering the three-year-old who galloped round the house on a hobby-horse. He asked me if I still had the red ringlets.

  ‘Still got the red. Not the ringlets.’ I hoped there wasn’t going to be much more of this. I felt like an onion, with the tough brown skin peeled off to reveal the layers that made you weep. ‘Can I meet you somewhere down there in Ultimo? Buy you a drink maybe?’

  I didn’t know the Rose and Crown but I would find it.

  A NEW FACE ON THE SCENE

  By Guy Valentine

  It is not every day that an amusement arcade is the scene of celebration. But last Sunday in a certain city arcade the popping of corks replaced the more familiar pops of the shooting galleries and pinball machines. And it looks like a newcomer, let’s call him Harry, is the one scoring the points. A war orphan, the story goes that Harry escaped from his native Poland and made his way to France, thence to Australia, bringing with him the family silver. He may not have brought all the cutlery but at least he brought the knives. And his wits. Both of which he has been putting to good use, it seems. It is probably a coincidence that only a week after the slaying of George Gabon, who has suffered so much bad luck lately with a number of fires in his various premises, this celebratory party took place. The owner of the chain of arcades which has been miraculously free of fire made a short speech in honour of Harry, toasting him most warmly, and singling him out as a young man who will ‘go far’. Of course we can only guess what the newcomer has done to earn the patronage of such an influential figure in the field. My guess is that the young pup has been blooded.

  The clipping, along with the very few others I had gathered on Lavender, was yellowing. For a man who figured so largely in the legends of the city, there was very little about him in print.

  JACK was opening up the bar when I went down.

  ‘Did I have any visitors last night?’

  ‘Not that I know of. And you know no-one gets past without me seeing them. Were you expecting anyone?’

  ‘No,’ I said dryly.

  ‘What happened to your leg?’

  ‘Mad dog.’

  Jack was slowly shaking his head and smiling wryly. ‘I don’t know why you keep doing it, Claudia, I really don’t.’

  ‘Pays the rent, Jack.’

  We’d had this conversation before. Many times.

  THE Rose and Crown was a nice pub with lots of dark wood and little bowls of nuts at the bar. I ordered a mineral water and looked around for Brian Collier. All I remembered of him was that he was big. But then when you are three everyone is big.

  ‘Over there,’ said the barman indicating a rugged looking man in a tweed jacket sitting at a small table by the window. His body matched his voice.

  ‘Brian Collier?’

  He nodded.

  I extended my hand in the age-old gesture that showed I was bearing no weapons.

  He shook it vigorously. I sat down.

  ‘What are you drinking?’

  ‘Mineral water,’ I said sheepishly, indicating the nearly full glass.

  ‘Oh, you’re right then. Did you have any trouble finding the pub?’

  ‘Drove straight to it. Parked right outside the door.’

  ‘You were lucky,’ he said. ‘I’ve given up bringing my car in. Never find a parking spot.’

  The small talk ended and the silence began. It embarrassed Brian Collier and he cleared his throat.

  ‘What was it you wanted to talk to me about?’ ‘About that article you had in the paper a couple of days ago, about the shake-up in Sydney’s gangland. Which of those theories you mentioned do you favour?’

  ‘You sound like a reporter. Are you?’

  ‘Maybe it’s in the blood.’ I wondered whether the alcohol was in the blood too. I kept an eye on it but there were nights when I let go, nights when there was no tomorrow.

  Moderation in all things, including moderation.

  ‘You still haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Ms Valentine, what makes you think I’m going to spill my guts to a perfect stranger?’

  ‘I’m not perfect and I’m not a stranger. Guy . . . my father . . . was a friend of yours.’

  ‘Have you seen Guy lately?’

  ‘I’ve looked but I haven’t seen.’

  No recognition in those yellow viscous eyes. It was hardly more than a habit now, looking for my father. Like a sore you picked at, or a tooth you just can’t leave alone. Wondering which dero was my father, wondering if he was still alive. First I’d denied him. Couldn’t accept that one of those humans in railway stations and on park benches, beards dribbling saliva and pants full of piss, could in any way be related to me. Then I was going to save him, find him and bring him in from the cold. Mina had tried till eventually she had to save herself. Save us both from the darkened room and the fortress of empty bottles that incarcerated him.

  ‘Would you recognise him?’

  ‘Probably not. The last time I saw him I was five.’

  ‘I saw him. A few years ago. Standing in line with the other derelicts outside Social Security in Clarence Street. Not a pretty sight.’

  ‘Did . . . did he recognise you?’

  ‘I spoke his name. He didn’t even blink.’

  I quietly closed the door on my unblinking father. Too many wraith-like memories to have them come sliding out at a time like this.

  ‘I’m a private investigator. I have a professional interest in your theories.’

  ‘Didn’t you read the article?’

  ‘Of course. But that’s just the words.’

  Collier lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. ‘I probably won’t be telling you anything you don’t know already . . .’ he said, dragging leisurely on the cigarette.

  ‘. . . My least favourite theory is the Asian connection. I’ve been watching this game a long time. The Asians stick pretty much to themselves, they’ve got their own organisation and operate within that. There’s a possibilit
y it’s blokes up from Melbourne trying to move in on the action up here because, believe me, the action is up here. But . . .’ he moved his hand from side to side, indicating we were on shaky ground with this one, ‘they’d have to have damned good connections in Sydney anyway. It’s a bit of an uphill battle trying to move in on a scene when you’re not familiar with the geography . . .’ I nodded, encouraging. ‘No,’ he said, finishing off his Scotch and ice, ‘my guess is that people are being kicked upstairs. I saw it happen in the sixties and I’m seeing it happen again now. And when I say upstairs, I mean upstairs,’ he said, meaning heaven. ‘A man can’t live forever. They get sick and they die. And sometimes they die without being sick.’

  Terminal illness.

  ‘You haven’t mentioned the police corruption theory.’

  ‘No,’ he stated simply. ‘I threw that in because it’s topical. There has always been a, let’s say, “close bond” in this state between organised crime and the forces of Law and Order. Stands to reason, doesn’t it. I’m not denying the enquiries and Royal Commissions have an effect. The effect is the protection gets more expensive and you don’t say things over the phone like you used to. But that’s not why the crims are shooting each other.’

  ‘Why are they then?’

  ‘Takeover bids. That’s what I’d put my money on. Like I say, no-one’s immortal.’

  ‘Who in particular is not immortal?’

  He leaned back and chuckled. I began to wonder which side of the fence he was on but journalists are observers: they sit on the fence and look both ways. Without fear or favour. Collier was more cynical than Guy had been. He’d survived.

  ‘I only get the rumours, and you know what rumours are—a lot of smoke and very little fire. But one of the smoke signals is . . .’ he lit yet another cigarette and extinguished the match with a quick flick of the wrist, ‘about a gentleman who goes by the name of Harry Lavender. Ah, I see you’ve heard of him. Rumour is . . . he’s dying of cancer.’

  Dying of cancer. If Harry Lavender ever did die that is the way he would go. He wouldn’t be gunned down, he wouldn’t die in jail. It was strangely appropriate. Some sort of poetic justice. His own rot killing him. Terminal illness. The life and crimes . . . Who was trying to point me to Harry Lavender?

  ‘But that’s just a ploy, isn’t it? A ploy to stay out of court: cancer, emphysema, pains in the neck, the ‘flu . . .’

  ‘Have you noticed Lavender being summonsed lately?’

  ‘I think I need another drink.’

  ‘Another mineral water?’

  ‘No.’

  Without getting up Collier ordered two Scotches and ice.

  ‘So, they’re standing in line like vultures waiting for him to go.’

  ‘Could be his underlings are lining up as possible inheritors of the empire—or could be the empire is about to be carved up by the other princes.’

  ‘What about Ronny O’Toole?’

  ‘What about him.?’

  ‘Is he in line for the throne?’

  Collier curled his lip. ‘Wouldn’t say so. He’s too dumb and Harry’s too smart. You need brains to run an empire. Mind you, he’s probably dumb enough to try.

  ‘By the way, where did you get the name Ronny O’Toole from? He hasn’t used that name for years.’

  ‘What name is he using?’

  ‘Several. The one for which he’s best known is Johnny the Jumper.’

  I shuddered involuntarily and tucked my legs under the chair. Everyone did when they found out what Johnny the Jumper’s favourite party trick was.

  Other henchmen simply shot their victims, or beat them to a pulp. Johnny broke their legs. The kitchen was his favourite spot. He used two chairs. He’d sit them on one chair and tie their legs to the other. Then he’d get up on the kitchen table and jump. Onto their legs.

  I felt sick, the sick feeling you get when you hear an urban myth. And sicker. Because this man roamed the streets. Some of the time, it seemed, after ME.

  But my legs were still intact. It didn’t make me feel better. I made me feel worse. Why were they still intact? There’d been plenty of breaking opportunities. And others as well. He could have blown me away at the container terminal . . . he could have blown me away in my sleep. But the worst that had happened to me was being watched. Perhaps even now I was being watched.

  ‘Expecting someone?’ asked Collier.

  ‘Why?’ I said, jolted back to reality.

  ‘The way your eyes are rolling round the room. Are you in trouble?’

  Trouble was swirling all around me, yet somehow I was the centre of it, the eye, the private eye, of the storm. Untouched. That indeed was the trouble.

  I laid the card on the table.

  ‘What do you make of this?’

  He examined it closely, turned it over and looked at the blank side. ‘Looks like the title of a book.’

  ‘A book you’ve read?’

  He laughed. ‘No. I’d like to write it, though.’

  ‘I think someone may have beaten you to it. Does it mean anything else to you?’

  He shook his head and shrugged his mouth. ‘You tell me.’ He leant across the table into my intimate zone. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘It got me. Flew right onto my balcony. And I don’t think it was an accidental landing. Does the name Mark Bannister mean anything to you?’

  ‘Yeah . . . yeah. That was that young bloke in Bondi died of a heart attack, wasn’t it? It’s a worry when people younger than yourself start keeling over: you begin to think you’re overdue. And talking about overdue, I’m a patient man but so far you’ve been doing all the asking and I’ve been doing all the answering. ‘Bout time for a change of chairs don’t you think? What’s this Bannister bloke got to do with Harry Lavender?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to figure out. There’s a strong possibility that heart attack wasn’t accidental. The guy had a pacemaker . . .’

  ‘I know, that’s what made it newsworthy. So nobody’s perfect, even medical technicians.’

  ‘Apparently they are. But there’s more: he had heroin in his bloodstream.’

  ‘The streets are lined with bodies with heroin in their bloodstream.’

  ‘There’s more still. There’s that,’ I said, throwing my eyes towards the LIFE AND CRIMES, ‘and there’s this.’ I showed him the TERMINAL ILLNESS card. ‘And Ronny, Johnny the Jumper, has been following me.’

  ‘He gets his kicks in strange ways.’

  ‘But I haven’t been kicked. Just followed.’

  I told him about the container terminal.

  ‘Sounds like someone’s looking after you.’

  ‘Yeah, but for how long? Someone out there is watching every move I make.’

  ‘You sound just like your father. He thought he was being watched.’

  ‘Well maybe he was!’ It had come out too fast. And unexpectedly.

  I swallowed, trying to push the rest of it back down.

  ‘Look, you grew up with a story, and the story got bigger and bigger. The Lavender of 30 years ago was just another punk with a knife. A smart punk, an ambitious punk, but he didn’t have the clout then. Guy didn’t handle it properly. I’ve been threatened too, but I didn’t stay home and drink myself stupid.’

  ‘He threatened to cut Guy’s wife and baby. That baby was me, for God’s sake! You know what my earliest memory is? Of a knife slicing open the fly screen on the window. You know what that sounds like in the dead of night? It’s insidious, like the creak of a door in a haunted house. There’d been phone calls, and my parents arguing, but after that Guy started staying home. To look after us! But in the end it was us looking after him. Then we lost him. He was still there physically but the mind was off with the fairies. Mina used to hide the bottles at first but he’d go out all night and come home in the morning drunk. One time he’d wet himself, in a line down his trousers. For a kid to see her father like that? . . . Do you know what it’s like? Do you? Do you?’ I couldn’t get
the noise out of my brain. It was so loud and distorting people were starting to look.

  He put his hand on mine. ‘I know,’ he said softly. ‘Guy phoned me that night, about the knife. Claudia, your dad wasn’t cut out to be a journo: too romantic, too idealistic. He was a bloody good writer though.’

  ‘Yeah, he was a good writer: good at writing himself off. Mina did her best, but in the end she had to save herself. She left. Maybe she thought that would bring him to his senses but . . .’

  Collier was looking at me with deep brown eyes, the rugged face soft now as he listened to the story of yet another life.

  ‘Do you know what Mark Bannister was doing? He was writing a book.’

  ‘The Life and Crimes of Harry Lavender?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘No-one would do that while Harry was still alive.’

  ‘Mark Bannister had a computer. With a modem attached. Now why would a writer need that? You’re a journo. What do you use a modem for?’

  ‘To ring in stories.’

  ‘Do you receive stories as well?’

  ‘I receive information, yes.’

  ‘Do you see what I’m getting at?’

  ‘Oh no, no,’ he said, shaking away the realisation. ‘Leave it alone, you don’t know what you’re up against. Lavender’s got fingers in every pie in the shop. He’s got the games arcades sewn up tight as a bull’s arse in fly season. You go through the company titles, it comes back to Lavender. You look at the heroin trade, at the man behind the men, it comes back to Lavender. All the development in the city, the licences granted, even the legit business, dig deep enough and what do you turn up? Lavender. And then he’s got his own little personal sideline: computers. Gets the computer to knock him up a couple of million dollars pocket money. He knows the way things are going in this city and he’s always one step ahead of the game. You wouldn’t get to the end of the first round with Lavender.’

  ‘Been doing all right so far.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he said snidely. ‘You think you’re running the show? You know how cats play with mice? They tease them a little first, make them think there’s a way of escape. They enjoy the hunt, enjoy watching the mouse’s feeble attempts at defence. Then when they’re tired of playing they move in for the kill. Leave it alone. Lavender’s already been given the death sentence. It’s just a matter of time.’