by Judy Nunn
On a Friday evening the bar was always crowded, but tonight being Wednesday there were only several men present and business appeared to be the order of the day as they stood in deep discussion.
Anthony Wilson, dapper in his smartly tailored suit, his impeccable black hair minus any hint of grey thanks to the talents of his hairdresser, was chatting to Hazel. A flash of annoyance crossed his face when he saw Spud arrive with his two young mates. How dare the boy so flout the rules. Spud had been a regular at the Pen for little more than a year, and although he no longer required Anthony's personal invitation, it was unbelievably presumptuous of him to turn up with extra guests – particularly guests of no significance.
Anthony muttered an apology as he excused himself from Hazel – he hoped she wouldn't hold him responsible for the boy's impertinence – and as he crossed to Spud, he wondered exactly how to convey his annoyance. Given their current business relationship and the all-important deal they'd recently undertaken, he could hardly afford to alienate him. Indeed, Spud Farrell held the future of Anthony Wilson MP in his thuggish young hands. But Anthony saw no reason at all why he should be forced to socialise with Farrell's loutish, low-brow mates.
Spud's greeting was effusive. 'Anthony, good to see you. May I introduce Ian Pemberton, chief geologist and managing director of the newly listed Excalibur Nickel Resources. Excalibur went on the Exchange just last week and it has some very prospective leases in both the Kambalda and Laverton areas. By the way, that's a hot tip if you're interested.'
Anthony was extremely interested.
'And this handsome young bloke,' Spud continued without drawing breath, 'is Mike McAllister. Mike's just finishing his doctorate in zoology on our new and lucrative crayfish, or should I say, rock lobster industry. As you're probably aware, Mike's work is very much heralded and supported by the WA Fisheries Department and CSIRO.'
Anthony hadn't been aware, but he was all smiles as he shook hands with the two young men. 'What a pleasure, gentlemen. Welcome to the Pen.'
Spud inwardly smirked as they crossed to Hazel at the bar window. Anthony Wilson was the same smarmy bastard he'd always been.
'Mike,' Hazel said, 'how lovely to see you. How's your dad?'
'Fine thanks, Hazel.'
'Jim McAllister was one of the first regulars at the Pen when Steve first opened the bar,' Hazel explained to the others. 'He used to come here when he was at uni. A wonderful sportsman – Steve so admired him.'
Spud and Ian were surprised that Mike shared such a pally relationship with Hazel McHenry – typical of him not to dine out on it, of course – but neither were as impressed as Anthony Wilson.
So this was Jim McAllister's son, Anthony thought. Old Perth family, the McAllisters, very much respected. And Pemberton. He cast a glance at Ian. Classy-looking young bloke. Could he be the son of the Pemberton who owned Trusan? If so, he came from money. Well, well, Spud Farrell was in fine company.
'My round,' he insisted, and ostentatiously placed far more money than was necessary in the dish by the window.
Drinks in hand, the four of them crossed to lean on the benches in the far corner of the bar, Anthony out to impress for all he was worth.
'I don't know if Spud told you,' he said to the others, 'but Gerrard Whitford's popping in to say hello.'
'Yes, I look forward to meeting him.' Ian, too, was laying on the charm.
'He's running a little late, I'm afraid – telephoned me just before I left the office to say he'd be delayed twenty minutes or so.' Gerrard wasn't running late at all. Anthony and Spud had planned to talk business before his arrival, but they could hardly do so in the company of others. 'Of course, it's understandable in a position of importance such as his. He's a dedicated man, it's a twenty-four-hour job.'
Yeah, Spud thought, when he's not behaving like a pig with the girls at the Sun Majestic.
'This is a great opportunity for a young entrepreneur like you, Spud, to meet the man who holds the identity of our state in his hands. In fact, it's a fine opportunity for each of you.' Anthony addressed all three young men. 'Western Australia, in its isolation, needs to firmly establish the strength of its identity in order to attract tourism and the dollar. The world must be made aware of the unique qualities this state has to offer. I believe to achieve our ends with intelligence and integrity we need to marry the talents of a fine minister like Gerrard Whitford with the brilliant minds of tomorrow, like yours.' He was playing the mentor now, seeing himself in the role of elder statesman. 'Gerrard is our man of today, and you are our men of the future. It's an exciting combination, don't you think?' He leaned against the bench and beamed, pleased with his speech.
By now even Ian was irritated by the man's rhetoric, and Mike looked as if he was about to walk out.
'We certainly do,' Spud agreed, 'but in the meantime, maybe we should get another round while the bar's not busy.' The boys were barely halfway through their beers and Anthony hadn't touched his gin and tonic. 'What do you say, Mike? Your shout?'
'Yep.'
Mike disappeared, happy to join Hazel at the window to the main bar. He'd always had a fantasy about Hazel with her smoky complexion and kohl-rimmed eyes, but then, most had. Since Steve's death, his much younger widow had been hotly pursued by many. Hazel had taken it all serenely in her stride. Mike knew he didn't stand a chance – he was just Jim McAllister's son. But the company of a beautiful woman was a welcome escape from the pontificating bore that was Anthony Wilson.
'Now, Anthony, about our current situation . . .' Spud decided to cut through the bullshit. Mike was comfortably out of the way, and he had no compunction about discussing his business in Ian's presence. To the contrary, he relished the opportunity. 'How're we going with the council? Are they going to give me the nod?'
Anthony was horrified by Spud's open reference to their dealings. How dare he bring up the subject in the company of young Pemberton. Word could get around. He tried to signal a warning, but Spud over-rode him.
'Oh, don't worry about Ian,' he said airily. 'Ian lives in Kalgoorlie, he has his own agenda. He's far too busy discovering nickel to bother himself with my paltry business affairs, aren't you, Ian?' Spud flashed a quick glance at Pembo that said there was no need to reply. 'He's another breed of entrepreneur, you see, Anthony, just like me. It's as you said: we're the brains of tomorrow, and as such we can all be of assistance to each other.'
Anthony's ears had pricked up at the mention of nickel discovery. Young Pemberton was a geologist, the managing director of a mining company no less. Anthony himself had his eye on the mining market – what smart investor didn't? Ian Pemberton could prove a handy contact.
'Besides,' Spud continued, 'he knows I've put in a tender for the property.' Then he added meaningfully for Anthony's comfort, 'And that I mean to restore it.'
'Ah, right, well . . .' Anthony's smile to Ian was friendly and inclusive, but he chose his words with care. Spud had put him on the spot. 'It's an extraordinarily generous gesture for a businessman like Spud to take on the restoration of a historical building. Don't you think so, Ian?'
'I most certainly do.'
Although Anthony returned his attention to Spud, his choice of words was still for Ian's benefit. 'The council naturally has the good of the community at heart, and from what I've heard, via various sources, it would seem that the tender has been accepted.' He hastily added. 'Of course it's unofficial at this stage. I'm not supposed to know. It's strictly off the record, just between friends.' Still uncomfortable in Ian's presence, his attempt at a comradely smile lacked confidence.
'Excellent.' Spud grinned broadly and shook Anthony's hand. 'So it's full steam ahead. I'm delighted.'
Ian Pemberton was intrigued by the change in Anthony Wilson. In only minutes, Spud had turned the man from an arrogant bore into a bundle of nerves. It wasn't surprising, given the circumstances. Ian knew all about their plans, Spud had told him every detail. An impressive convict-built bond store near Fremantle had been co
nsidered for listing as a heritage site, but 'certain members of the council' as Spud had smugly put it, openly inferring they'd been paid off, had decided the restoration would be too costly. The site had therefore been offered up for public sale and the building had faced demolition. Of all the offers tendered, Spud's had been the only one that had come with the promise to restore and preserve the original façade of the store. And now, apparently, his offer had been accepted.
'Congratulations,' Ian said, shaking Spud's hand effusively.
Anthony glanced from one to the other. They were close friends, it was obvious, and the fact worried him. Pemberton knew of the tender for the building. How much else did he know? Spud surely wouldn't have told him everything.
But Spud had. He and Ian trusted each other's silence. Ian also had his secrets, and the two recounted to each other every business deal they undertook, nefarious or otherwise. It was all part of the competition that existed between them.
'This deal's a beauty. I get the place for a song if the council agrees,' Spud had boasted just the previous evening when Ian had arrived from Kalgoorlie. 'All the bribe money's coming from Wilson, although the councillors taking the kickback don't know it. Plus he's footing two-thirds of the purchase price – which of course they don't know either.'
'You mean he's buying the place himself?'
'Virtually. It's his retirement plan for when he leaves politics. I'm supposed to convert the place into an up-market vintage car sales and hire outlet, and he'll buy it back from me when he retires. They won't be able to point a finger at him – the building isn't in his constituency. He's pulling off the deal purely through his connections. Wilson knows every rotten apple in Perth.'
'Vintage cars? Why vintage?'
'They're his passion. Always have been apparently. I don't see vintage cars doing big business in Perth myself, but that's his problem. I can't lose. If he goes broke, I'll buy the place back on my own terms and turn it into an all-purpose used-car yard.'
'What about the restoration part?'
'Oh, that'll go by the board. It's just a hook.'
Anthony Wilson was now sipping nervously at his gin and tonic.
'So what do you intend to do with the property once you've restored it, Spud?' Ian asked innocently.
'I'm thinking of turning it into vintage car outlet.'
'Vintage cars. Really? I didn't know you were a vintage car freak.'
'Oh yes, they've always been a passion of mine.'
Ian, enjoying Anthony's obvious discomfort, was about to ask him how he felt about vintage cars himself, but Mike arrived with the next round.
'Sorry about the wait,' he said as he unloaded the drinks from the small tin tray, 'the main bar's busy evidently.' It hadn't been, but he'd stayed chatting with Hazel for as long as he thought excusable.
'Gerrard.' Anthony ignored the fresh gin and tonic placed on the bench before him and gave a wave to the new arrival who'd appeared at the doorway.
Gerrard Whitford joined them. A fleshy man in his mid-forties with a well-coiffed head of grey hair, his face bore the stamp of too much good living and his manner the hearty confidence of one who believed himself still in his youthful prime. He dumped his briefcase on the floor beside him and initiated the introductions. 'Gerrard Whitford,' he said as he shook hands heartily all round. 'I didn't know this was going to be a party. I thought I was just coming to meet our young entrepreneurial genius here.' He gave Spud a matey pat on the back. 'You boys out on the town, are you?'
'Yep.' Spud answered for the others. 'We're off on a pub crawl, this is our first port of call.'
'Good for you.' Gerrard laughed. 'I might just tag along. Get up to a bit of mischief somewhere down the track, eh?' A wink.
'What would you like to drink, Gerrard?' Mike asked while Anthony laughed loudly and the others shared a dutiful smile. 'It's my round.'
'Whisky, thanks, Mike. Johnnie Walker'll do, but make it a double.'
Mike thankfully dived off for the bar.
When he returned, Gerrard had just finished telling a joke and the others were laughing uproariously. Gerrard was an accomplished joke-teller.
'Good on you, Mike,' he said, accepting the drink. 'Perfectly timed. Never interrupt a man's punch line, eh? And boy, do I have a reward for you.' He picked up his brief-case and put it on the bench. 'Didn't want to share it with the others until you were back, wouldn't be fair.' He took out a folder.
'What do you think I have here, Anthony,' he said, waving the folder teasingly.
'I've no idea, Gerrard, why don't you tell me.' Anthony gave his most sycophantic oh-you're-such-a-wag smile.
'The new campaign, mate, that's what. It's taken us nearly a year to get it all together, starting with a six-month search for the right subject – and what a pleasure that was I can tell you.' His grin was lascivious. 'And now we're all ready to go. The first series of TV ads are completed and we're about to let the cat out of the bag.' He shoved the briefcase aside, placed the folder ceremoniously on the bench and opened it. 'You lucky lot are the first to feast your eyes on her.' He splayed a series of ten by eight photographs out before them. 'There you go, boys, meet the new face of WA tourism. And the body to go with it.'
They all gazed at the photographs. Some were portraits, others full-length shots of a nubile, bikini-clad girl sprinting across the beach or cavorting in the surf. The sheer animal beauty of her was startling. Like a thoroughbred racehorse, she was perfect.
Well, well, well, Spud thought, Ruby's little girl, Mary-Jane.
Mike was as spellbound as the others, but he couldn't help thinking what a load of bullshit it all was. So this was the strength of the state's identity achieved through intelligence and integrity? What a joke.
'Wild beach girl beauty,' Gerrard said, proud of the effect his unveiling had had on them, 'that was the image the ad agency was after, and I think we've come up with the goods.' He said it boastfully as if the discovery were his own personal triumph, although he'd actually played no part in it. 'Her name's Mayjay. No surname. Dramatic, which is a good thing.'
Spud remained silent as the men started sifting through the photographs, although he couldn't wait to tell his mates that he knew Mayjay. 'How?' they'd ask. 'She's the daughter of a friend of mine,' he'd say. He wouldn't tell them who though. And he certainly wasn't going to say one word in the presence of Gerrard the pig.
But pig or not, Whitford was the Minister for Tourism and a very useful man to know. Spud intended to cultivate his friendship. It wouldn't be difficult. Gerrard and his kind never were – lechers and drunkards were always easy to please.
As he looked at the photographs he wondered how he might incorporate Mayjay in whatever business deal he struck with Gerrard. Spud Farrell Enterprises and the face of WA had an impressive ring.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The university year was over and Mike, having long since completed his thesis, was awaiting the verdict of his examiners, which could take some time. It was a foregone conclusion, however, that his PhD would be granted, the WA Fisheries Department and the CSIRO having embraced the findings of his work with Bruce Phillips.
The face of the vast and highly lucrative Western Australian commercial crayfishing industry was about to change forever due to the intensive research undertaken by Dr Bruce Phillips and his dedicated young PhD assistant Mike McAllister. Their findings had proved that the western rock lobster, Panulirus cygnus, took between three and a half to four years to grow from larva to legally sized adult, and their estimates of the numbers settling on various areas of the WA coast gave them the ability to predict, within certain tolerances of natural mortality, the numbers of commercially sized crayfish four years in advance. The WA Fisheries Department would in future be able to determine the levels of fishing effort for the seasons ahead – the numbers of pots, numbers of fishing and processing boats, and, if necessary, even the length of the season itself. The research results also enabled them to keep the whole of the Abrolhos Archipela
go region closed over the breeding season to allow an abundant supply of eggs to be released, to hatch, and for the larvae to begin their ten-month drift at the mercy of the currents before being redistributed to settle as puerulus along the south-western coastline of the state.