by Judy Nunn
'Whaddya mean, what would it cost?' From behind the desk in the soft, rose-lit reception area, Ruby Chan looked the kid up and down, her amusement evident. 'Whaddya want to know that for, sonny?'
The strong Aussie accent surprised Spud, but he found the smile encouraging, and gee, she was a looker. Her breasts in the low-cut décolletage were creamy and perfect.
'I'm doing a project for school.' He flashed his cheekiest grin and Ruby threw back her head and laughed. The kid was cute.
Ruby Chan was really Ruby Smith and second-generation Australian. Her grandfather had worked as a coolie on the goldfields out of Darwin, and her mum had married a man called Smith and come to Perth to open a laundry shop. But Ruby was enterprising, she'd moved up in the world. The Sun Majestic Massage Parlour was an extremely popular brothel, and the efficiency with which it functioned was due to Ruby's expert management.
'Well, you tell your teacher my girls cost five quid,' she said, 'just in case he wants to pay us a visit sometime.'
'Five quid.' Spud contemplated the sum. It was a lot of money and the prospect of doubling it was daunting. There might be other places with cheaper rates, he thought, but then he'd set his sights on the Sun Majestic, hadn't he?
'Rightio,' he said, 'I'll tell him.'
'And you come back yourself when you're older.' Ruby laughed again.
'Rightio. I will.'
It was three months later, and Spud had amassed the impressive sum of five pounds, but doubling it was proving difficult. He had to work further afield these days – people in nearby areas were keeping a close watch on their cars since the outbreak of hub-cap thefts – and Mercedes-Benzes seemed in short supply. Then he had a stroke of luck. More than a stroke of luck, he decided. The wallet was manna from heaven.
Five of them found it one wintry Friday night on their way to the bowling alley. Spud, Mike, the Brown brothers and Ivan the Pole were walking along Adelaide Terrace towards the Fairlane bowling centre and, as they passed the modest brick building that housed the Australian Broadcasting Commission, there it was, just lying in the gutter. Brucie Brown spotted it first, black leather glistening in the light of a streetlamp. He picked it up.
'Cripes,' he said, peering inside at the fiver and the one-pound note. 'Six quid.'
'Don't open it here, you bloody moron.' His older brother Len snatched it from him and hid it under his duffle coat as a gang passed them by and walked through the front doors of the nearby bowling centre.
'I reckon we should hand it in,' Mike said.
'Hand it in where?' Len asked.
'The ABC.' Mike gestured behind him. 'It's right outside the front door. It probably belongs to someone who works there.'
'And what'll they say when we hand it in and there's no money in it?' Len's sneer said 'you moron', and the others appeared in agreement.
'I don't think we should keep the money.'
Spud intervened before the other three could howl Mike down. 'Let's find out who owns it first,' he said, and they walked down to the corner of Victoria Street away from the Friday-night busyness of the bowling alley.
Under a streetlamp, outside a sleepy block of flats, Spud took the wallet from Len and explored its contents. The driver's licence read 'Anthony Wilson'.
'Jeez,' he said, recognising the name and handing the licence to Mike, who passed it around. They all recognised the name. Anthony Wilson was the recently elected MP for Nedlands and he received far more publicity than his counterparts from other local electorates. Exactly how or why, no-one seemed to know. His views were not radical, yet he was always available for a quote, saying the right thing at the right time in true pollie fashion, and he and his wife appeared regularly in the social pages. Spud's dad, Sean, had very definite opinions about Anthony Wilson.
'The man's a self-promoter, it's all bleedin' hype. He'd sell his constituents right down the river if it served his purpose! He's a used-car salesman and he always will be.'
Sean didn't really have his facts right. Anthony Wilson had not joined the family business of Wilson & Sons Prestige Cars, but had pursued a career in politics from a very early age, achieving a degree in economics and joining the Young Liberal Party. None of which impressed Sean Farrell.
'Young Wilson's a crook, just like his father and his brothers, you mark my words,' Sean said.
'Well, we know whose wallet it is and we've got the address,' Mike said as Spud handed him one of Anthony Wilson's business cards. 'Waratah Avenue, Dalkeith. Easy, we can return it to him personally.'
The Brown brothers and Ivan the Pole looked at Mike as if he'd come from another planet. But Spud didn't. Spud was too busy sifting through the other business cards he'd pulled from the wallet. Important people, he realised – a corporate executive, several government officials, and the deputy commissioner of police. He turned over the deputy commissioner's card and saw a phone number written in biro on the back. F3397. A home phone number. I bet Mr Wilson wouldn't want that to go missing, Spud thought.
'So after we nick the money we return the bloke's wallet, do we?' Len asked Mike, again with derision. 'That's really bright.'
'No.' Mike shook his head. 'Like I said, we don't keep the money.'
'Oh yes we do.' Len ripped the wallet from Spud who was left holding the business cards. 'If you don't want your share,' he said to Mike, lifting out the six pounds, 'then you just say so.' Bloody Mike McAllister, it was all right for him, with his rich parents and his regular pocket money week in week out!
'I am saying so! I don't want to keep the money!'
Mike and Len were eyeballing each other, it was becoming an issue.
'Hang on, hang on,' Spud said. 'We'll take a vote.' He knew damn well which way it'd go. 'Who says we keep the money, who says we don't?'
The Brown brothers and Ivan the Pole voted for the money.
'That's it then. You blokes keep the money and Mikey and I'll ditch the wallet.'
Len looked at Mike who just shrugged. He'd been outvoted and he didn't want any part of it.
Spud held out his hand for the wallet, but Len didn't immediately return it – he was too surprised. Spud's family was even poorer than his.
'Six quid splits easier between three,' Spud said reasonably. 'You lot stick with the money. I'm with Mikey on this – I'll give it a miss.'
Len shrugged and handed over the wallet. 'Suit yourself.' Spud Farrell had turned into a real wimp, he thought, copying Mike just to stay in his good books. Well, Len didn't give a shit about Mike McAllister and his family and their posh house by the river. Fuck the lot of them. Kowtowing wasn't the way to get on in life.
Spud replaced the business cards and tucked the wallet into the top pocket of his windcheater. 'I'll leave it where we found it,' he said.
They walked back to the Fairlane centre, and while the others went inside Spud checked that the coast was clear before walking on to the ABC. But he didn't leave the wallet.
It was after eleven o'clock when he rang the front doorbell of the smart-looking two-storey house in Waratah Avenue. He'd left the bowling alley at ten. Mike had bowed out of a final game in order to chat up a knockout brunette who had to be at least twenty, so Spud had called it quits too, bidding the boys good night and giving Mikey an encouraging wink that said 'You're on to a good thing there.'
He'd caught the bus home and it had been a twenty-minute walk to the house in Waratah Avenue. He was glad to see the lights on inside and the car parked in the driveway; he'd thought being a Friday night, the Wilsons might be out. The car was a Mercedes-Benz, he noted. An old one, second-hand, courtesy of Wilson & Sons Prestige Cars, but the hub cabs'd fetch an excellent price.
The door opened. Ah, Spud thought, the man himself. Things were going like clockwork.
'Mr Wilson?' he asked.
'Yes. And what can I do for you, young man?'
The expression was benign, but there was the slightest reprimand in the voice, as if he was really saying 'Do you know how late it is?'
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bsp; 'It's more a case of what I can do for you, sir.' Spud's intention was to sound respectful, but it didn't seem to work.
'Oh, is that so?' Anthony Wilson smiled. 'And what would that be?'
There was a touch of condescension now. The bloke was a smarmy bastard, Spud decided.
'I thought you might want this back.' He produced the wallet from his windcheater pocket and held it out, pleased by the response.
'Where did you get that?' Anthony Wilson's complacency vanished and he took the wallet, staring at it in disbelief as if it couldn't be his. He didn't even know it had gone missing. Was the kid a pickpocket? If so, why was he returning the wallet? Did the cheeky little prick expect a reward?
'We found it sir, me and my mates.'
'You found it?'
'Yes, sir, lying in the gutter.' The man's incredulity was now focused upon him. 'Didn't you know you'd lost it, sir?'
'Exactly where did you find it?'
'In Adelaide Terrace sir, outside the ABC. Like I said, it was lying in the gutter.'
The live interview he'd done following the six o'clock news – Anthony remembered now. He'd collided with Megan Hetherington at the ABC's front door as he'd belted out after the interview, already running late for the cocktail party at Government House. She'd followed him to his car, nagging him about a fundraising dinner for the Cancer Research Foundation, and he'd fobbed her off with a card, telling her to ring his secretary. He'd shoved the wallet in his greatcoat pocket instead of returning it to his jacket as he normally would – or at least he thought he had. In his haste, he must have dropped it. How extraordinary.
'Come in,' he said to the boy, suddenly aware that he was cold standing in his shirtsleeves at the open front door. 'Come in, come in.'
Spud stepped inside and Anthony closed the door. A woman's voice called from upstairs.
'Who is it, darling?' Again, the petulant edge of 'Don't they know how late it is?' Melanie was getting ready for bed.
'A young man who found my wallet,' her husband called back.
'Good heavens, I didn't know you'd lost it.'
'Nor did I.'
Anthony shepherded Spud into the warmth of the lounge room.
'I'm afraid the money's gone missing, sir,' Spud said, gesturing at the wallet. 'My mates took it. I'm sorry about that.'
'Your mates took it?'
'Yeah, but I can't dob them in, you know how it is.'
'You didn't keep any of the money for yourself?'
'No, sir, I didn't,' Spud said in all honesty, his face a picture of innocence. 'I didn't think it was right.'
'What's your name, son?'
'Patrick Farrell, sir – they call me Spud.'
'Well, Spud. It's nice to make the acquaintance of such an honest young man.' Anthony took his wife's purse from her handbag which was sitting on the coffee table. He wasn't really sure whether the boy was honest or whether he was being conned, but he was deeply thankful for the return of his wallet and he owed the boy a favour. Anthony believed in the recognition and exchange of favours. The practice had stood him in good stead over the years.
'Thank you for your time and your trouble,' he said as he handed Spud a five-pound note.
'Wow!' Spud said, in full Smiley mode. 'Thank you, sir.'
Early the following evening, Spud presented himself at the Sun Majestic Massage Parlour. They hadn't actually opened for business yet, but he'd been waiting across the road for Ruby to arrive. He saw her pull up in her bright red Toyota and after she'd gone inside he waited for another minute or so. Then, bold as brass, he walked into the reception area and rang the bell on the counter. Ruby appeared.
'I'm back,' he said. 'And I'm older.'
She wanted to laugh, but she didn't. She could tell the kid was serious. 'But not old enough, sonny.'
'I'll be sixteen next birthday.'
Something about the way he said it told Ruby that he wasn't lying. She'd have picked him for thirteen at first glance, the impish face was deceptively young, but there was a maturity in his manner that certainly didn't belong to a thirteen year old.
'Come back after your birthday, sweetie,' she said kindly, 'and bring your birth certificate with you.'
'I'm not lying.'
'I didn't say you were. But they'd shut me down if I took you on. You're not worth the risk.'
'Double the going rate.' Spud pulled out the neatly folded wad of money – a fiver and five one-pound notes. 'There you go,' he said, 'ten quid,' and he placed it on the counter.
Ruby looked from the boy to the wad of notes, then back to the boy. Ten pounds was a lot of money, he'd probably stolen it.
'I've been saving up,' Spud said. 'I've been saving up for months now.'
She studied him. Whether the kid had stolen the money or whether he'd saved it was really immaterial. He was desperate for sex – a virgin, she presumed – and prepared to pay double her top rate. She found both his money and his earnestness appealing.
'What are you like with a lawnmower?' she asked, picking up a biro and scribbling on the notepad that sat on the counter.
Spud made no reply – she didn't seem to require an answer.
Ruby tore the page off the notepad and gave it to him. He glanced at it – an address in Subiaco.
'Come around tomorrow afternoon about two,' she said. 'My grass needs trimming.' And she tucked the ten pounds into her décolletage.
Ruby's house in Subiaco was of the old-fashioned variety – weatherboard, with a front verandah and a dunny out the back. But it was pretty, freshly painted and as neat as a pin. Except for the grass, which had grown a little straggly.
'What's your name?' she asked as she led him down the side path to the backyard.
'Spud. Spud Farrell.'
She was dressed in a pair of cords and a jumper, her black hair in a ponytail and wearing no make-up. In the harsh glare of day she looked older than she had in the rose-lit reception room of the Sun Majestic, Spud thought. He'd taken her to be about twenty-five then, but she'd probably be in her thirties. Hell, not that he was being critical, she was an absolute stunner. He'd thought about nothing but Ruby all day.
'There you go.' She pointed at the old rotary-blade lawnmower leaning against the side of the dunny. 'Give me a yell when you've finished.' And she went into the house, the back flywire door slapping shut behind her.
What? Spud stood there bemused. He'd paid her ten quid for the privilege of mowing her lawn? He hadn't thought she was serious. Hell, he'd get all sweaty. He'd showered in readiness just before he'd come out, and he was wearing his best shirt under his windcheater.
The day was nippy, but he stripped down to his singlet and for the next twenty minutes ploughed back and forth pushing the old mower until the lawn was finished and he was dripping with sweat.
He picked up his shirt and windcheater and crossed to the back door, about to give her a call, but she was there waiting for him with a glass of water. She ushered him in. She was wearing a silk wrap-around, tied at her breasts, and her hair was down now, black satin falling on ivory-skinned shoulders.
'Thanks.' He gulped down the water and handed the glass back. 'Um . . .' He wished she'd say something, he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. 'Would you mind if I had a bit of a wash?' He gestured at his sweaty singlet.