The Godson Read online

  ‘Yeah, righto.’ Eddie got out of the car and opened the door for his boss. ‘I’ll see you at five then, Price.’

  ‘Okay, Ed. Good on you, mate.’

  From the back of the Rolls, Eddie watched as Price went to the front door. It opened before he had a chance to knock and Eddie noticed a tall, willowy blonde in a tweed suit and glasses smile and beckon Price inside. He turned and nodded to Eddie; Eddie nodded back as Price stepped inside and the door closed. Satisfied that everything was in order, Eddie got back in the Rolls and started the motor. Now, he thought, checking his watch, what to do till five o’clock? He smiled to himself as he backed down the driveway. I think I might make the War Memorial starting favourite.

  He pulled up near the western entrance and went straight inside. He had changed his mind about looking at the tanks and the artillery out the front, and as for the old armoured personnel carrier, you’ve seen one APC, you’ve seen the lot. A blast of hot air from the heater above the entrance nearly blew his cap off. He unzipped his jacket, picked up a visitors’ guide and joined the other people heading towards the Gallipoli exhibit.

  Eddie had never visited the Memorial before. His only other time in Canberra had been a quick trip in and out in a Caribou to deliver 200 stolen AK-47s to a major in the Australian engineers when Eddie went back to Vietnam working more or less as a mercenary with the US Army and the CIA. He found the War Memorial absolutely fascinating and, for someone as tough and deadly as him, even moving. The painstaking attention given to detail was nothing short of amazing. Whole battle campaigns were mapped out. There were old letters, diaries with bullet holes in them, officers’ uniforms shredded from shrapnel. Old tins of biscuits and chocolates with Queen Victoria on the front. Guns, bayonets, Turkish uniforms. Dummies in full, original battle dress. He meandered on to the Sinai and Palestine Exhibits, then through the aeroplane hall containing huge, complete planes: Halifax bombers, Spitfires, old RAAF Boomerangs. A tape recording was playing over and over — the voices of an actual flight crew on a bombing raid over Dresden.

  He wandered on through the other visitors taking photos and groups of kids taking notes, into the Middle East section, the South West Pacific, and New Guinea; wherever Australian fighting men and women had laid down their lives for their country. But all the time Eddie was drifting inexorably towards what he was ultimately looking for. He found himself in a small theatrette watching newsreels about the Korean war. He left that, strolled through the Korean section and he was there. Vietnam.

  The first thing that caught his eye was an old black and white Admiral television set sitting in a mock-up of a 1960s style lounge room. On the table alongside were old magazines, Beatles albums and other items from that era of flower power. There was a small record player; the 45 on the turntable was The Seekers’ — ‘I’ll Never Find Another You’. He glanced at some school children taking notes on the brown vinyl lounge, when the TV started. It was ‘Four Corners’ on the ABC, a journalist was reporting live from the battlefield. The kids on the lounge took notes; Eddie blinked in wonder at the film. Those soldiers on the screen, were they familiar faces? Jesus Christ! They were. The newsreel stopped and from behind a helicopter suspended from the ceiling two speakers started up with the swoosh-swoosh-swoosh of helicopters taking off and landing. It was all too real. Eddie closed his eyes and for a moment he was back there. Bin Bah. Xuoc Thoy. Nui Dat. The bodies. The heat. The dust and flies. The smell. Mines, booby traps, tension. Bodies spinning like tops as the bullets hit them. Patrols. Brutality. Turning WIAs into KIAs. Brave men. Cowards. But where a lot of Vietnam veterans might have been unnerved, Eddie was rapt. Eddie Salita was a killer long before the army sent him to Vietnam.

  Like a kid in a toy shop he strolled along the exhibits taking in the sights. Dummies in tiger stripes, complete with face camouflage, Ml6s and body armour. American uniforms. Viet Cong in their black pyjamas and Ho Chi Minh sandals standing next to pushbikes and carrying AK-47s. An old concrete road sign caught his attention: Saigon 104 kms. Yeah, chuckled Eddie. Been there, done that. Jesus, how good’s this?

  After an hour or so he found himself in front of a glass case with an exhibit of Montagnard clothing. There was even one of their deadly little cross-bows. This made Eddie’s grin even bigger. He’d been good friends with the ‘Monts’. He was taking in the details of the red and black tunic when a shapely backside belonging to a tall, auburnish blonde looking at some paintings on the far wall caught his eye. She turned slightly side-on and Eddie had to blink and shake his head. He shook his head again, but there was no mistaking that angular, haughty face, hazel eyes and tidy nose sitting above a pair of lovely soft lips. It was her, all right. Denise Rich-tenburgh. ‘Dutchy’.

  Dutchy had been the back-up singer in a group entertaining the troops the second time Eddie was in Vietnam. She was engaged to some musician back in Sydney, but Eddie had taken her out a few times in Saigon and had made three enormous attempts to get into her long, sexy pants. Once in a jeep, once in hospital and the third time he had her back in an American Colonel’s bivouac, well topped-up with Jack Daniel’s and ready to go. He was just about to do some furious inserting when the stinking, rotten Vietcong started mortaring the base. This was one of the turning points that transformed Eddie into such a killer because as soon as he got his fatigues back on, he grabbed a grenade launcher and took out the four mortar positions by himself. But when he got back, the colonel’s tent was gone and so was Dutchy. She was all right, but the Vietcong had certainly stuffed up what should have been a good night’s tooling for Eddie. The VC paid for it, though. Eddie never took another prisoner after that. They both remained good friends, but with the war as it was, Dutchy went one way and Eddie went another. But what was the long, sexy thing doing in Canberra? There was only one way to find out.

  Almost like he was back in the jungle, Eddie moved from behind the glass case, snuck up on the unsuspecting Dutchy and grabbed her by the elbow.

  ‘Righto, gotcha,’ he said sharply into her ear. ‘And don’t try to get away.’

  If Eddie was trying to surprise Dutchy, his approach certainly had the right effect. She nearly went through the roof. Her eyes widened like saucers, her jaw dropped and a look of horror drained the colour from her face. Under his firm, but gentle grip, Eddie could feel her entire body stiffen like a post.

  She blinked at him for a moment as if she was trying to focus and get her breath back at the same time. ‘Eddie,’ she finally spluttered. ‘What the fuckin’ hell are you doing here?’

  Eddie shrugged, slightly mystified. ‘Checking out the War Memorial. What else?’

  Dutchy fell back against the wall, almost dislodging a painting. She put a hand to her face and glanced furtively around the room. ‘Who are you with?’

  Eddie shrugged again. ‘No one.’

  ‘Meet me out the front.’ She snatched her arm away and moved quickly, if a little unsteadily towards the exit.

  ‘What…’

  ‘Meet me out the front.’ She tossed the last words over her shoulder and left Eddie standing there.

  Eddie watched her shapely backside in the designer jeans disappear into the Korean section. Well bloody well work that out, he mused. An old mate. I have a bit of a joke with her and she just about shits her pants. Once again he shook his head. Buggered if I know. Oh well, she said to meet her out the front. May as well, I s’pose. After stopping at the Memorial shop to buy two souvenir sweat-shirts for his sons, he went down the front to wait for Dutchy.

  Eddie was leaning against the statue of Simpson and his donkey when Dutchy came down the steps of the War Memorial. The colour had returned to her face but the smile appeared a little forced.

  ‘Eddie Salita,’ she said, when she got close. ‘You stupid prick, you scared the shit out of me. I had to go to the loo.’

  Eddie looked at her questioningly for a moment or two. The years had been good to Dutchy. There was hardly a line on her face and when she came down those steps not a p
art of her moved that shouldn’t have. ‘Your bloody nerves are going, Dutchy.’

  She smiled at him and shook her head. ‘You got a car?’ Eddie nodded to where he’d parked the Rolls. ‘Come on, I need a bloody drink.’

  They walked to the car park and got inside Price’s Rolls Royce. Eddie didn’t start the car straight away but sat there looking at her for a few seconds. By now Dutchy’s sexy hazel eyes had started to crease into a smile, though it seemed a smile of relief more than anything else.

  ‘So what are you doing in Canberra, Eddie?’

  ‘I drove my boss down on business. This is his car. What about yourself?’

  She looked at Eddie evenly for a moment. ‘I just sold a bloke five thousand Buddha sticks outside the kiosk less than twenty minutes ago. I went into the Ladies to check the money and on the way out I thought I’d have a quick look at the Vietnam exhibit — seeing as I did my bit for my country over there,’ she added with a smile. ‘Anyway, I’m standing there minding my own bloody business and you come up and grab me by the arm. I thought it was the Federal Police. I bloody near died.’

  ‘Jesus, Dutch. Sorry mate — I didn’t know.’

  ‘Ohh, that’s all right, I suppose,’ she sighed. ‘But boy, did I shit! And you have got a way of sneaking up on people, Eddie.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  She puffed her cheeks in another sigh of relief and flopped back against the head-rest. ‘Anyway, what about a drink?’

  Eddie started the car. ‘Righto. Where’s the nearest bar?’

  ‘My place. I’m staying at the Alislie. It’s just across the road on Limestone.’

  ‘Okay.’

  THE TALL WOMAN in the tweed suit and glasses was all smiles when she opened the door for Price. ‘Mr Galese,’ she beamed. ‘Do come in. The Attorney General has told me so much about you.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll bet he has,’ replied Price.

  ‘I’m Yvonne.’ They exchanged a brief, but firm handshake. She turned to close the door and her long blonde hair swirled across her shoulders. ‘This way, please.’

  Price followed Yvonne through a small hallway hung with expensive oil paintings and beaten bronze plaques into a large, bright lounge room facing the back garden. There were more oil paintings, antiques and miniatures; several lamps dotted the thick cream carpet that washed against the brown and maroon velvet furniture, giving the room an almost Edwardian effect. The crackle of an open fireplace against one wall spread comfortable warmth throughout the room, and leaning against a mantelpiece above the fireplace was Laurence O’Malley. In his grey corduroy trousers, white V-neck pullover and cravat he practically blended in with a number of marble statuettes placed evenly along the mantelpiece.

  There was no mistaking O’Malley; the silver hair, the large thick nose, slightly veiny from one or two Scotches too many, the drooping eyes which seemed to have a permanent twinkle in them and the slightly crooked mouth all added up to make him a political cartoonist’s delight. With his head characteristically tilted to one side when he spoke and his paunch and rolling gait, he ambled across the room to Price.

  ‘Price, you old bastard,’ he grinned. ‘How are you, mate?’

  ‘Not too bad, you thieving old shit,’ replied Price, returning the grin. ‘How’s yourself?’

  ‘Fantastic.’

  They shook hands then hugged each other in a warm embrace.

  Yvonne gave a discreet cough. ‘I’ll be in the study if you want me, sir.’ O’Malley nodded; she gave Price a brief smile then left them alone.

  ‘By God it’s good to see you, Price.’

  ‘Yeah. You too, Loz. Bad luck we can’t get together more often.’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed the Attorney General. ‘But I don’t think the public would like it very much.’

  ‘No. But I’m sure those grubs on the newspapers would.’ Price removed his jacket, cap and gloves and placed them on the back of one of the lounges. ‘So what’s doing, Loz, old pal? What’s the strength of dragging me away from my nice, warm, illegal casino down to this cold, rotten prick of a joint? Do you need some of my money to help balance your shitty budget?’

  ‘No, nothing like that,’ laughed O’Malley. ‘But Christ almighty, Price. Let’s have a drink first. Then we can discuss what I told you over the phone.’

  Price rubbed his hands together and stood in front of the fire. ‘I certainly won’t say no to that, old son.’

  The Attorney General produced a bottle of Bowmore and a soda syphon from a bar in a corner of the room. He tinkled some ice into two crystal tumblers, gave them each a good hit of Scotch and a splash of soda water and handed one to Price.

  ‘Here’s to Balmain,’ he grinned.

  Price clinked his glass against O’Malley’s. ‘Yeah. Good old Tiger Town.’

  They sat on opposite lounges and got stuck into the beautiful Scotch while they talked about their larrikin past like old mates who have made good in the world are apt to do. An hour and a half flew by — most of the Bowmore was gone, and if the Attorney General of Australia and one of the leading members of the Sydney underworld weren’t half-pissed, they were making an excellent imitation of it.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Price, taking an unsteady turn at topping up their glasses. ‘So much for crab-pots in Birchgrove and hanging around the Kodocks Club. What’s the story with this pommy kid?’

  O’Malley eased back against the lounge and closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Righto,’ he said. ‘This pommy kid happens to be my godson.’ Price raised his eyebrows slightly. ‘I got to be very close friends with his father when I was doing my law degree at Cambridge. His name is Peregrine Normanhurst the Third. He’s a baronet and in line to the throne, sort of. His father is Lord Armitage Normanhurst. An ex-admiral of the fleet and the third Duke of Orange. They’re an old naval family.’

  Price nodded dryly. ‘Sounds like this kid comes from a long line of naval oranges.’

  ‘Price … please.’ The Attorney General held up one hand. ‘Anyway, Peregrine’s a nice enough kid, from what I can remember. But evidently he’s now turned into a shocking Hooray Henry. He’s filthy rich and he hangs around with all these other rich kids in Sloane Square in London. Sloane Rangers, they call them. The so-called upper class. All they do is spend money and make complete arseholes of themselves, and their parents always bail them out.’

  Price nodded. ‘I know a few like them in Double Bay. Nothing a good kick fair in the arse wouldn’t fix up.’

  ‘I agree. Anyway for a dare, silly bloody Peregrine has jumped in his Aston Martin with one of his girlfriends, Lady Shitbags or whoever, and zoomed up to Northern Ireland to see his cousin Lewis who’s a captain in the British Army stationed in Belfast. You see he and his cousin are almost identical — twins, so to speak. This is all supposed to a bit of a whizzo bash and all that. You know, have a jolly good time, take some jolly good photos.’

  ‘I can just imagine.’

  ‘So, silly bloody Peregrine and this sheila are driving through Belfast, drinking champagne, and of all things to happen, he spots his cousin out of uniform, outside some pub talking to three blokes. He pulls up, jumps out of the car and makes a big deal of finding his cousin. But what the dill doesn’t know is that his cousin’s working undercover and the three blokes are heavies in the IRA: two Frayne brothers and a fellow called McGine.’

  ‘The plot thickens,’ said Price.

  ‘Does it what. Lewis pulls out a .45 and shoots the three IRA members before they get a chance to shoot him, then he legs it rather than have his smother blown. He throws the empty gun down next to the bodies and tells the Hooray Henry to get, but Peregrine, who’s half full of French shampoo, picks it up. These other Irish burst out of the pub and are about to tear Peregrine and his brush to pieces when a British Army patrol arrives and saves the idiot.’ O’Malley stared at Price for a moment. ‘Can you follow me so far? I’ve got Armitage’s letter here if you want to see it. He wrote before he rang me.’ ‘No, that’s all right.’ Pric
e gave his drink a bit of a swirl. ‘I’ve got the picture.’

  ‘Okay. Now there’s a third Frayne brother in the hotel. He comes out and sees Peregrine with the still hot-smoking gun, so to speak. He puts two and two together, and being Irish, it comes out five, so he thinks Peregrine has shot his brothers. So now he and his little cell of killers are determined to neck Peregrine. Revenge. And you can’t really blame them I don’t suppose.’

  ‘How old’s this Peregrine wombat?’

  ‘Twenty-two. But he looks eighteen and acts about twelve.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ nodded Price.

  The Attorney General poured them both another drink. ‘So what it all boils down to, Price, is this. Peregrine’s old man wants to get his kid out of the country for a couple of weeks till Lewis can go back in and assassinate this third Frayne brother and his cell, then get something in the local paper and on TV about mistaken identity and that should clear poor silly Peregrine. The IRA have got more important things on their plate than some wooden-headed Hooray Henry. And with a bit of luck, young Peregrine should live happily ever after.’

  ‘Happily, but not too intelligently.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ O’Malley nodded and gave a tired smile. ‘You see, Price, Peregrine’s an only child and he’s the one who’s going to inherit his father’s estate and all that. He’s also my godson — which is why I’m involved.’ O’Malley’s sad, droopy eyes seemed to suddenly get sadder and droopier as he pleaded up at his friend. ‘All I want you to do, Price, if you can, is hide this wombat godson of mine in Australia for a couple of weeks till all this Elliot blows over in England. Can you do that for me? You’re the only man I can ask. And trust.’

  Price gave a bit of a chuckle and shook his head. ‘Of course I can, Loz. I’ll just keep him at my place till he goes back.’

  The Attorney General shook his head adamantly. ‘No, that’s no good. You’ll have to get him right out of Sydney. He’d only be here five minutes and he’d be out on the town. And being an English Baronet, the papers would be on to him straight away. There’s plenty of Irish in Australia, Price. I should know. O’Malley’s not Jewish. And if word somehow has filtered through, some Mick out here would be a moral to take a pot at him. It’s still all a bit of a lark to poor silly Peregrine. The stupid prick honestly doesn’t know how much strife he’s in.’