Red Herring

by Jonothan Cullinane

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Home was an elegant two-storey bungalow in Herne Bay set back off the road behind an enormous tree. Creeper grew around the entrance and along the top of a large picture window, and in the moonlight Molloy could see a chimney made of river stones.

  “Will you marry me?” he said.

  “It belongs to my aunt, you dope,” said Caitlin, squeezing his arm.

  The kitchen was at the back of the house with a view down a lawn and over a wooden fence across the harbour to the Chelsea Sugar Refinery in Birkenhead.

  Caitlin turned on the light. “Take your coat and shirt off.”

  Molloy stood in his singlet.

  “Where does it hurt?”

  “Sort of here,” said Molloy, pointing.

  She put an ear to his chest. “Take a deep breath.”

  He looked down at her hair. She splayed her hand on his ribs, applying pressure. “I doubt it’s broken. If it was, you’d know about it. There’s not much I can do. I’ll bandage it. These sorts of injuries fix themselves. I’ll find you some painkillers. Won’t be a tick.”

  She left the room. Through the kitchen window Molloy could see a small boat moving up the harbour past Watchman Island, a lamp swinging on its bow.

  Caitlin came back into the kitchen with a bottle of aspirin, a bandage and some Johnnie Walker. She poured neat whisky into two kitchen glasses and gave one to Molloy. She shook two pills into his hand.

  “Good health,” she said. They clinked glasses. He swallowed the pills. She unravelled the bandage.

  “Take off your singlet.”

  “I’m really surprised you didn’t continue with nursing,” said Molloy, as Caitlin wrapped the fabric around his chest. “That bedside manner.”

  She looked at him. “Oh, I’ve got a bedside manner, all right,” she said, securing the bandage with a safety pin. “Don’t you worry.”

  The air between them crackled.

  “Look,” said Molloy, after a moment. “I better be off.”

  “Why?” said Caitlin, putting down her glass.

  “Let’s not get carried away,” he said.

  “Why not?” she said, slowly undoing the top button of her blouse.

  “Because I’ve been around the block a couple of times,” said Molloy, putting his hands gently on her shoulders. “And you’re a girl with her whole life ahead of her.”

  “So?” She was wearing a sheer corselette with a deep plunge. “It won’t be my first time, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Furst was struggling to put on his pyjamas when he heard a knock at the door. Matching Walsh drink for drink had been a mistake. He had rung the front desk and asked for analgesics to be sent up. But rather than the night porter, his visitor was a peroxided nymph straight from the lurid cover of an Erle Stanley Gardner mystery, as fatale as femmes come.

  “Hello,” this vision said, her open and friendly tone belying her sultry appearance. “Are you Mr Furst?”

  “That’s me,” said Furst. “Are you the night nurse?”

  “If you like,” said the girl. “I’m Brenda. A friend asked me to come up and keep you company.”

  “A friend, huh?” said Furst, pulling the folds of a dressing gown over his stomach. “And who would that be?”

  “Mr Walsh. F.P. Walsh.”

  “Did he now, by God?” said Furst, looking quickly up and down the hallway. “Well, come right in, honey. Brenda, was it?”

  “Brenda, yes. Although I’m thinking of changing it to something more modern. Gosh, this is a nice room.” She kicked off her shoes and sat on the bed. “Oh!” she said. “Is this one of them inner-sprung mattresses?”

  “You know, Brenda,” said Furst, feeling better already. “I believe it is.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Lofty parked the Chrysler in front of a grocer’s in New Lynn. Sunny was letting him drive. Lofty went inside and bought a loaf of bread, a pound of butter, milk, tea, chocolate biscuits, Weet-Bix, half a dozen eggs, six slices of bacon, rolling papers, tobacco and a box of matches. The shopkeeper put the items in a cardboard box. Lofty loaded it into the boot of the Plymouth, next to the box of gelly, a canvas carpenter’s bag filled with tools, and a crate of Waitemata, and got back in the car. They drove to Laingholm and then down a gravel road to Huia. Lofty stopped outside a fibrolite bach set back off the road. O’Flynn was sitting on the back porch with a mug of tea, his nose peeling, one hand shading his pale green eyes from the morning sun.

  “The cavalry has arrived,” he said. “About time.”

  “Put the kettle on,” said Sunny.

  Lofty put the box of groceries and the beer on the porch. Sunny placed the gelignite and the detonators and the canvas toolbag next to it.

  O’Flynn came out with a teapot and cups. “I’ve no sugar.”

  “Not for me,” said Sunny.

  “Me neither,” said Lofty.

  “You didn’t bring a girl, did you?” said O’Flynn. “Jaysus, I could use one.” He winked at Sunny. “Even your man’s looking sweet.”

  “Hey!” said Lofty, stepping backwards.

  “Do we have a day for the spectacular?” said O’Flynn, taking the lid off the box of gelignite. He took out a stick and threw it to Lofty. “Think fast!”

  “Oh, jeez,” said Lofty, fumbling the catch. “What did you do that for?”

  “This Saturday,” said Sunny. “There’s a boat to Sydney at midday. All the girls you want in Sydney.”

  “So I’ve heard,” said O’Flynn. “What’s today?”

  “Wednesday. I’ll pick you up at seven o’clock in the morning. You’ll be out of the country by lunchtime.”

  “And the fella who’s sniffing round? The shamus?”

  “He got the message, don’t worry.”

  “There’s another thing,” said O’Flynn.

  “What?” said Sunny.

  “I’ve a suitcase in left-luggage at the railway station.”

  Sunny paused. “You should have thought of that,” he said.

  “We left in a hurry you’ll recall.”

  “Even so. What’s in it?”

  “Oh, items of a sentimental nature. Letters and the like.”

  “Travelling money?”

  “A hundred greenbacks give or take.”

  “Give me the ticket. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “That’s the problem. The ticket’s still in me room at the boarding house. Hidden in the backing of a picture. I was in me cups when I put it there. Sober, I thought it was in me wallet.”

  “Well,” said Sunny. “Do you remember the number on the ticket?”

  “Funnily enough now, I don’t.”

  “Then you’re buggered. Mr Walsh wouldn’t take the risk at this stage.”

  “I thought as much,” said O’Flynn. “Ah well, I’ll offer it up.” He stretched. “Three more days in this dump. I’m going mental. I’m down to reading the dunny paper.”

  “There’s a Western in the glovebox,” said Sunny. “Not sure what it’s called.”

  “Sounds grand,” said O’Flynn.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Walsh had gone to San Francisco in 1948 as the Federation of Labour’s representative at a Cold War boondoggle called the International Longshoreman’s Congress. He booked in at the Army–Navy YMCA. He gave a boiler-plate address to the plenary session, something about the effects of the first Labour Government’s amendment to the Industrial Conciliation and Arbitration Act as it applied to the implementation of the 40-hour week, and got back to his room early, intending to have a drink or two, go out for a meal in Chinatown, visit a cathouse. But there was a note pushed under his door. Café du Nord, the note said. Tonight at 9.

  There was no name, just a salutation, One of The Particular Ones.

  What the hell?

  Nothing really frightened Walsh, but this gave him pause.

  He made a telephone call from the lobby to the office of the ma
ritime union, the ILWU, and asked for Harry Bridges, saying he was an old friend from down-under, that Harry would want to talk to him.

  “Who is this?” said Bridges.

  “Harry, it’s a voice from the grave,” said Walsh. “Pat Tuohy.”

  There was silence. “Well, fuck me,” said Bridges. He still had an Australian accent after twenty-five years in America. “It is a voice from the grave. I thought you were dead.”

  “The report was an exaggeration,” said Walsh.

  “Obviously,” said Bridges. “I just assumed that someone would have got to you by now.”

  Walsh and Bridges first met as crewmen on a Mexican oil tanker shipping crude from the Gulf Coast port of Tampico to New Orleans. They went back to California by way of Texas, bumming their way across the country, riding freight cars, dodging railroad bulls, living in jungles, mooching food. Boys really, though Walsh had killed people by then.

  “Are you in Frisco?” said Bridges.

  “I’m at the International Longshoremen’s Congress,” said Walsh. “I thought you’d be a guest speaker.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” said Bridges. “It’s a front organisation. Look at the lickspittles on the executive — Willis, Rabe, Littlejohn, Paniora. Those canaries’ll be spilling their guts to the Un-American Activities Committee next, the pack of bastards. What the hell are you doing there? You haven’t jumped the fence too, have you?”

  “Don’t be a dope,” said Walsh. “The State Department paid my fare. They think I was born yesterday? Hell, I’ll take anyone’s money if it means seeing the Paris of the West one more time. I’m getting on, Harry.”

  “Mate, we both are,” said Bridges. “What are you up to? Let’s have a drink.”

  “I’m at the Army–Navy Y,” said Walsh.

  “Perfect,” said Bridges. “The Old Ship Saloon on Pacific Avenue’s a short walk. Remember the Ship? It was a speak in our day. Say thirty minutes?”

  “Good,” said Walsh. “Oh, one other thing, Harry. I need to get my hands on a gun.”

  Harry Bridges had always been a handsome bloke in what might be called an Australian way — long face, long nose, hooded eyes, hair slicked straight back. He looked like a Sydney bookie. He had aged of course. His hair was now grey and rippled, his skin was marked with lentigines of various sizes and shades of brown, the legacy of a life spent on decks and wharves and picket lines, his once-smooth face could have done with an iron and press. He walked with a cane, the result of an altercation with a mounted policeman in 1933. But his eyes were as sharp as ever and he held himself well. He was wearing an ILWU button on the lapel of his check sports coat, and he carried a brown paper bag.

  He was born in Melbourne in 1901. He had jumped ship in Los Angeles, been in the Wobblies with Walsh, at the violent centre of West Coast waterfront militancy from the word go, elected President of the ILWU in 1937. He made the cover of Time magazine that same year — Bridges in a singlet with a big grin and the caption, “Trotsky to Stalin’s Lewis?”, a reference to his nemesis, the black-browed boss of the Congress of Industrial Organizations, John L. Lewis, the most powerful union figure in America. The US Government spent twenty years trying, unsuccessfully, to have him deported back to Australia for sedition and his case went to the US Supreme Court twice. He shook Walsh’s hand, ordered a pitcher of beer, and moved to a corner table.

  They swapped war stories for half an hour — “Remember when?” “What the hell happened to?” “The problem today is” — before Bridges pointed to Walsh’s glass, barely touched.

  “You haven’t given up the booze, I hope?” he said.

  “I’m meeting someone later,” said Walsh. “Need to keep my wits about me.”

  “Oh, that reminds me,” said Bridges, sliding the paper bag across the table. “You’re not planning to knock anyone off, I hope?”

  Walsh moved the bag onto the bench next to him. “Just want it in case.”

  Bridges leaned in. “It’s a Colt something, bit of a lady’s gun, but I’m told it’ll make a big hole. I got it through a third party in Tacoma when we were building up for the ’34 strike. I thought I better get some protection. For the wife and kiddies as much as anything. Hell, you know the drill, goons throwing petrol bombs into people’s living rooms, police looking the other way. It’s untraceable. You’ll see where the serial number’s been ground out. I’ve never used the bloody thing, wife didn’t want it in the house. When you’re finished with it, smash it up if you can and drop the pieces down a drain, just to be on the safe side.”

  “You don’t want it back?” said Walsh.

  “I’m too old. So are you, by the way. What’s this about?”

  “Someone put a note under my door asking to meet at a place called Café du Nord at nine tonight. Note was signed, ‘One of The Particular Ones’. That mean anything to you?”

  “Should it?”

  “It does to me. You know that old saying, ‘your blood runs cold’? Mine did, I tell you, just for a second. Listen. I got involved in some grubby business in Dublin after the war — the first one that is. The IRA assassinated, I dunno, fifteen British secret agents right across the city one Sunday morning.”

  “How were you involved?”

  Walsh’s hand was on the table. He closed his fingers into the shape of a pistol, his thumb moving like a hammer.

  “Good job,” said Bridges softly, raising his glass in a toast. “Here’s to the death of secret agents. So who are ‘The Particular Ones’?”

  “We had a list of about thirty of these jokers from memory, but we only got half. Faulty intelligence, jammed weapons, failure of nerve, the usual operational stuff-ups. Not that fifteen in a couple of hours wasn’t pretty good! Some of the ones who got away were particularly important in terms of the wider struggle. It was a tag that stuck to those we missed. They were the ones the Intelligence Wing had targeted in particular, see? They took it as a badge of honour, being English.”

  “And one of them’s seen you here and tracked you down, you think?”

  “That’s what I’m assuming.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “Plan? What’s this Café du Nord?”

  “It’s a basement bar in Market Street. Been around since the year dot. Used to be a speak too, as a matter of fact. Dark. Not very big.”

  “I’ll go along. See what he wants. What they want.”

  “Is that smart?”

  Walsh shrugged. “He could have been waiting in my room earlier, he could have shot me walking over here. Anyone can be killed, we both know that.”

  “I wish I could come with you. Watch your back sorta thing.”

  “And what? Whack him over the head with your stick?”

  “Hey! I’ve still got plenty of pep!” said Bridges. “No seriously, mate, I wish I could but I mean I just can’t. I have to be sensible. You know, my position? The flippin’ Department of Justice has been on to me for twenty flippin’ years, trying to boot me out of the country. I get tied up with something involving a gun and a card-carrying Commie?” He hooked a thumb. “Outski.”

  “Forget it,” said Walsh. “One old man’s bad enough. I’ll be all right.” He nodded towards the paper bag. “Especially with this.”

  “Tell you what, though,” said Bridges. “I could send along a couple of boys from the local to keep an eye out. I could set that up in a heartbeat.”

  “Thanks, Harry, but I’ll handle it. You’re a mate,” he said.

  “A mate?” said Bridges. “Jeez, after what you did for me that time with those bastards in Coeur d’Alene?”

  “You would’ve done the same for me,” said Walsh.

  “Well, I’d like to think so, but,” said Bridges.

  Café du Nord was in the basement of the Swedish American Hall. Walsh caught a tram, arrived early, watched the entrance from the shadows across the street for half an hour, went inside and down the stairs. He ordered a glass of beer, checked the rear exit that opened onto an alley, went into t
he Gents, closed the door, and took the pistol from the paper bag. Bridges was right. It was a lady’s gun. He could barely fit two fingers around the grip. It was the sort of weapon Brigid O’Shaughnessy might have carried. But it was simple. There was a slide safety catch and a grip safety catch and the magazine popped out easily and what else did he need to know? It fitted into the pocket of his jacket. He could pull it out without snagging. He went back to the bar, sat over his beer, and waited.

  The room was quiet. It was a Tuesday night. There was a couple in the corner talking. Two salesmen drinking cocktails. Three office girls laughing softly. A radio station played jazz with the volume turned down. The barman straightened bottles and wiped glasses with a tea towel, all the time keeping an eye out for the raised finger. Two bruisers came in, ordered a pitcher of beer and a checkers board, and sat by the door, Harry’s boys from the union local, Walsh assumed. He didn’t see the Particular until he was beside him. He must have come in through the rear exit by the Gents and been waiting in the darkness of the hallway. He leaned against the bar to Walsh’s left and began talking softly.

  “I’ve been watching you for ten minutes,” he said. “You’re drinking with your right hand, which means you’re right-handed, which means your gun is in your right-hand pocket.” His accent was Irish. “Which is why I’m on your left with me gun pointing straight at yiz.”

  Walsh picked up his glass with his right hand and drank it to the bottom, looking at the reflection in the mirror behind the bar. The Irishman had a tough, handsome face, black wavy hair parted off-centre and pushed straight back, a cowlick sprung loose.

  Walsh put the glass down and wiped his mouth. He spoke in a whisper so that the Irishman had to lean in. “What if I’m drinking with my right hand because I’m left-handed and I wanted to keep my left hand free to go for my gun which is in my left-hand pocket?” He turned abruptly, jabbing the barrel of the Colt into the Irishman’s thigh. “Eh?” he said. “How about that?”

  “Jaysus,” said the Irishman, his voice low and urgent. “Hold your horses! What if my mention of holding a gun on you was purely hypothetical? If there was no such gun in other words? What if I just wanted to talk?”