~~~
‘Not an ounce of spare flesh mate, not a skerrick in 20 years. I don’t drink or smoke.’
Michael Patrick Vaughan patted his waistline.
‘Yeah but you are a bugger of a gambler.’ Frank Bugden nodded to the barmaid for a whisky.
A sergeant in the New South Wales Police, Mick Vaughan gazed the length of the Golden Grove public bar, noting the faces of the wizened, spectacled men studying the turf guide, and circling their selections for the Saturday race meeting.
Mick first saw these characters in country pubs around the High Country in Victoria and in fly blown shit speck towns in the Western Districts.
Born in the flat brown wheat lands of the Hay Plain, Mick grew up in the endless cycle of rural drudgery.
He learnt the gambling code at two-up games held in shearing sheds along the length of the Darling River, and on his 18th birthday watched a travelling show set up the Big Top on the outskirts of town. Coloured electric lights decorated the tents of the Headless Lady, the Wall of Death, the Strong Man. Show spruikers enticed the country folk to ‘have a go, try your luck, be in it to win it’. Air rifles thwacked tin targets. Leather thongs clattered against the nails of the ever-spinning wheel of fortune, but the ‘lucky’ tickets littered the red soil as the showmen skinned the country folk with disarming ease.
Mick followed the powwow of profit. Watched the gnarled country hands peel pound notes from filthy rolls, stared at their creased faces stained with fairy floss, and tomato sauce from Pluto Pups. Saw small fortunes slip into the bottomless pouches of the carnival spivs as the gawking Bogans handed over their money for a bag full of worthless prizes.
A bass drum pounded for hours before the show closed, and ringers and bush cooks and local toughs headed for Jimmy Sharman’s boxing tent, to go toe to toe with broken nosed pugs.
Now and then, a local won a stoush, staggering away with a split upper eyelid and a sore head. Ten quid hard won, destined for the two-up school in a tent behind the animal cages.
A brown-eyed kid named Dave Sands knocked out two of Mick’s teeth and put an end to his mindless enchantment with the land, and when his mouth healed, Mick packed his swag and followed the show to Sydney.
‘You wouldn’t believe what I saw last night.’
‘What?’ Frank sensed fear in his mate’s voice.
‘The ambulance brought a derelict to Sydney Hospital casualty. So much blood they couldn’t find the wounds.’
‘What in Christ’s name do you mean Mick?’
‘A bastard cut off his dick.’
Frank sprayed a mouthful of whisky across the bar.
A passer-by found the bloodied body beneath cardboard boxes near the Boy Charlton swimming pool and Mick, the acting duty sergeant at Central Street, answered a panicky call from the Resident at the hospital.
‘Don’t tell anybody Frank.’
‘No I won’t mate,’ but Frank turned pale.
‘Are you going to the Police Boys tomorrow morning? Walter wants to know. He said he’s keen for the three rounds.’
‘No,’ said Mick, ‘and I won’t be there in the afternoon either. We’ve got to catch this bastard.’
The local newsagent Murray Dwyer walked into the bar, sat on his usual stool, flicked open the paper, adjusted his glasses, and took out a pencil from the top pocket of his shirt.
‘Schooner of old, love,’ Murray said, and nodded to Frank and Mick.
‘Not a word Frank,’ Mick hissed.
‘She’s apples mate. Just get him! Better still, why don’t you collar this fucking mongrel?’
Frank signalled Murray with a nod, winked goodbye to Mick and pulled up a bench next to the newsagent.
‘What do you fancy tomorrow?’
‘Harrier.’
‘What’s the tote?’ Frank asked, lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke into Murray’s face.
‘Five to four on.’
‘Sticking with the favourites eh?’
‘Then there’s Sea Hound, at 13 to two. One or the other’s a cert, I might have a few bob,’ Murray said, smoothing the newspaper and sipping his beer.
‘You’ll never be a millionaire with just a few bob Murray. Why don’t you take a real punt? You’ve got the dough. George Edser put 500 to 800 on Chartwell in the Encourage last week. Went from 21 to one to nine to four, and George walked away with 50,000 quid.’
Murray’s eyes popped. ‘You are joking.’
‘No I’m not. I thought you read the bloody papers. The stewards hauled him in for a “please explain”.’
‘He’ll get away with it. Always does. Connections. It’s what makes this game go around. You gotta be in the know,’ Murray said, touching the side of his nose. ‘And you know bloody everything, Bugden.’ Murray turned the pages of his newspaper, and began to read.
‘I tell you what. Seeing you’re such a hot shot, why don’t I organise a big time bet just for you. What do you say? A fair dinkum jumbo money side wager. Have you got the guts for it Mr Hollywood Murray Dwyer?’ Frank laughed sarcastically and ordered another whisky.
‘How big?’ Murray moved closer to Frank.
‘You reckon Harrier tomorrow, right? There’s a bloke staying upstairs carrying a wad thicker than your fist. He’s a punter from Queensland.’
‘What’s his moniker?’ Murray asked.
‘No names. No pack drill. He works for the Brisbane Fire Brigade. What say I organise a little gamble between you and this hick?’
‘I’ll think it over,’ Murray said.
‘You do that my old China, because word around the traps is this Fireman will bet on two flies crawling up a wall,’ Frank said, downing his whisky in a gulp.
The bar filled with familiar faces.
‘Gotta get tea. Give me a shout,’ Frank said to Murray, and walked unsteadily to the bar door.
Low clouds scudded across the eastern sky. A fine mist dusted the pavement. Frank mumbled a litany of preferred foods, and as the cold air ignited the whisky, he heard his son’s paperboy whistle away in the distance. Rain fell steadily. Tomorrow the track would be dead.
‘Just like that poor mongrel with no prick.’
Frank vomited whiskey, and spat into the gutter.