Vivian had told his mother where she might locate Jim, the owner of the bookshop, and what to expect. Most likely Jim could be found at the public bar of the National Hotel. He moved around a lot but informed Vivian of his hideouts and the times he frequented them.
The National Hotel was a Fremantle landmark smack in the middle of town, on the corner of High and Market Streets.
Helen hadn’t wanted to wait a second longer than she needed to in meeting the owner of the bookshop. Speed was crucial if he was facing bankruptcy, there would surely be creditors after him.
With Astrid’s help and Vivian’s more restricted assistance, Helen had devised a strategy for acquiring the bookshop. The night before they had, while sitting in Helen’s bedroom, gone over the details repeatedly until Vivian, still suffering from the pain in his jaw, collapsed into a deep sleep.
Vivian had been drilled on the official line: Helen had taken a loan with the family home as collateral. Arnold and Gabriel, of course, would eventually have to be told the truth, but sworn to secrecy.
*
Helen entered the public bar. It seemed empty. She looked at her watch. It was eleven. She turned at the distinctive cough of a heavy smoker, and spotted in the far corner of the bar a man in a three-piece rumpled suit. She walked towards him. He was drinking from a large glass tumbler, a cigarette drooped between his tremulous fingers. Helen tried to guess his age, maybe he was fifty, but he could be eighty.
On seeing Helen approach he looked wary, though he relaxed a little when she smiled and extended her hand. ‘Hello, you must be Jim. I’m Helen Budd-Doyle. I’m interested in buying your bookshop,’ the words rushing out of her as her nerves flared. She tried to relax by examining the man’s suit. It looked like a hand-me-down from a great-grandfather who wore it once, when he married, then passed it down the line until this poor man ended up having to wear it.
For a few moments the man looked confused, trying to register what she’d said. He took a long drag on his cigarette and a length of hot ash fell onto his suit. It made little difference; the fabric had already sustained numerous burns. Exhaling, he peered at her through the elongated coil of smoke. He kept what was left of his cigarette between his juddering fingers. ‘How’d you find me?’
‘Err, friend of a friend of a friend. You know.’
This was enough to satisfy Jim. She spoke his language — obscure and dubious — or so he thought.
‘Here, take a seat. Good to meet you, Helen whatever your surname is. Name your poison?’
‘No, not for me, thank you.’
‘Welcome to my office. Not bad hey?’
Helen looked around. The National had been given a significant facelift. Painstaking workmanship had brought it back to its former splendour. The bar where they sat dripped with brilliant fittings. For an office, she thought, it would be unrivalled, though its current tenant seemed hardly to match such a space.
Her mind went quickly back to business. Vivian’s words rang in her ears. ‘He’s got his back to the wall.’
She scrutinised Jim’s face and saw the personification of failure. It begged pity; heavily bloodshot eyes and skin the texture of scrambled eggs, his nose and ears reduced to ill-defined protuberances.
‘Michael!’ Jim cried out, putting his cigarette butt into an already full ashtray and lighting another, a lengthy process as he was doing it with fingers that refused to stop shaking.
A short clean-cut young man, the barman, arrived and duly filled Jim’s tumbler with four shots of whisky.
The barman gave him a look of annoyance, as if Jim was transgressing some prior agreement about the buying of drinks.
Helen came to the rescue. She needed to get him on side.
‘I’ll pay,’ she offered, slipping a twenty-dollar note onto the bar. She hoped she wouldn’t have to buy too many rounds as the barman handed back a pathetically small amount of change.
‘Cheers,’ said Jim, lifting his glass and taking a swig. ‘Now what did ya come to see me about?’
‘The bookshop you have for sale. I’m interested in buying it.’
‘Oh yeah, it’s for sale all right, and the land it’s sitting on. Got a young fella there, keeping an eye on it for me.’ Jim went silent, as if trying to decide whether he could trust this woman. Finally he said, ‘Got him there to shoo the vultures away.’
Now Helen fully appreciated what Vivian was doing at the ruined bookshop: beating away creditors, throwing red herrings at them, anything to keep them away from Jim who was hiding here at the National and every other watering hole in Fremantle, which gave him a lot of places to hide out.
‘So can I buy the bookshop?’
‘Pretty lady like you? Sure. Give me a price, Helen.’ Jim gave her a lingering lecherous look.
Helen baulked momentarily. She hadn’t expected this, to be telling him how much she was willing to pay. She had three hundred and eighty thousand dollars. She had hoped to pay around three hundred and forty thousand, leaving her enough for stamp duty and to fix up the shop.
Regaining her composure she shot out a figure. ‘Three hundred thousand.’
Jim curled his lip, tapped his fingers on the bar. ‘That’s not a lot of money.’
‘Well, you give me a price then.’
He lifted his glass and took another drink. ‘I was thinking more like six hundred thousand.’
Helen could feel the tension in her body, the sweat under her arms. Vivian’s words came back. ‘Drive a hard bargain, Mum, he’s got his back to the wall.’
‘Way, way too much. It’s not worth anywhere near six hundred thousand.’
‘It is. And don’t forget there’s the stock included, not to mention the goodwill.’ He smiled triumphantly, showing off a set of teeth coated in a residue of whisky and nicotine.
‘I’ve seen the place, Jim. There is no stock and, I suspect, even less goodwill. Granted, the land would be worth something.’
‘Bully for you, doing your homework.’ His smile melted into a grim line. ‘I take it you want to run it as a bookshop?’
‘Yes, I do.’
Jim threw his head back and gave a sly laugh as if to say — think you can make a go of it? Let’s see you try.
For a moment Helen panicked; she knew nothing of business.
‘Give me four hundred grand and it’ll be a deal. I’m feeling sorry for ya.’ Jim began to cough so violently Helen had to bend away from him. It took a while for him to settle and when he breathed again it sounded like he had a lot of loose change in his lungs.
Images of Vivian flashed before her. She steeled herself. Too bad if Jim had taken a tumble, she had to take advantage of his situation; she had to think of Vivian and herself.
‘Three hundred and twenty.’
‘Ouch! I was hoping for a little more.’
‘I don’t think it’s worth a little more. Cash payment in full though, and within the week.’
Staring straight ahead he took a drag of his cigarette, and then another, the smoke settling around him. He was thinking or stalling, or both, Helen couldn’t tell as she watched him anxiously.
‘Three hundred and twenty grand is nothing. That bookshop has been my home and life for the last fifteen years.’
Helen felt the tension build in her body. She couldn’t afford to lose this opportunity. ‘Okay, three hundred and forty thousand. It’s all I have,’ she said hesitantly, thinking of Vivian’s injunction to drive a hard bargain. She felt she’d already failed him — she lacked the steel to haggle with such a vast amount of money.
Jim, sensing a crack in her armour, began to chisel away. ‘I can’t give it away. Sorry, but it’s four hundred grand or nothing. And that’s the bottom line. Take it or leave it,’ he slurred.
Helen wondered if he was bluffing. Either way it didn’t matter, as three hundred and forty was her absolute limit.
‘I’m afraid I’ll have to leave it then. Better not waste any more of your time.’ The words tasted like vinegar in her mouth. As she got up to leave she felt a great weight of hopelessness descending on her shoulders. But Jim’s hand quickly shot out and grabbed her arm.
‘Wait,’ he cried. ‘Done! Got yourself a bargain though. Two-sixty below market value … not bad. I’ll get the papers organised for signing tomorrow. You can bring the money then.’
He started coughing, a lacerating sound; there was a scythe working in his lungs. ‘Bloody fags,’ he spluttered before his cough threatened to displace bone and flesh. He waited until it settled down before taking another swig of whisky and lighting up the next cigarette.
Recovered, he looked at Helen a little too long for comfort. She shifted uneasily but the anxiety she’d been feeling was fast dispersing and her body was beginning to feel lighter. She even dared to feel hopeful about the future.
*
The paperwork took less than a week. It was a smooth transaction with both parties signing a Transfer of Land document which Helen duly lodged with the appropriate government department.
Helen knew the deal wasn’t exactly above-board. Astrid had explained the possible legal ramifications of such a transaction. There was a chance, slim, but possible, that creditors would be after her if they ever found out that Jim had sold it to her for a song. If that happened, they could take the bookshop off her and sell it for current market value. Astrid had also spelled out the ramifications of doing business with a drunk — it was illegal. But sometimes doing the right thing isn’t right, Helen had managed to justify to herself. She had decided that it was a risk worth taking. In sympathy, Astrid turned a blind eye to her friend’s dealings.
Even so, Helen hesitated before signing the papers. This could all blow up in her face. She assessed her situation once again, and decided she had few options, if any, and signed.
*
When she received the keys for the shop she held them tightly. She needed to make copies. It was a detail, one more to add to the hundreds of other details running around in her head. Becoming dizzy with the swirl she began to write things down. One list spawned a dozen others, which she stuffed into her duffle bag. Lists, which if followed would convert the unkempt, neglected, profitless shop into a sparkling clean, well loved, thriving business. She could hear the ring of the till; the melodious sound of making money filled her with a deep satisfaction.
Her primary agenda was to get the shop fixed up as soon as possible so that they could move in and live in the flat above. The relationship between Astrid and Hendel was difficult to live with. They knew the rules and appeared relaxed, but Helen found it uncomfortable with Hendel condemned to hiding in his own home.
Besides, Astrid had already done enough for them.