Eddie found the National Gallery easily enough, but for the life of him he couldn’t find a parking spot. He left the car as close as possible to the building and sprinted up a set of steps and along an elevated pathway to the entrance. Inside the revolving doors the ceiling was so high and echoey it was like being lost inside some gigantic cathedral. Eddie’s eyes darted everywhere in the indirect lighting trying to find the gift shop. He spotted it not far from the entrance and, ignoring the stares of several uniformed attendants, almost ran across to it.
There were rows and rows of cards and posters, and stacks of books and magazines. No, that’s not what I want, Eddie muttered to himself. His eyes flicked around the gift shop. Ah, there’s what I’m looking for. He went to a row of artprints on a rack built out from the wall and started flipping through them. Shit! What am I going to get her? I wouldn’t know one bloody artist from another. Wait on, this one looks familiar. Eddie’s mind was jogged back to a chocolate commercial he’d seen on TV. Two characters in an old painting in an art gallery come to life and eat a bar of chocolate when the caretaker walks away. The caretaker returns and they get back in the painting leaving the wrapping on the art gallery floor. That’ll do, thought Eddie. He pulled it out and took it to the girl at the gift shop counter.
‘Aah, yes,’ said the studious looking young lady behind the counter. On The Wallaby Trail. An excellent choice. You’re an aficionado of Frederick McCubbin are you?’
‘Who?’
‘Frederick McCubbin,’ repeated the girl. ‘The Australian artist who painted this.’
‘Never heard of him,’ shrugged Eddie. ‘But I like Kit-Kats.’
The girl heaved a sigh of exasperation. Bloody Philistine, she muttered to herself. Typical. She wrapped Eddie’s print in a cardboard tube. He paid her and sped to the car. He was at O’Malleys house in Red Hill at two minutes to five.
When Eddie swung the Rolls Royce up into the driveway, Price Galese, the urbane casino proprietor was propped in the doorway, blind as a bat. Yvonne had him by one arm; O’Malley was passed out on the lounge inside.
‘Ohh, Eddie,’ he groaned, when he saw him walking towards him. ‘Help me to the car, will you, mate.’
Yvonne looked at Eddie and smiled. ‘They’ve had a big day.’
‘It looks it,’ replied Eddie, taking his boss by the arm.
‘Will you be all right now?’ Eddie nodded and returned her smile. ‘Well goodbye then, Mr Galese. It’s been a pleasure to have met you.’
Price mumbled something and gave Yvonne a limp wave. Eddie gave her a last wink as the door closed, then placed his boss gently on the front seat of the car and did his seatbelt up.
‘Ohh, Eddie. I’m so bloody drunk,’ said Price, as they cruised back down La Perouse Street.
‘Yeah? I’d never have guessed,’ grinned Eddie.
‘That bloody O’Malley. Christ! He drinks like a bloody fish,’ said Price with a hiccup.
‘Where have you been?’
‘We kicked off drinking whiskey at his place. Then he took me out for lunch.’
‘Yeah? Any good?’
‘Yeah. It was beautiful. Some old pub out near the War Memorial.’
‘The War Memorial?’ Eddie looked at Price a little suspiciously. ‘You went to some pub out near the War Memorial. What was it called?’
‘The Alislie, or something,’ mumbled Price.
‘The Alislie.’ Eddie nearly ran up the arse of a Holden station wagon as they approached Lake Burley Griffin. ‘You had lunch at the Alislie?’
‘Yeah,’ hiccupped Price. ‘T’riffic food.’ He gave a drunken laugh. ‘It was funny, though. We’re eating away and some bloke was screwing this sheila in a room just across from us. You could hear it all over the joint. Sounded like he was cutting her throat.’
Eddie swallowed hard as he remembered Dutchy going off in bed like a box of sweaty dynamite. He made a mental sign of the cross and decided to change the subject. But Price changed it for him.
‘What’d you do yourself?’
‘Huh? Oh, I ah… went to the War Memorial. Then had a look at the Art Gallery — got the kids a present, and a nice print for Lindy. It’s on the back seat.’
‘Good on you, Ed. You remembered your family.’
‘Yeah!’ Eddie gave a sigh of relief. ‘Well, I suppose you won’t be wanting any tea tonight then?’
Price shook his head. ‘Just a cup of coffee and put me to bed.’
‘Righto. What time do you want to get going in the morning?’
‘’Bout nine, eh?’
‘Okay.’
Price rolled his head towards Eddie, having trouble keeping his eyes open. ‘Oh, Eddie,’ he moaned. ‘I’m so pissed.’
Eddie looked at his boss, smiled and kept driving. Despite the warmth inside the car, Eddie could distinctly feel a few drops of cold sweat forming around his neck.
AT 8.30 THE following morning, Price and Eddie were standing outside The Country Club Motel. It was bitterly cold and misty. The roads were damp from some light rain and great clouds of steam hung in the still morning air as they spoke. Price’s face was a little pale, but overall he hadn’t brushed up too bad. He was just awfully seedy.
‘So, how are you feeling after a feed?’ said Eddie, slamming down the boot after placing their bags inside. ‘At least you had a good night’s sleep.’
‘Not too bad considering. Those four Panadol did the trick.’ Price shook his head. ‘That bloody O’Malley.’
Eddie smiled and opened the door for him. ‘It takes two to tango, you know.’
The big motor purred into life and Eddie glanced at his watch. ‘We should be home not long after lunch.’
‘Good,’ intoned Price. ‘Two days in Camelot’s more than enough for me.’
‘Yep,’ agreed Eddie, his eyes on the outside mirror as he swung the Rolls around. ‘It’s Centennial Park without the kiosks, as far as I’m concerned.’
It wasn’t long before the blue sign they’d seen coming in flashed past; only this time it was on the opposite side of the road telling them they were now leaving the Australian Capital Territory. Eddie wasn’t thinking about much, just smiling to himself about how lucky he was Price hadn’t parked at the rear of the Alislie and spotted his car. Price was staring ahead in silence, obviously preoccupied.
‘So,’ said Eddie, turning the car radio down a little. ‘How did it all work out with O’Malley? Everything sweet? Anything you want to tell me about?’
Price seemed to come to life a little. ‘Yeah,’ he nodded enthusiastically, ‘it all worked out well. It’s no real big deal. In fact I’ll give you the guts while we’re going along.’
By the time they’d passed Lake George and Thornford, Price had given Eddie the complete story; including the fact that Peregrine was the Attorney General’s godson and it was the IRA who were after him. The only thing he didn’t do was show Eddie the photo of Peregrine that O’Malley had given him, as he had put it somewhere in his overnight bag when he was drunk. Despite the seriousness of Peregrine’s situation in England, Eddie couldn’t help but be a little amused.
‘It’s a bit of a funny one, Price,’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ nodded his boss. ‘It is a bit, isn’t it?’
‘This Peregrine sounds like a bit of a Beechams.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Price again. ‘It sure looks that way. But, he’s O’Malley’s godson and I said I’d look after him. So …’
‘Fair enough.’ Another kilometre or so sped by. ‘So what do you intend to do with him?’
‘Get him out of Sydney. Send him right up the North Coast somewhere for a couple of weeks. Till all this rattle blows over in Ireland. Or England. Or wherever it bloody is.’
‘Up the North Coast?’ Eddie’s eyes lit up as if an idea had just hit him. ‘How far up the North Coast?’
‘Right up. The further the bloody better.’
‘Jesus! I might be able to do something there. I got some old mates from Vietnam livi
ng in the Tweed Valley. I was only on the phone to them last week. There’s a big property up there used to belong to this colonel in the US Marines. There’s no one living there and they were thinking of buying it. But they haven’t got the money. You could rent it easy enough and snooker him up there.’
‘Jesus, that’s a good idea,’ said Price.
Eddie put his foot down and easily overtook a line of three cars. ‘You got anyone in mind to take this bloke up the North Coast and look after him?’
A hint of a smile creased the corners of Price Galese’s dark brown eyes. ‘Yeah,’ he nodded slowly. ‘I think I know just the bloke.’
SITTING IN THE lounge room of his Bondi semi, watching the Saturday afternoon football live on the ABC, Les Norton could hardly have been in a better mood. It had been a pretty good day all round. He’d got out of bed at about ten thirty and had an enjoyable breakfast with Warren. Warren then left Les to go off to the Paddington stalls for a few drinks and have a look at the elfs and goblins and other endangered species that are apt to congregate in large numbers along that part of Oxford Street on Saturday. It was a cold but clear day with a light nor’wester blowing so Les opted to ring Billy Dunne for a run on Bondi Beach and a bit of bag work at North Bondi Surf Club, which, in the crisp winter weather, was more than enjoyable too. After this they had a T-bone and salad at the Bondi Icebergs plus a few beers. In between shouts he and Billy managed to pull three jackpots on the pokies. Then on the way home Les called in to the TAB and had $200 on one of Price’s horses, My Deal, which, by changing channels to ‘The Wide World Of Sport’, Norton was ecstatic to see it get up in the last few strides and win by half a length at 7/2. Quite a tasty result. But best of all, Easts had just knocked off Balmain with a dead set, flukeish try in the last two minutes when the Easts hooker went over from a Balmain knock-on. The Roosters missed the conversion but still managed to win by one point. Not a very convincing result and not that Norton was any sort of fanatical Easts supporter, apart from having a bit of a soft spot from his playing days with them. But when it came to football, a certain George Brennan, manager of the Kelly Club was: and his team was Balmain. He and Les had bet $100 on the game plus a carton of beer. Now Norton was even more in front. But no amount of liquor or money would be as good as seeing the look on George’s face when Les walked into the club that night or the ammunition he’d have to fire at him with absolutely none coming back.
Aah yes, thought Norton, easing back happily into the lounge. How do the words go to that Louis Armstrong song? ‘And I say to myself, what a wonderful world.’ He raised his Kahlualaced cup of coffee to the TV screen and the players who were now leaving the field.
‘You’re not wrong, Satchmo old mate,’ he said out loud.
Norton finished his coffee, pottered around the house for a while, then had his usual hour’s nap before he got ready for work. Warren still wasn’t home when he got up. The pixies have probably taken him away, Les mused. So he ironed his shirt, had a couple of toasted ham sandwiches and was at the Kelly Club around eight-thirty. Billy was standing out the front when he got there.
‘My Deal,’ grinned Les, as soon as he saw Billy. ‘Did you get on?’
Billy nodded and returned Norton’s grin. ‘Reckon.’
‘It paid $7.70 on the TAB.’ Billy nodded again. ‘Between that and our little flutter at the pokies we haven’t had a bad day.’ Billy winked.
‘But, mate,’ enthused Norton, giving his workmate a light punch on the arm, ‘did you see who won the football?’
‘Yes,’ replied Billy. ‘And I know someone else who did too.’
Norton laughed and rubbed his hands together. ‘How’s his face? Like a tin of condemned bully beef?’
‘Worse.’
‘Good. I’ll go up and let the fat cunt know I’m here.’
Whistling cheerfully, Norton disappeared up the stairs two at a time. He was back about five minutes later, still whistling and with two steaming mugs of coffee.
‘Did you see him?’ asked Billy Dunne.
‘Sort of,’ replied Les. ‘He saw me. Mumbled G’day or something. Then went and hid in the shithouse.’
‘Did you follow him in?’
‘No,’ chuckled Norton. ‘I left him in there where he belongs. But I’ll stick it up him after work. Don’t worry about that.’
The boys sipped their coffee while they nodded to and joked with some of the punters who were starting to arrive. No one stayed out the front long enough to engage them in any great lengths of conversation as the bitter sou’wester whipping up Kelly Street soon put a stop to that. Even the mugs and the drunks didn’t want to hang around and argue in the cold for long. These were the sort of nights Les and Billy appreciated more than ever the scarves and gloves that Price had shouted each to wear with their tuxedos.
‘Price is back,’ said Billy.
‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘I saw him on TV this arvo in the winners’ circle when My Deal won.’
‘Wonder what he was doing in Canberra?’
‘Wouldn’t have a clue. George didn’t know either. He might tell us after work tonight.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Billy. ‘He might.’
Another hour or so passed by and apart from the wind stinging their eyes and making their noses run, the boys were doing it cosy. In fact they wouldn’t have minded a bit of a heated argument or even a minor altercation just to liven things up and get their blood pumping. They had just finished another mug of coffee when a beige Rolls Royce turned graciously into Kelly Street, with Eddie at the wheel and a smiling Price at the window.
‘Hello,’ said Billy. ‘Here they are now.’
The Rolls came gently to a stop not far from the club and Eddie and Price got out. There were greetings and smiles all round when they saw Les and Billy. Eddie was wearing corduroy jeans and a windcheater, Price had on a light grey suit and blue tie; neither had their jackets done up and although the wind was going through the boys on the door like a knife, Price and Eddie seemed completely oblivious to it.
‘So how was Canberra?’ asked Billy.
‘In a word, Billy,’ replied Price, ‘fuckin’ cold.’
‘Colder than this?’ asked Les.
‘You’re kidding, Les,’ said Eddie. ‘Canberra makes this look like Surfers Paradise.’
‘Jesus, that’s where I wouldn’t mind being right now,’ said Norton, clapping his hands together.
Price and Eddie exchanged surreptitious smiles. ‘You never know, Les,’ said Price. ‘I might just have a little something for you after work tonight.’
‘How do you mean?’
Price gave Les a light punch on the shoulder. ‘I’ll tell you about it when we knock off. Anyway, I’ve got to get upstairs and make sure George hasn’t robbed me.’
‘I wonder what that was all about?’ said Norton, as he watched Eddie and Price disappear up the stairs.
Billy shrugged his shoulders. ‘Dunno,’ he said. He made a gesture with his hands. ‘But I imagine we’ll find out after work tonight.’
Try as they might, Les and Billy couldn’t find anything funny about standing around the front of the club that night and at one am Les made sure their next cups of coffee were well-laced with Jim Beam Black Label. But the cold kept the mugs away and there wasn’t so much as a cross word let alone any fisticuffs all night. So apart from the weather, and with a few bourbon coffees under their belts, Saturday evening went smoother than a Mormon’s haircut. However, Les and Billy were still more than pleased when at three-thirty they had the place locked, bolted and barred and were sitting in the warmth of Price’s office having an after-work and end-of-week drink.
There was the usual idle chit-chat as the first two rounds of drinks went down. Price and Eddie didn’t seem to be saying a great deal. Les and Billy commented on the weather and the money they’d won on the pokies and Price’s horse. The big surprise of the night was George Brennan. Having lost the bet to Les and knowing he was in for a ferocious bagging, Les had ex
pected him to have a 25 carat case of the shits. On the contrary, he was all smiles. Les hit him with a couple of barbed sling-offs early in the piece but the fat casino manager wouldn’t come in at all — he simply shrugged his shoulders and copped it sweet. This took the wind right out of Norton’s sails. So he quietly collected his $100 and his case of beer and even conceded that the Easts try was a fluke and Balmain should have won. Billy Dunne couldn’t believe his ears. Eventually though, the small talk about football, racehorses and the weather drifted off and all eyes turned to Price and Eddie. George was the first to swing the subject around to what was on everyone’s mind.
‘So,’ he said casually. ‘How was the trip to Canberra, Price? Everything go all right?’
‘The trip to Canberra? It was good. Cold. But yes, everything did go all right,’ replied Price. He stared at the deafening silence coming from his three trusted employees and exchanged a half smile with Eddie. ‘I suppose you’re all wondering what we were up to down there. And why we left in such a hurry?’
‘Well…’ George gave a noncommittal shrug of his shoulder while Les and Billy tried to look indifferent. But it was patently obvious they were all swarming like bees.
‘Okay.’ Price eased back in his padded leather chair. ‘I’ll tell you what’s going on.’ He fixed his gaze on Norton. ‘I would have had to anyway.’
While Eddie got them all another drink, Price told them the reason he and Eddie went to Canberra. He simplified it as much as possible. But he did mention the lunch with O’Malley, the fact that Peregrine was a baronet and the Attorney General’s godson. How it was the IRA that were after him and how they were going to hide him on the farm Eddie knew about in the Tweed Valley for two weeks. Eddie didn’t mention what he had done while he was down there.
There was a puzzled, if not slightly amused silence for a moment as what Price had just told them sunk in. Then Billy spoke.
The Godson Page 4