Amaze Your Friends. Peter Doyle
incense. An Yma Sumac record was playing on the gramophone.
Shirl followed me in. ‘Would you like a drink? I’ve got some wine.’
I thought, Never mix your drinks. ‘Yeah, thanks,’ I said.
Shirley poured me a glass of claret from a flagon.
I took a reefer out of the bag, fired it up, took a few drags and handed it across. We passed it back and forth. When it was finished I cranked up another one. Shirley got up, changed the record.
I picked half a dozen reefers out of the bag, handed them to her. She said, ‘How much?’
‘Ten quid will do.’
She went to her purse and handed me a tenner.
‘Would you like a palm reading before you go?’
I held out my hand. A black cat jumped onto the kitchen table and walked over to me, rubbed itself against my arm. Shirley took my mitt.
She looked closely at my palm for half a minute, then let go.
‘Dark forces are gathering around you.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘I do. Finish your wine and hand me the glass.’
I drained it and gave it to her. She peered into the glass, rolled the last drop around, then looked at me strangely. I shivered.
‘There’s unfinished business. A trembling hand reaches into the icy depths for an elusive quarry.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I don’t know. I’m just the messenger.’
‘How about the daily double for Randwick next Saturday?’
‘You know I never get anything as clear cut as that. You’ll have to make do with Unfinished Business and Icy Depths.’
‘How about Travel and a Dark Stranger?’
‘Funny you should say that. They’re both there too.’ She reached over and took my hand again. ‘And so is Bad News Arriving by Telephone. You’ve got the fortune teller’s lay-down misère.’
It was dark when I stepped out into Darlinghurst Road. Shirley’s connection to the other side was better than she knew. A bloke was in my car, looking in the glove box, another leaning against the mudguard.
The lookout pegged me. He said something and the other turned around to face me. They were both in their early twenties, dressed casual, but they weren’t your run-of-the-mill thieves. The one who had been in the car was Italian, or maybe Greek. He had his black hair cut short and neat and he was standing up straight. The other one had blond hair, tanned skin, a surf-club type. Plain-clothes policemen.
I sauntered over with what I hoped passed as a cavalier attitude and said to the Italian, ‘So Enzo, what were you doing in my car?’
‘Looking for evidence of criminal activity.’
‘Such as?’
He looked away and back again, then with an elaborate show of unconcern said, ‘Oh, take your pick.’ He started counting on his fingers. ‘Sly grog and dutiable imports; SP betting slips, pak-a-pu tickets, two-up coins or other gaming paraphernalia; stolen milk money, hub-caps or V8 badges; or maybe even some of those sex drugs we’ve been hearing about.’ He’d run out of fingers. ‘From what I hear, pretty well anything small-time and crooked would be your go, including living off the immoral earnings of a woman. Would that be right, Glasheen?’
He wasn’t completely wide of the mark, except for the V8 badges. There’s another one for the list, I thought—Always obey the law. I shrugged.
He looked over my Customline. ‘You’re driving a pretty good car for a two-bob petty crim. Makes me wonder what you’ve really been up to lately.’
‘Hard work and clean living,’ I said.
He spat on the ground near my foot. ‘You’ve never had a real job in your life.’
I looked at my watch. ‘Listen, I’m in a bit of a hurry, boys. Tell me, is this official, or are you after a donation or something?’
The surf-club type stepped forward then. ‘Smart bastard, eh? You feel like having a go, do you?’
I nodded, rubbing my chin. ‘I get it, it’s unofficial. Well, fellers, as I see it, your tough bloke act shows some promise but I’m afraid it still needs work. Stick with it, you may get there one day. Meanwhile, you, Luigi, hang on to your job in the fruit shop.’ I turned to the lifesaver. ‘But I really think you’ve got the makings of a pretty fair comical sidekick.’
I moved past them towards my car. The surfer grabbed the shoulder of my coat and threw a punch at me. It might well have done some damage, except the other bloke grabbed him at the same moment I ducked, and the punch went wide. I turned around ready to box on if I had to, sincerely hoping it wouldn’t be necessary. The Italian took the blond aside, spoke a few words to him. Then they both turned to face me, grinning in a way I didn’t care for one little bit.
The surfer straightened his cuffs and said, ‘Yeah, you’ll keep. Go ahead, give cheek all you like, gummo, because you’ve got some real surprises coming!’
I said, ‘Yeah, sure, sure,’ and got in the car.
I drove off, saw the coppers in my rear-view mirror still standing there, watching me. I went around the corner into Liverpool Street and stopped, opened the bottle of Remy and took a long pull. I had a strong impulse then to cancel all other engagements, go back to the Rock’n’roll and get blotto. But I fought it. For one thing, I told myself, those blokes were too junior to worry about. And regardless of how shaky my nerves were, I still had a living to earn.
I took another swig of brandy, started up the car again and drove through the city, down to Harmony House, the music store at Circular Quay, where upstairs in the recording studio my arrival was being eagerly awaited by Max Perkal and his group, the Percolators. In 1958 Max and his band of would-be hipsters between them accounted for about seventy percent of the total demand for Indian hemp in the entire city of Sydney.
They were in the main studio. I sat down with the engineer, handed him the brandy bottle and watched the proceedings through the control booth window. Max and the boys were playing back-up to the lovely Del Keene, singer, dancer, comedienne, and, as of two months ago, my ex-girlfriend.
She was singing a tune she and Max had co-written called ‘Kiss Crazy’. It was intended to be their ticket to television stardom, if only they could get it arranged right. The song was a straight twelve-bar, but Max had put some stops at the end and added bongos to give it a Latin feel, he said. To me it sounded more like Charleston than cha-cha, but what would I know? I asked the engineer what he thought. He told me that in London before the war he’d worked with all the greats—Formby, Fields, Lynn—and if this was a hit record, he was in the wrong game.
They finished the song and Del came out to listen to a playback. We said hello and kissed. She made a show of waving away the alcohol fumes. I went into the studio.
Max was retuning his guitar. He said howdy partner. At the age of thirty-five he had already clocked up twenty years in the entertainment business. As a one-time Hawaiian guitarist, hillbilly yodeller, juggler, piano player, band leader, radio actor and now bearded bongo beater, Max Perkal had experienced pretty well all that show business had to offer, barring success.
Lachie the drummer came bouncing over to me, slapped me on the back and asked if l had any dope. I told him maybe, did he have any money? He said no, but he would have tomorrow, or maybe the day after, and he’d gladly pay me Tuesday for a reefer today. I thought of the ‘money can spoil a good friendship’ line, but kept it to myself.
I said, ‘Shit, Lach, fair go. You think I’m in this game for fun?’
He said, ‘Man, you’re wound tight. You need to loosen up a bit. You better