are.’
‘Typical,’ said Norm O’Neill, adjusting the fit of his flat cap. ‘Always lookin in the wrong place for the answer. That’s your problem, Wilbur, always has bin, always will be. Now take that horse Dunedin Star…’
‘Christ,’ said Eric Tanner. ‘Bloody Dunedin Star. Bloody Dunedin Star again, I’m jumpin out of this vehicle.’
‘Ten minutes to the TAB stop, men,’ I said. ‘I suggest you concentrate on your selections. And don’t worry about the second.’
June the second. Birthday of Cam’s cousin. The horse was running at Caulfield. On its record, there was no reason to believe the animal would earn its training bill today.
‘Got somethin?’ said Wilbur. ‘Hot, is it?’
‘Smouldering,’ I said. Passing on tips is dangerous. On the other hand, I’d had three tips from Cam in four years. Record: 3-0.
Outside the TAB, I said. ‘Fly Tonight, number six in the second. All care. No responsibility.’
Nodding vigorously, Norm led the charge.
Back on the road inside ten minutes. No-one had anything on the first race. We were closing in on the unhallowed ground when they came out of the gate for the second. Silence in the car. Eleven horses, twelve hundred metres.
Fly Tonight didn’t put any strain on the pre-war hearts, led from start to finish, won by two-and-a-half lengths.
The exultation was deafening. When they’d finished patting me on the shoulders, Norm said, ‘Know somethin, Jack, me boy. Had an eye on that horse meself.’
‘Christ, no,’ said Eric. ‘Not another Dunedin Star.’
Waverley Park, gale blowing the rain horizontally towards the scoreboard end. It wasn’t a day for pretty football. We found a spot on the edge of the big crowd of Saints supporters. Not quite with them, definitely not with the other lot. Geelong kicked two early goals against the wind. The Saints dawdled around a bit, then started kicking goals. The youth club made no comment until the sixth one without reply.
‘Bloody handbags,’ said Norm. He raised his voice slightly. ‘Stick it up em, Sainters.’
‘Go Saints,’ said Wilbur, mildly.
‘Much improved side,’ said Eric in the measured manner of a judge.
The Lark conveyed home a wet but content foursome. The Saints three-goal winners. Spirits were further improved by a stop at a TAB to pick up the winnings.
‘Jesus, Jack,’ said Eric, ‘they give you the money with a spade. What’d ya have on it?’
‘The farm,’ I said. ‘Story of my life.’
We had a few beers at the Prince, talked about the game, no major disagreements. The loyalty transplant couldn’t be declared a success until the youth club began making judgments about St Kilda players, tactics, the coach, the umpires, club management, the quality of the opposition, and which teams the Saints should hate most.
Stan came over, back to his normal state of grump, not the jovial Pickwickian publican this evening. ‘Talked to my old bloke,’ he said. ‘Get no sense out of him. Won’t sell. Gone out of his tree up there in the bloody sunshine.’
I said, ‘Been out of that particular tree all the time I’ve known him.’
He put his elbows on the counter, leaned towards me. ‘Jack, there’ll never be a better offer for the bloody place. Talk to him, will you?’
I looked around at the patrons. Ten years would see off most of them. ‘Let me think about it,’ I said. ‘Let me have a good long think.’
A ten-year think.
At home, sad, misty, loveless Saturday night, a chicken pie and two glasses of red took care of me.
26
One other table was occupied, by a fat man, about thirty or fifty, and a woman of the same size, possibly his daughter, possibly his wife. Or her mother. The man had made a wholehearted commitment to synthetics: Styrofoam neck brace, polyester for shirt, jacket and trousers, brown nylon socks worn inside green plastic open- toed sandals. His companion was in a luminous purple tracksuit, huge white athletic shoes curling up at both ends, sweatbands on both wrists and a white headband on which one could just make out the puzzling words ILL TO WIN.
The pair looked hungry, hanging out for food, too hungry to converse, eyes flicking around, to us, to the duck- footed passers-by outside, to each other, disapproving, then back to the man frying flattened lumps of mince on the hotplate behind the counter. He had a thoughtful air, a sad-eyed middle-aged man who’d inherited his father’s baldness and his wig, bought this dud Heavenly Hots franchise, six tables in the wrong part of a shopping palace in Doncaster, sellers probably now in a foreign country not legally obliged to return them. The man’s faded wig, each hair once a lustrous strand in the scalp of a woman shorn like a sheep in some poverty-stricken Ukrainian village, had slipped back. It was now positioned several centimetres from the northernmost frown line, looking more like a jaunty hair hat than a hairpiece.
‘Hoop’s choice of venue,’ said Cam, looking around with interest. ‘Paranoid. He lives in Hoppers Crossing, other side of the city. Fancy anything?’
‘Tea might be safe,’ I said. ‘Just tea.’
Cam caught the proprietor’s eye. ‘What kind of tea you got?’ he said.
‘Tea?’ said the man, looking happier. ‘Tea? What kind of tea? Tea tea, that’s what I’ve got. In little bags.’
‘Two,’ said Cam. ‘Tea tea for two.’
Another customer came in, small man in a silky black tracksuit, neat dark hair, face of a dangerous schoolboy. Our jockey from the Kyneton race, Johnny Chernov. He went to the fridge, got a can of Coke, went to the counter, pointed at something sticky.
He sat down at the table next to us, adjusted his chair so that he was in right profile to Cam, took out a small mobile phone and put it on the table, popped his can.
‘Been lookin at the video, Johnny,’ said Cam. ‘Don’t like it at all.’
‘What’s it you don’t like?’ Chernov said. He took a swig of Coke.
‘Don’t like the way you got lost in the crowd at the turn.’
‘So tell the stewards. Ride the fucking things yourself.’
The proprietor took the hamburgers over to the couple. ‘Whaddabout the chips?’ the woman said, licking her lips.
‘Sauce,’ said Synthetic Man. ‘Need sauce.’
‘Coming,’ said the proprietor. ‘Two hands, that’s all I’ve got.’
Cam was studying Johnny Chernov’s profile. ‘Johnny,’ he said, voice neutral, ‘that’s not a helpful attitude. I’m here on the owner’s behalf givin you the opportunity to tell me why you lost a race. You can blame the horse, blame the track, blame anything.’
‘Told the trainer,’ said Chernov. ‘I ride for trainers.’
‘I heard what you told the trainer. That’s why we’re here.’
‘Nothin to add,’ said Chernov. He found a cigarette, lit it with a gold Dunhill lighter, blew smoke at the ceiling, took another swig at his can, put the cigarette in his mouth.
Cam looked at me, hint of a smile on his face. Then he put out a big hand, plucked the cigarette from Chernov’s lips and inserted it into the can of Coke.
Hiss, puff of smoke out of the can.
‘It’s polite to ask, Johnny,’ Cam said. ‘Answer’s yes, we do mind. Now I’m givin you another chance to tell us why you lost that race. Not what you told the trainer. Unhappy with your story, I’m comin out to the carpark with you, suspend you for a few races. Maybe fifty, maybe a hundred and fifty.’
Stony profile.
Cam put out his hand again, pinched the jockey’s narrow chin between thumb and forefinger, brought his head
