The Godson (5 page)

Price had just put his hand up to catch the waiter's attention, when his eyebrows knitted and he cocked his head towards a partially open window not far from their table. ‘Did you hear that, Loz?'

The Attorney General cocked an ear towards the window. ‘Sounded like a woman screaming.'

‘There it goes again,' said Price.

‘Do you think there could be a murder going on?'

Price listened intently for a moment then chuckled. ‘No,' he said. ‘I've heard that sound before. They're probably a couple of honeymooners.'

The waiter arrived, Price ordered and they continued with the chardonnay while they waited for their oysters.

‘Maybe we should get a couple of dozen sent round to that bloke's room,' laughed Price, as another scream filtered across the courtyard and through the window. ‘And a gallon of stout.'

‘Whoever that bloke is,' said the Attorney General, putting down his glass to attack the second lot of oysters, ‘he doesn't need any bloody oysters. In fact, I'm going to close the window — I'm starting to get a fat.'

They finished the first bottle of Roxburgh Chardonnay just as the fish arrived, so O'Malley ordered another. The trout in lemon butter sauce with chopped herbs straight from the garden was one of the best fish meals Price had ever had. And he told O'Malley too. Even the accompanying vegetables, which were steamed to perfection, seemed to have a flavour all of their own. They took their time with the meal, savouring every morsel while they finished the wine, and then ordered Drambuies and coffee. By three o'clock the head of state and the distinguished racehorse owner from Sydney were howling like wolves. O'Malley settled the bill and the head waiter led them to the front steps which they went down like a mob of sailors coming back from shore leave. Yvonne had the car out the front and when she saw the state they were in she
decided it might be best if she did open the door for them this time.

‘Home, James,' hiccupped O'Malley, as he and Price sprawled onto the back seat.

‘Home it is, sir.'

As Yvonne got back behind the wheel of the car, Price caught a glimpse of her face in the rear vision mirror watching O'Malley wobbling around in the back seat. Even in the state he was in, Price could tell by the smile on her face and the warm look emanating from her eyes that this wasn't just a job to her. She had a genuine affection for the likeable, if quite drunken, Attorney General of Australia.

S
OME TIME AFTER
four, Eddie Salita, his hair matted, and his face streaked with sweat, was sitting on the edge of the bed in room 306 doing up his shirt. Dutchy was laying back under the bedcovers watching him through half-closed eyes. She had a look of dreamy contentment on her face; she also looked like she'd just been ten rounds with Sonny Liston. Eddie stood up to tuck his shirt in and smiled down at her.

‘So, how are you feeling, Dutch?' he said.

‘How am I feeling? Fucked is how I'm feeling, Eddie. And I mean that quite literally.'

Eddie chuckled. ‘Well. I thought that was the idea of the afternoon.'

‘Well it was. And when you said the first one would be a bit quick I thought, fair enough. And I was keen for the second. But the third and fourth. Christ! You stopped twice in four hours — and that was just to drink two bottles of beer.' Dutchy wriggled her bum slightly beneath the sheets. ‘Jesus! How am I going to walk to the plane? I'm that bowlegged, you can hang me over the front door for good luck.'

‘Sorry, Dutch, but I just can't help it, mate. Poking a pussy in my face is like giving Popeye spinach.'

‘Tell me about it,' groaned Dutchy.

Eddie put his cap and jacket on and stood looking at his old flame for a moment. He smiled, sat next to her on the bed, put his arm around her, and kissed her.

‘Dutch,' he said softly. ‘I don't quite know how to say this. But I have to go. And I don't know if I'll ever be able to see you again, love.'

‘That's okay, Ed. I understand. I got a bloke who runs a
shoe company in Sydney who wants to marry me anyway. I think after this I might take him up on the offer.'

Eddie kissed her again. ‘I gotta get going, Dutch. And you've got a plane to catch.'

She twined her arms around his neck and kissed him for the last time. ‘See you, Ed.'

‘See you, Dutch.' The door closed and he was gone.

Eddie was smiling to himself as he sat in the Rolls waiting for the motor to warm up a little, then a thought hit him. Christ! I'm supposed to have been in that Art Gallery this afternoon. And that bloody print I promised Lindy. Shit! Where is the joint? He snatched the NRMA road map of Canberra from on top of the dash and quickly scanned the streets. There it is. King Edward Terrace, just on the other side of Lake Burley Griffin. And it's on the way to Red Hill. Grouse. He glanced at the clock as he tossed the map back on the dash. I've got just under half an hour.

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.

A
T 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 living 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.'

S
ITTING 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.