Two days after the Askin dinner, Danny walked into Franz’s office and flopped down in the old leather club chair that his partner had found at a Point Piper garage sale and of which he was inordinately proud – ‘Touch of gravitas, mate, scruff marks and all. Where could you buy one like that outside an Englishman’s club?’
‘You mean they have garage sales in Point Piper?’ Danny had quipped back.
‘Yes, when they have to throw out the worn Persian carpets,’ Franz had laughed.
Danny had to admit it was comfortable; perfect for an afternoon nap. ‘Got a moment?’ he said.
‘Not really, but in your case I’ll make an exception.’ Franz grinned.
‘Haven’t seen you since the dinner at my place. What did you think?’
‘What about? Askin? My mum’s cooking? Which reminds me, she phoned to say she’d left a saucepan behind. Will you bring it in?’
‘Yeah, sure. No, I mean, what did you think generally?’
‘Generally speaking I’d say you turned down a bloody good offer. Christ, Danny, he almost guaranteed you a minister’s portfolio.’
‘Yeah, to sleep with the devil.’
‘And with Labor you’re on the side of the angels?’
‘Well, no, but I’m standing as an Independent. My vote goes with whatever is the right thing to do.’
‘C’mon, Danny, you’re not naïve; your vote is meaningless if the party in power has a clear majority.’
‘Yeah, I know, but —’
‘But what?’
‘Mate, I have to go in on my own terms. I might get lucky and it will be a close election and then I’ll be able to make my presence felt.’
‘It’s a lot to hope for. What if it’s a landslide?’
Danny shrugged. ‘I’m only doing it for one reason and that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’
Franz glanced at his watch. ‘How long will it take? If it’s changing Balmain, we’ve talked it out before and I have nothing more to add —’
‘To your cesspool argument . . . yeah, I know, but there’s been a new development.’
‘Mate, I’m meeting a property developer for lunch.’
‘This is about the same thing – can you cancel?’
‘No, I bloody can’t! Jesus, Danny, we’re just starting to make real money and you’re talking of abandoning ship. Someone’s got to stay at the helm. You can’t practise while you’re in politics, which leaves me and the two students we’ve got from law school. It effectively halves our income.’
‘But I won’t be taking any money out, we’ll live on my parliamentary salary. Helen’s also bringing a bit more home from the pub, although it doesn’t yet match her uni salary. But it will, and soon. That’s what I want to talk to you about.’
Franz sighed. ‘I can’t miss this lunch – the project is potentially huge!’
‘Yeah, okay, but the one I’m going to talk about could be bigger.’
‘Bullshit, Danny! Stick to wives and children, and leave the conveyancing to me, will ya?’
‘You going to listen?’ Danny demanded, not in the least put out by Franz’s protests.
‘You’ve got exactly half an hour.’
‘Righto, now don’t interrupt, no wisecracks, just listen – okay?’
‘Yes, mein Herr!’
Danny began by telling Franz that Brenda had bought the twenty-eight houses in Brokendown Street, but got no further.
‘So it’s genetic, is it?’ Franz said with a laugh. ‘Errors of judgment or plain stupidity – which is it?’
‘Franz! You promised. No smart-arse remarks!’ Danny said. ‘And wipe that superior Hebrew smile off your face.’ He then outlined the political campaign to come, explaining that renovating the houses – or some of them, anyway – would demonstrate what could be done.
‘Look, Danny, I’ll give it to you straight: it all sounds pretty flaky to me. You can’t just go around and change the social demographic of an entire suburb!’
‘Why not? I thought you approved of my going into politics?’
Franz drew back. ‘Mate, don’t confuse me with Josef and Hester. My mum and dad didn’t even mention it to me before Dad saw you here. It wasn’t my idea — Jesus! I gotta go!’
Franz grabbed his briefcase and crossed the office.
‘When will you be back?’ Danny called.
Franz propped and turned to face him. ‘When you’re over your nervous breakdown!’
‘My office, four o’clock!’ Danny said.
‘Yeah, okay.’
Franz returned around three-thirty. It may have been the half-bottle of wine he’d had at lunch, but he seemed in a better mood as he entered Danny’s office and assumed his usual perch on the desk.
‘Good lunch? Did we win?’ Danny asked.
‘Does a bird fly?’ Franz said flippantly, the alcohol showing. He was usually pretty circumspect about his clients, his well-known discretion winning him more than a few contracts from the big end of town, where the development business wasn’t always strictly above board. Franz, for instance, knew more about the getting things done between pollies and private individuals than did Danny. An appropriate contribution to election funds was the semi-honest way of getting a minister’s ear, while the euphemistically named ‘brown envelope’ – a more personal contribution in return for influence – was so common with the incumbent Labor government as to be almost routine.
‘So, are you too pissed to resume our talk?’ Danny asked.
‘You know, you never give up, do you, Danny? Balmain has been chugging along for well over a century. It was designed to be a city dump – somewhere to put all the utilities and mess-makers in one inner-city industrial location and service them with the poor, who are not entitled to clean air, or to notice stink and abomination, as long as they’re given a sufficient serve of bread and circuses to keep them thinking they’re happy. Up the fucking Tigers!’
‘Yeah, I told you all that, but it can be changed. Look, I’ve got a proposition to put to you, one that could make us all rich, though that’s not why I’m doing it.’
‘While your contributions to this firm can be said to be important, making us all rich hasn’t been one of them to date.’
‘I guess you’re right – it’s not something I think about a lot.’
‘Well, if every battered wife and abused child pro bono had been fee paying, we would be. But pro bono-ing the entire peninsula is going a bit bloody far.’
‘Franz, it’s not me you have to back, it’s Helen and Brenda.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s another thing. Helen has just given up a secure job with a guaranteed pension to run a pub, something she knows bugger all about. Your mother wants to retire, your dad isn’t exactly a ball of energy, you’re standing as an Independent with no power to change anything in the next election, and you’re asking me to become involved?’
‘Mate, I know it doesn’t look good on paper —’
‘Good? Shit, Danny, there’s not a single thing about it that’s sound business or even basic commonsense!’ Franz, who usually drank very sparingly, suddenly lost his temper. ‘You’re supposed to be bright, but this is the dumbest bunch of decisions I’ve seen in years! And just when things are looking up for the firm. We’ve got a more than enviable reputation for disputation and criminal law, and you’re prepared to throw the whole lot away to save a recalcitrant fucking suburb from itself! This time, Don Quixote, there are too many windmills at the top of the hill, your lance is blunt and you’re riding a donkey that’s exhausted! If ever there was a well-named project it’s Brokendown Street!’ Franz snapped. ‘What you need to do, mate, is go and see Craig Woon, now that he’s a fully qualified psychiatrist, and get yourself certified!’
Danny looked calmly at Franz. ‘Balmain is in better shape than the prison camp.’
&
nbsp; ‘What’s that supposed to mean, for God’s sake?’
‘It means this is not the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.’
Franz gave Danny a look of bewilderment. ‘You really believe you can pull this off, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but we need your help.’
‘Mate, I’m getting close to being rich. For a Jew that’s just another word for “safe”. It hasn’t been easy, but nowhere near as hard as it’s been for my parents, who educated me and have a right to see me meet their expectations. Now, along comes some dumb Irishman with a proposition that is guaranteed to make me poor again!’ Franz spread his arms. ‘What do you expect me to say?’
‘You’ll never know unless you give it a go. If it looked easy, then everyone would be doing it. You have to see it differently. See the harbour not as a cesspool but as potentially one of the prettiest stretches of water in Sydney – quiet, tranquil and a stone’s throw from the centre of the city. Under the crud lies a paradise. Things are looking up; we’ve finally recovered from the Depression and the war; there is a new upwardly mobile young generation emerging; this new contraceptive pill is going to change things for women; even Pineapple Joe is changing from men’s suits to T-shirts. Can’t you see we’re paddling like mad but there’s a good wave behind us, a big one, and if we catch it, it will take us all the way into shore?’
Franz sighed. ‘Danny, what do you expect me to say?’
‘Not say, do.’
‘Okay, do?’
‘Franz, you don’t have to invest in it, though I think you’d be a fool if you didn’t, but I want you to sit on the board, be the chairman. We need your know-how.’
‘And someone to cop the shit when you go bankrupt?’
‘Ah, come on, mate. Every night the twins and I sing a song, have done since they were three years old, and the last lines go, And can you possibly tell me why . . . You dream of ice-cream and apple pie? You’re the schemer and I’m the dreamer – that’s why we’re such a terrific combination.’
Franz smiled. ‘Maybe, but I’ve had a bit too much to drink. I’d like to discuss it with my parents. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. But just so I know, who would be on such a board?’
‘Just the family – Helen, Brenda and Half Dunn.’
‘And you?’
‘No, mate; hopefully I’ll be in parliament. Can’t be seen to have a vested interest.’
‘I don’t know, a vested interest in failure goes well with being an Independent, doesn’t it?’
‘You’ll keep, son,’ Danny replied, smiling. But at least Franz was paying him the courtesy of getting a serious second opinion. Josef and Hester had worked hard and prospered. They were shrewd, practical people who, Danny knew, had put their money into various developments – what the Americans called shopping malls – that were just beginning to appear in Australia.
Danny was accustomed to getting his way, except occasionally with Helen, but he felt fairly certain Franz wasn’t going to deliver tidings of great joy and future opportunity to Josef and Hester. And that wasn’t the end of Danny’s disappointing day. The phone rang and shortly after the ever-astute Keri called out, ‘Danny, I have a Mr O’Hearn on the phone. He has an unpleasant tone, no “please” or “thank you”, just your name as if it were a demand: “Danny Dunn!”’
‘Yeah, that figures, put him through.’
Danny waited for the click. ‘Hello, Danny Dunn?’ he said in a neutral tone.
‘Tommy here, Tommy O’Hearn.’
‘That’s what my secretary said. What ill omen presages this call?’
‘Eh?’
‘To what do I owe the pleasure, or is it business?’
‘Jack O’Shea and me want to see you, mate. Termorra!’
‘I’m booked out for tomorrow. How about Friday in my office . . . let me see, eleven o’clock okay? By the way, can you give me any indication of the reason for the call?’
‘Yeah, mate, righto, eleven o’clock.’ The phone went dead.
Bloody charming. Presage was obviously the right word, Danny sighed to himself.
When he got home, Danny unburdened himself to Helen about Franz’s response, but she reacted calmly enough. ‘Well, what can you expect? I seem to recall you were not without reservations yourself, darling. Of course we’d love to have him as our chairman, but only as a true believer.’ She sighed then added, ‘We’ll muddle through on our own, I daresay. It’s hard to see Josef and Hester giving it the thumbs up. But what do you think the odious Tommy O’Hearn wants?’
‘No doubt he’s on a message from his masters in Macquarie Street, although the fact that he’s bringing Jack O’Shea with him is interesting, given that he’s the mayor elect of Balmain. Whatever it is, you may be sure it isn’t good news and has something to do with my standing as an Independent.’
Franz rang Keri just after nine o’clock the following morning to say he wouldn’t be in until lunchtime and couldn’t be contacted, but that he’d see Danny after lunch. Danny had a brief appearance to make in court, but, as usual, instead of a hour it took three, two of them waiting to be called. He got back to the office just before one to be told that Franz and his parents were waiting for him in the boardroom and that Hester had brought a packed lunch.
Danny had a quick pee, washed his hands and then went straight to the boardroom. ‘Mr Josef, Mrs Landsman, how nice.’ He glanced quickly at Franz for some sort of reaction but got none.
‘Chicken soup, Keri is makink warm, zen sandwiches – roast beef, cheese, tomato, Australian, togezzer on black bread, German,’ Hester announced.
‘I thought it only fair to bring Mum and Dad,’ Franz said, ‘that way you’ll hear it from them.’
‘Oh dear,’ Danny said sitting down. ‘Well, you were hardly ambivalent yesterday.’
To Danny’s surprise it was Hester who spoke first. ‘Helen, she is liking this Brokinkdown Street, Danny?’
‘Yes, very much.’
‘Very goot, and she is working to make zose houses nice?’
‘Well, yes, that’s the general idea, Mrs Landsman – to show people the potential, I mean, if the area is cleaned up.’
‘Danny, why you are turnink Mr Askin’s offer away?’
‘Mr Josef, me being a Liberal politician would be like you turning into a gentile. I couldn’t do it.’
Josef sniffed. ‘Lots of Jew they are becomink gentiles when comes the war, also before zat, the Spanish Inquisition . . . sometimes we got to do, life is precious.’
‘Yeah, well, I don’t know what I’d do if it meant the lives of my family, but that’s not the case here.’
‘Ja, your answer is goot.’
Josef looked at Hester and they nodded slightly. ‘We are goink this morning with Franz to see zat Brokinkdown Street. We would like very much to buy in this project, Danny, but only when I can be chairman,’ Hester said.
Danny could hardly believe his ears. ‘Buy in?’ he asked, caught off guard, his surprise clearly showing.
‘My mother makes all the financial decisions; she learned to do so when my dad was in the internment camp.’ Franz smiled. ‘Her track record is pretty impressive.’
Danny was lost for words but eventually said, ‘Of course. But didn’t Franz explain?’
‘Mate, I gave them the full cesspool theory, the whole bloody disaster!’ Franz said. ‘But my mum loved it, she says it’s the perfect investment.’
‘Huh? She said that?’
Franz turned to his mother. ‘Ask her.’
‘Danny, for Brokinkdown Street, ven you look, everysing is bad, terrible, terrible! But zen you look again, only one change and everything is goot now. When zose factories by the harbour is taken away and no more bad things zey are putting in zat water, zen everysing is goot.’ She clapped her hands. ‘Twenty-eight properties, harbour-front, oi vey! Mein goodness!’ He
r laughter almost sounded like a mischievous giggle. ‘Maybe I talk to Helen and Brenda, three womens togezzer.’
Danny glanced quickly at Franz, who shrugged. ‘I’m not a woman, mate, what would I know?’
‘Well, will you be part of it?’ Danny asked.
‘No way, José! In business with my mum, are you crazy?’
Danny turned to Hester Landsman. ‘This comes as quite a surprise, Mrs Landsman, and, of course, it’s not my decision. Can I arrange a meeting with Helen and Brenda?’ He looked at Josef. ‘Will you be included, Mr Josef?’
Josef put his hand up in a gesture of surrender. ‘Hester only, one is enough. Two Landsmans, zat is too much,’ he chuckled.
And so, to cut a long story short, Brokendown Street Property Investment Pty Ltd was formed, with Helen as managing director, and Brenda and Hester as the other two directors, taking turns month about at being chairman. The Landsmans, through their investment company, owned forty-nine per cent, Brenda forty-nine per cent, and Helen, for political reasons, owned only two per cent, though carried the deciding vote in any disagreement. They all shared equally in any profits. All that was needed now was for Danny to be elected, and somehow get the zoning for the Balmain foreshore changed to residential. Two very big ifs.
The visit from Tommy O’Hearn and Jack O’Shea, or, as it became known, the visit from the two Os, duly began on the dot of eleven o’clock on the day following the Landsman family meeting. Tommy O’Hearn, fat as a pig from feeding at the political trough, and Jack O’Shea, president of the local Labor branch, would-be mayor, and beanstalk slim, were announced by the switch and ushered into the boardroom by Keri, who took their order for, in both cases, tea with three sugars. Danny entered and both men remained seated, neither offering to shake his hand.
‘I see,’ Danny said, smiling, ‘you’ve come on business.’
‘Too right, mate,’ Tommy O’Hearn said, tapping the fingers of his right hand on the boardroom table.
O’Hearn was wearing a cheap, badly fitted, grey Terylene suit, with the collar button of his white shirt undone behind a red tie (Labor colours), pulled down an inch or so to give him room to breathe. O’Shea, equally in uniform, but in his case, working-class dressed up, sported a short back and sides with a quiff that was heavily Brylcreemed (a little dab will do ya), brown slacks, brown shoes and a yellow shirt with the collar turned over a brown sports jacket. Pineapple Joe, Danny silently observed, was going to be called upon to do a severe makeover if Jack O’Shea were to pass muster as the new mayor.
The Story of Danny Dunn Page 51