I GAVE THURSDAY MORNING track work a swerve, even though my body clock woke me at 4am. It would be best, I decided, if the early-morning crowd watching Bill Smith’s horse work did not see me near the trainer. Who Loves Yer Baby was always a pretty ordinary worker on the training track. Smith might have a little trouble convincing onlookers that his horse was going so well that he came up with the idea of playing Happy Families and winning the Brisbane Handicap with his son-in-law. He could cop the suspicious glances on his own.
Bill might have asked me some awkward questions about his daughter’s whereabouts too. Best I plodded about the flat for the morning, before tidying up some loose ends later in the day.
I was having coffee and toast when a noise outside made me wonder if Nat had pulled an all-nighter. Atagirl, I thought. It’s a long way to the top of fruit and veg, so you might as well rock ‘n’ roll. I opened my door slightly to see retired jockey George huddling over the lock with a credit card in his hand. Leaning in and watching attentively over the little man’s shoulder was Big Phil. I pulled the door wide open, and their expressions slowly changed from concentration to embarrassment.
‘We didn’t think you’d be home.’ Big Phil surprised me by talking on behalf of the partnership.
‘That’s a reasonable presumption,’ I conceded. ‘However, I’ve seen what you fellows do to a place during a visit, and leaving a credit card to cover damages is no good. I’m strictly a cash man.’
George explained that he was going to use the card to force the lock. This impressed me no end. I asked if he was tired of his effective strategy of a brick through the window. I also wanted to know about his success rate with credit cards. As I suspected, it was zero. So far.
‘I’ve only started practising,’ George said defensively. ‘The credit cards keep getting bent or the edges snap off, and the bank is starting to charge me $5 for replacement cards.’
I nodded sympathetically towards the new international spy, Ratbag of Brisbane, who, like his historical Singapore counterpart Raffles, might soon be working alone.
‘You didn’t tell me that,’ Phil said to his partner. ‘That’s my credit card you borrowed.’
The way these two worked together could only be described as a crime. I invited them in. Their company was entertaining and, while big Phil looked like he could inflict a deal of physical hurt, he was docile enough. George was the surly one, but his instructions from Mecklam probably forbade bodily harm except as a last resort. I promised myself I would not bait this small but easy target beyond his boiling point.
I made the coffees and put out some savoury biscuits for our morning tea, served at the untraditional time of dawn, and asked them how long they had been working for Mecklam. Their contract had been running for three months, but they were becoming jack of the terms, as Mecklam only slung them a few dollars on an irregular basis. He had told them little about Saturday’s race, but they figured he was going to have a big go at All The Favours. At least, George figured that and passed on his hunch to Phil. If Mecklam failed to come good with a decent salary, they were going to ditch him. They might even threaten to reveal to the relevant authorities the illegal jobs he made them do. Phil nodded as George talked.
Of course, they would not do any of that. George was a bitter middle-aged man, but he was too smart to implicate himself in such capers. If he did, chances were Mecklam would end up walking away from it all, while the ex-jockey took the brunt of the blame.
George’s depressing tale was a recurring one in the racing industry. It was a merciless world which often left the prospects of the unlucky trailing in the dust. George had survived as a journeyman jockey for twenty years in Perth. Then a race fall laid him low for six months, and his weight rose. The bachelor had always liked a celebratory drink, and he hit the piss during his recovery. When he was ready to go back in the saddle, he had few rides because of his weight. For a while, he sat in jockeys’ rooms in the forlorn hope that he might pick up a replacement ride on a top weight with good form.
His weight did drop, but this was due to the success of a rum-based diet. On some race days, he did not even try for rides. He went to the pub instead, where he told his life story and gave out tips to strangers, often getting beer and sometimes a few dollars if they won. At the end of one particularly miserable year, George surrendered his jockey’s licence.
Reasonably smart and flat broke in a cockroach-infested boarding house on his forty-second birthday, George decided he wanted to be as far from Perth as he could get. He continued urging in pubs, but cut back on the grog and saved whatever money grateful punters gave him. That was how he had ended up in Brisbane, and he was soon working happily enough in a factory job. This was where he met Phil, who was in his late twenties.
The manufacturing company where they worked went bust and they were forced onto the dole. George knew this was not serious enough money for a man staring at the world from beyond the second half of his working life. He went back to the only industry he really knew, and he invited Phil along to race meetings. They bet a few dollars, but mainly hung around the stables, hoping to put faces to some of the names in the racing form.
They were sure they had scored an in when they met Mecklam, and he told them his gardener needed some help around the Hamilton mansion. George assured Phil that Easy Street was just around the corner after Mecklam paid them well and gave them a six-pack of beer to take home, to boot. They figured the corporate lawyer had any number of contacts to give them decent well-paid jobs.
The pair came to realise that Mecklam liked them having plenty of free time on their hands. He developed ever-increasing stinginess in paying them for occasional work, some of which could have them in a lot of legal trouble if they were caught.
I had caught them, but I would not be giving them trouble, even if they refused to tell me why they tried to break in to my flat. They were happy to trade information for trophies to take back to Mecklam. They were supposed to steal small items from my place, but what they were really after was my telephone answering machine, a gadget I did not have. They were to take the answering machine, among other household items, and to look for any letters or a diary I might have lying around. Anything with the name Gregory Sailor on it was to be seized. Mecklam had gone to track work, and they felt he was going to confront Sailor, but for what, they didn’t know.
I went to a cupboard to retrieve a broken old portable radio that I kept forgetting to throw out, and handed it to George. Looking around some more, I found a writing pad I used for shopping lists. I put my name and address at the top left and carefully composed a letter, beginning, ‘Dear Greg’.
I’m posting this today so I hope you get it before Saturday.
Think he might be on to us.
But there is no need to change our plans, as we both know every loser wins once the race begins.
When you hit the straight on Saturday, make a noise and make it clear. Oh, and I didn’t really mean that crack about the next time I fall in love, it will be with your wife.
Let’s hope all the favours go our way.
Cheers,
Steele
I showed the note to George, who screwed up his face at the doggerel. I said it was better to keep it cryptic. Mecklam could read whatever he wanted into it. I gave George a couple of outstanding household bills I was waiting to pay when I received final notices, and added form guides, circling the recent runs of All The Favours with a biro. Mecklam would have plenty to think about, though I suspected only the Marx Brothers enjoying a day at the races could come up with answers to my riddles.
George appreciated my being so understanding of their needs. He said maybe the three of us should team up. We should surely be able to come up with some good money-making ideas. I said I would think about it, but, to be honest, these two blokes had desperate losers written all over them. With respect to Nick Berry, there are exceptions to his rule of ‘every loser wins’.
___o0o___
THE SHERATON HOTEL was beside Central railway station; a strange location to my mind, as I had a notion that rich people disliked public transport, fearing that they might catch something besides a train or a bus. I paged Flick’s room and caught the lift to her floor. She opened the door to my knock and dragged me inside.
‘This is heaven, Steele,’ she said. ‘I’ve got all I need and they have a restaurant, too.’
She had given her credit card a solid workout, and I again promised to reimburse her. Flick was the very picture of the glowing pregnant woman. She admitted breaking her promise and ringing her father. ‘I had to, Steele,’ she said. ‘He would have been worried sick. I only told him I was safe and well, and I didn’t mention your name and didn’t tell him where I am.’
I forgave her, but insisted that she had to do everything else we had agreed on, including hiding from anyone she recognised and not leaving the hotel unless she really had to. She could use her credit card to shout a couple of girlfriends lunch on Saturday afternoon as long as it was after 12.30 when everybody we knew would be at the track. Flick was happy with these terms.
We watched a movie after raiding the mini bar for expensive peanuts, soda water and a wee drop of rum for me.
After our pleasant smoko, I headed up the road to Spring Hill to make sure I could meet the ballooning hotel bill.
Mick Clarence’s front door was wide open again, and a tall man walked out without closing it.
He nodded at me and headed towards a 1960s British MG sports car. I had seen the man a few times. We were never introduced, and I picked him for a bit of a mug lair. His name was Marcus Georgio.