‘I want it secure,’ I said. ‘Very, very secure.’
9
‘I’m for a beer,’ Bob Mulholland said. ‘Cliff?’
It was after five o’clock. He packed some papers into a Gladstone bag, took a light jacket off a peg and had a few words with Anna about locking up her computer disks and the security of the buildings and yards.
‘We’ve got alarms all around,’ he told me as we walked towards the front gate. ‘Two night watchmen and a couple of dogs. It’s pretty good.’
We went through the gate. ‘No car?’ I said.
‘Nah, I live in Mascot. Walk to work. Keeps the fat down.’
I couldn’t see much fat and he walked briskly, but I had the feeling that it had been a long day for him and maybe the rabbit punch had hurt him more than he let on. He accepted the offer of a lift gratefully. He settled into the seat and stretched his legs. The Gladstone bag sat between his feet.
‘Good car?’
I started the engine, which ran smoothly and softly.
‘Sounds all right. Had it long?’
‘Not long. I traded its older brother in on it. I like Falcons, don’t ask me why.’
He laughed. ‘I like Holdens. Don’t know why either. Let’s go to the Beauchamp. On Botany Road.’
We didn’t speak on the short drive. Mulholland stared straight in front of him. He sighed once, deeply. I realised that he was very tired indeed.
The pub was old and on a corner, the way a pub should be. It also boasted Sky Channel TV, which I’m not so sure about. After the chemical gunge outside, the air, filled with the aromas of beer, smoke and sweat, seemed almost fresh. We went into the public bar and Mulholland settled his bag between his legs, as workmen have done for centuries. ‘I owe you one. That Stillson would’ve made a mess of me. What’ll it be?’
We both had middies of old and sank them quickly, without talking. Mulholland knew the barman and a few of the other drinkers. They acknowledged him respectfully. I’d seen ex-boxers get that kind of reception before, but usually those who kept on using their fists. Mulholland’s respect seemed to carry a tinge of affection as well.
‘My buy.’ I got the next round. The beer tasted good and I was happy to be there drinking it. But I knew he hadn’t invited me along just for the company.
When we were halfway through the second round Mulholland said, ‘Let’s go and sit down, I’m bushed.’
We sat at a table with a wet surface and full astray but as far as possible from the men gathered rowdily around the giant TV screen. The barman hurried over and wiped away the slops. He also removed the ashtray. ‘You’ve got clout in here,’ I said.
Mulholland sipped his beer. ‘Worked around here most of my life. Ever since I got down from the bush. I’ve done everything-truckie, storeman, maintenance at Caltex, the lot.’
‘How long have you worked for Barnes?’
‘Fifteen years, no, eighteen. From the beginning.’ He snorted. ‘He made me go to night school, would you believe it? I was thirty-five, a boong from the bush, bloody near illiterate. Hardly a thought in m’ head.’
‘How did you meet him, Bob?’
‘Korea. He was my CO.’
‘I thought they only took veterans from the war in Korea.’
‘No, I was with the occupation mob in Japan. They took a few of us.’
‘You must’ve been young.’
He grinned. ‘Joined in forty-nine when I was sixteen. Used the birth certificate of an uncle of mine who was a few years older. No one knew. That “all boongs look alike” stuff was operating, you know.’
I realised that I didn’t know anything about
Barnes Todd’s war record except what he’d told me. That was all anecdotal, throwaway stuff.
Knowledge is the name of my game. ‘What sort an officer was he?’
‘The best. Were you in the service, Cliff?’
‘Malaya.’
‘I thought that was before Korea.’
‘It started before, but it went on a lot later. I was in at the very end. Tell me about Barnes.’
‘Not that much to tell. We were in the Third Battalion, A Company. Saw a hell of a lot of action-up to Manchuria and down to Seoul and back to the parallel.’
‘Frostbite Ridge?’
‘My oath. Barnes looked after us. Bloody brilliant soldier. Whole thing was a waste of time, of course, but I didn’t know that then.’
He finished his drink so abruptly that I thought he was about to leave, but he took out five dollars. ‘Three’s my limit,’ he said. ‘Mind getting ‘em? Get a glass of water too, would you?’
There was a soccer match on the TV and the singlet-, overall- and T-shirt-wearing men were shouting and swearing as they drank and watched. The carpet in front of the TV set was worn through to the underlay. The walls and ceiling were stained from the cigarette fug that enveloped the watchers. When I got back with the drinks, he had two pills in the pink palm of his hand. He flicked them into his mouth and swallowed them with the water. ‘Bit of heart trouble. Nothing serious. Cheers.’
We drank some more beer and he told me about his few years as a boxer after he had come back from Korea. Then it had been deadend jobs for a long time until by chance he had met up with Barnes Todd, who was just getting started in his trucking business.
He did a good imitation of Barnes’ bluff manner and voice. ‘First, you’ll need an education, corporal.’
‘That’s him,’ I said.
‘He was as good at business as he had been at soldiering,’ Bob said. ‘Bloody tough, but fair. He looked after you.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Started up a super scheme as soon as he could afford it. Pretty democratic about the big decisions, asked everyone’s opinion, at least. There’s a bit of profit-sharing among the workers. I mean, it’s not bloody Utopia or anything, but a hell of a lot better than the average.’
‘Was he always on the up and up?’
‘Pretty much, as far as I know. Early on we did a few things that wouldn’t stand up to too much examination. Cleaned out a few warehouses for people. Debatable, I’d call it. Nothing really bent. D’you want details? It was a long time ago and pretty small beer.’
I shook my head. ‘Did you know he was a painter? A good one, they say.’
‘No, but it doesn’t surprise me.’
The noise in the pub had gone up as the workers had come in after knocking off; there was no one close and little danger of being overheard, but Bob leaned closer to me. ‘Was he murdered?’
‘I don’t know. What d’you reckon? I was hoping the business records might give me a clue.’
‘They might.’
‘But you don’t think so. Come on, Bob.
Something’s on your mind. I need all the help I can get.’
‘It’s probably nothing,’ Mulholland muttered. ‘But I can’t get it out of m’ head. It happened at Wonsan, on the retreat. We pulled back with the Yanks, except that they were running and we were fighting.’
‘I’ve heard about it,’ I said.
‘Yeah, no sense in going over it again. Most of ‘em were conscripts so it wasn’t their fault. Throw in a few bad officers and you’ve got all the makings of a balls-up. You never saw anything like the mess at Wonsan-the port was choked with boats trying to get away, the roads were shot to shit. What with the smoke and the rain, it was hard to tell who was who and what was what.’ An old-soldier look came over his face. The look holds two things in balance; thank God I’m out of it, and Christ, what a time it was!
He sipped some beer and went on, ‘Our platoon was down to five men and were buggered. We’d been on the move without sleep for days, almost no food and a couple of us with wounds. Barnes was holding us together, but only just.’
His dark face took on a fixed, strained look as if the act of memory was ageing him. I didn’t say anything.
‘The Yanks had had to abandon most of their armour, most of their transport and supplies. They were demoralised. Weather was too bad for the planes and a lot of the Yanks were still recovering from their first sight of the Chinese up close. Scary’s not the word for those blokes.’