narratorAUSTRALIA Volume Three

  ~~~

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ Frank smiled at the Fireman.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ The Fireman glared at Frank with sharp blue eyes.

  ‘Enjoying your stay?’ Frank asked with a breezy air.

  ‘No complaints. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Fancy a heart starter? Whisky?’ The barman responded to Frank’s order and poured a double.

  ‘Not for me.’ The Fireman remained cool.

  Frank lit a cigarette and said, ‘Maybe I can do something for you.’

  ‘Bookies do nothing for nobody.’

  ‘As a rule, but seeing you’re a betting man I thought you might be interested in a side wager.’

  ‘What’s in it for you?’ the Fireman asked with a sneer.

  ‘Leery bastard aren’t you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ the Fireman replied, tapping a Senior Service cigarette on the table, lighting it and flicking the dead match onto the floor.

  ‘Five per cent off the top.’

  ‘What sort of money do you mean?’ The Fireman’s eyes followed the curling smoke.

  ‘Good enough for a boy from the bush.’

  ‘Who’s the mark?’

  ‘He’ll be here in a while. Name’s Murray Dwyer.’

  ‘Which race?’

  ‘The fifth.’ Frank drained the glass and felt the whisky settle his nerves.

  ‘Do you know what’s he on?’ The racing guide crackled beneath the Fireman’s fingers, as he held a pencil and underlined the selection.

  ‘Either Sea Hound or Harrier,’ said Frank.

  ‘I suppose I’ll see you a little later this afternoon, Mister Bugden.’

  ‘At five per cent you can count on it,’ he said.

  Frank stood up and walked to the Ladies’ Parlour.

  ‘Hard stuff eh pal?’ The barman smiled at the red headed man in the blue suit who had ordered a lemonade, lime and bitters.

  ‘Keep a clear head. Give us a nod when Murray Dwyer comes in,’ said the Fireman flicking a ten pound note onto the bar. He motioned to the barman to keep the change, but as he picked up the tenner, the Fireman leaned in close and whispered, ‘Next time, mind your own fucking business, right.’

  Blood drained from the waiter’s face and he walked unsteadily to the other end of the saloon.

  Regular drinkers perched on their favourite stools, hunched over dirty ashtrays, and studied the racing form.

  The radio played advertisements and listed dividends from race meetings across the country.

  A weather-beaten cocky sat outside the bar, dozing in the sun.

  Frank stood beside four phones in the Ladies’ Parlour. Men drifted in and out, placed their bets then ambled back to the main bar to wait for the race call.

  The Fireman stayed cool, feeling his wad of notes.

  Murray walked into the bar, agitated.

  ‘That bloody kid takes hours to finish the frigging paper run; I’ll be damned if I know what he gets up to. Schooner of old and a nip of Dewars.’

  Frank blanched. ‘You little prick,’ he said under his breath.

  Totes broadcast for race four listed Sea Hound 13 to two and favourite, Harrier, at five to four, Noble Empire out on a limb at 100 to one. The Fireman leaned back in his chair, and felt the .25 pistol bite in to the small of his back.

  Murray drained the whisky then gulped the beer.

  Frank coughed as he came out of the Ladies’ Parlour door into the main bar. The publican called to the barman. The cocky moved inside.

  ‘Murray me old china! Come and meet a mate of mine.’ Frank led Murray to the Fireman’s table.

  ‘Mr Blue, this is Murray Dwyer.’

  ‘Mr Blue?’ Murray’s face twisted with anger.

  ‘Blue suit, tie and red hair. They don’t call you “Bluey” by any chance?’

  ‘Only fools call me Bluey.’

  ‘This must be a fucking joke,’ said Murray, but the Fireman pulled the roll of notes from his pocket, placed it on the table, and motioned with his head.

  ‘No joke Murray,’ Frank said, and pointed towards the parlour door.

  ‘Ladies’ Lounge, now.’

  The cocky sauntered outside, crossed the street and entered a red pillbox telephone booth.

  Frank leant his face close into Murray.

  ‘You say anything about my kid again, and I’ll kick your fucking head into next week. Got it? Now. Business. Race four starts in ten minutes. Pick your mount, call your bet on the starting price nominated by my connection. Debt settled noon tomorrow, minimum bet five hundred quid, money up front. Proof of cover or else. My commission is five per cent.’

  ‘Or else what?’ Murray, nervous, glanced around the Ladies’ Parlour.

  ‘Don’t look for Mick Vaughan mate. He won’t be here for weeks. He’s looking for a bloke that chops off cove’s dicks. Nominate your cover, or show the dough. No cover, no bet.’

  The Fireman picked up his wad of notes.

  ‘Count it,’ he said.

  Frank tallied ten thousand pounds. Murray pulled out a neat billfold and peeled off five hundred.

  ‘The deeds are in the safe in the shop. It’s bona fide.’ A line of perspiration broke across Murray’s forehead.

  The Fireman glanced at Frank’s up-thrust thumb.

  ‘Kosher,’ Frank said.

  ‘Better be,’ said the Fireman.

  ‘It is, it is,’ Murray said with a panicked voice.

  ‘Yeah?’ The Fireman placed the pistol on the table.

  ‘It better be.’

  ‘Put that away for Christ’s sake,’ Frank hissed.

  ‘What the fuck is this Bugden?’ Beads of sweat rolled from Murray’s top lip into his mouth.

  The announcer read the totes.

  ‘Five hundred quid Noble Empire.’ The Fireman fixed Murray with a blue-eyed stare.

  ‘Five hundred, Sea Hound,’ replied Murray.

  ‘No way Noble Empire can get up at a hundred to one, no bloody way in the world.’

  ‘Is it a bet?’ Frank looked at both men. The Fireman held Murray’s twitching gaze.

  ‘Well?’ said Frank.

  ‘There’s no way it can win.’ Murray handed his money to Frank. The Fireman did the same.

  Frank picked up a phone, dialled and repeated the totes: ‘Sea Hound, firm seven and a half to one, Noble Empire out to 110 to one.’

  ‘Done?’

  Frank looked at both men. Murray glanced at the dirty roll of pound notes lying next to the pistol and nodded.

  ‘Done,’ said the Fireman.