Amaze Your Friends. Peter Doyle

the theory being that by patronising Davey, we might just goad him into an extravagant gesture, like paying me the twelve hundred.

      Murray gave him my new phone number, cheerily told him not to hesitate to call and then hung up. To me he said, ‘There you go. Time the follow-up correctly and you might just have him.’

      I met up with Trish at the West End in the evening. She wasn’t with her friends this time. We had a drink, then went to dinner at a steak house in Taylor Square.

      It was never meant to be a date as such, but things were cooking. Our knees bumped under the table. She didn’t smile once, but kept looking out from behind the long hair that hid half her face. After the meal we walked down Forbes Street to the El Rocco and sat around drinking shitty coffee, listening to the group play Blue Note–style jazz. During a break we smoked a reefer outside and then came in and danced to the bop. She closed her eyes while she danced, and still didn’t crack it for a grin.

      Afterwards we walked back to my pad. We stopped for a kiss on the way. If Trish hadn’t spoken much all night, she sure made up for it with that kiss, which was fantastic. Her lips were soft and yielding, but there were little tremors and return pressures which said all kinds of things.

      The furnishings in my flat were still pretty basic—an armchair and a small bookshelf, my TV and record player. Trish looked around. She picked up one of my paperbacks and read aloud from the cover blurb, ‘They made wild beatnik love to a crazy bongo beat!’ She shook her head, put it down, and then flipped through my records. She ignored the country and rock’n’roll, pulled out John Coltrane, then a Ray Charles, and some Brazilian thing I’d forgotten I owned.

      I poured drinks for us. Trish sat on the floor resting against my knees as we smoked more dope and played the records. I leaned over, smelled her hair, pushed it aside and kissed her neck. I reached around and undid the buttons of her blouse. She moved forward as I slipped it off over her shoulders. I undid her bra, cradled her breast in my hand, brushed my thumb over her nipple. She shivered, breathing fast and shallow. She whispered, ‘I really should go or I’ll miss the last bus.’

      She turned around to face me, kneeling on the floor, her face serious, her eyes heavy.

      ‘Don’t go. I still haven’t seen you smile,’ I said.

      And then she did. She stayed. We made wild beatnik love to a crazy bongo beat.

      Trish was gone when I woke up. I lay in bed for a while, feeling pretty good. But as I awoke more fully, the evil chill that had settled in my bones the past few weeks returned.

      I got up, made a coffee with a shot of scotch in it. That helped a little, so I had another. I was still tossing up whether or not to pop into work when I got a call from Jack Davey. He asked how I was, if I was busy. I told him I always had time for him, what was on his mind? He said would I like to drop by his pad later that morning, he had a bit of an idea he wanted to talk over with me. I told him I’d be there.

      I knew that if this little bit of confidence-trickery was to work, I had to come across like a fair dinkum winner. So I tubbed, shaved close, bunged on some aftershave, and ironed the cleanest shirt I could find. Then I ate a couple of dexes, strolled up to Angelo De Marco’s and got myself a square cut.

      Angelo gave me a good trim. He showed me the back of my head in the mirror, took the sheet off me, brushed me down, smiled and said, ‘Now is champion, eh?’

      I said, ‘Yeah, too right, that’s great, Angelo.’ But try as I might, all I could see in the mirror was a hunched-over, narrow-eyed feller, a man running scared.

      I drove the Holden down to Wolseley Road, Point Piper, parked it well away from Davey’s waterfront flat. He answered the door himself. At fifty years old, he was still dapper but the demanding schedule, the grog, and the drugs he took for his ‘back pain’ were catching up with him. He shook hands and brought me inside.

      ‘Good to see you again, Billy. Listen, I’m running a little late on a press conference. Come on through and have a drink. But first, I’ve got something for you.’ He handed me a small paperback book. It was called The Wonder Book of Australiana.

      I looked at him and said, ‘What’s this for?’

      ‘That book, my friend, is the key to knowledge and unheard of financial success.’

      ‘Another one.’

      ‘I’ll explain later. Come on in. Best keep the book out of sight.’ I followed him into the large lounge room. There was a bunch of blokes hanging around the bar, where a white-coated feller was pouring drinks.

      A little bloke in a Sinatra hat and a bad jacket came over to Davey and said, ‘Ready when you are, Jack.’

      Davey moved over to a bare wall and called out, ‘Could I have your attention, gents. On behalf of the Australian Wool Board, may I present the lovely Sabrina. Hang on to your hats, fellers.’

      A blonde woman in a tight-fitting woollen dress walked out of the bedroom doorway. She took little mincing steps and wobbled her large breasts, Jayne Mansfield–style. A couple of blokes whistled. Sabrina posed this way and that while flashes popped, always careful to push out the tits.

      ‘Say hello to the boys, Sabby.’

       ‘Hi, boys, how are you all?’ Her accent was Brit, broad northern. Someone called out to her to turn side on. She did, silhouetting the cantilevered superstructure. More flashes. Then Davey stood next to her, mugging and making a big show of eyeing her off.

      After a couple of minutes of that he said, ‘Okay, now make sure you get this, boys: on behalf of Channel Seven and our sponsors, the Australian Wool Board, I’m proud to announce a new television program, The Australian Wool Show, the biggest, richest, most star-studded event this country has ever seen. The program will feature a quiz show and top-line variety entertainment. Next week I’m off to America to promote Australian wool products and line up talent for the show. Off the record, we are currently negotiating with Marilyn Monroe, Jack Benny, Bob Hope, Sammy Davis Jr, Elvis Presley, and many other stellar attractions. Sabby herself will be the guest star on the first show, on which she will perform one of the most daring song-and-dance acts ever witnessed in this country. Hey, Sabby, why don’t you turn around, show the fellers the rear view?’

      She did. Then the little bloke in the Sinatra hat stepped forward and said, ‘All right, gentlemen, now there’ll be an opportunity for you to conduct private interviews in the other room.’

      He led Sabrina away again, came back out and one by one took press blokes into the room.

      Davey came over and said, ‘Come outside a moment, Bill.’ On the balcony he said, ‘What do you think?’

      ‘Crazy.’

      ’No, I mean my new show, The Australian Wool Show.’

      ‘Yeah, it’ll be a killer for sure, no risk.’

      ‘This is something new. Simulcast, they call it—on radio and TV at the same time. International stars, and a quiz with big prize money.’

      ‘Oh, yeah. Tremendous.’

      ‘The sponsors are ready to go for broke. Two thousand quid prize money, every week. Jackpotting.’ He paused, gave me a meaningful look.

      ‘Why are you telling me this?’

      ‘Well, Bill, there’s the business of the money I owe you . . .’

      ‘Oh, yes, I do seem to remember something.’

      ‘Don’t try to con a conman. I’ll get right to it.

      The thousand I owe you —’

      ‘Twelve hundred.’

      ‘Whatever. I can’t pay it. I’m broke. Sorry, but that’s how it is. I’ve got a desk full of letters in there, every one of them begins with the word “unless”. But I want to do the right thing by you.’

      ‘And?’

      ‘And