my framed picture of Rising Fast winning the 1954 Melbourne Cup on the wall, some bottles of beer in the fridge and tea and biscuits in the kitchen cupboard, the flat didn’t seem so bad. It had its own private stairs down the back of the building which led onto a laneway that could have come straight out of a gangster movie. The landlord was a Maltese bloke named Sam. He seemed inclined to mind his own business.
After lunch I opened a bottle of beer and drank a toast to the new pad, allowed myself a little pat on the back for my quick action. I finished the beer, dropped a couple of pills, and presently paddled my board onto that familiar wave of confidence and well-being.
I went into the bathroom, and while I brushed my teeth I took a long hard look at myself in the mirror. My hair was still sandy and most of it was still there, and so too were my teeth. Sure, I could have done with a couple more pounds, and maybe my face was rather drawn. For a 31-yearold, my eyes were a little more bloodshot than they might have been, but what the hell? I ran a comb through my hair and stood up to my full height, five ten. I shaped up, threw a few punches at the bloke in the mirror. I skipped around a bit, dodging behind my guard. That’s the way, I thought, still every inch a champ.
Suitably geed up, I turned my attention to monetary matters. I got out my financial records-an old exercise book-to establish where I stood. It had been a big twelve months, starting with me well ahead, holding the combined take from the J. Farren Price robbery and my share of Lee Gordon’s Little Richard tour. But since then I’d shouted a lot of drinks, fattened up a few bookies, and shelled out some hefty unsecured loans. Now the bank balance was looking decidedly crook. The way it was going, if I didn’t get some real cash flow soon I’d be on the bones of my arse by Christmas.
But I still had a few hundred quid left and there was a chance I could call in at least some of the money I was owed. This ranged from the five quid Lachie owed me for the reefers (which I’d never get) all the way up to up to a £1200 advance that I’d made to Jack Davey six months ago. Retrieving that one would require a careful approach. Despite his being the highest paid entertainer in the country, getting money out of Davey was harder work than brickies’ labouring.
My philosophy on money had always been wait and see what turns up, but while you’re waiting, do whatever’s necessary. The more I thought about it, the more certain I was that the best course open to me was legitimacy, or the appearance of same. The problem was, short of getting an actual job, I had absolutely no idea how to earn a legitimate quid.
The next morning I went for a run and a swim at the Domain baths, then repaired to the Rock’n’roll for a restorative midday sherry while I considered how I might create a semblance of propriety. I sat and cogitated. Nothing came to me. I had another sherry, examined some of the things I’d previously ruled out.
Which led me to Uncle Dick, the blackest sheep of the Glasheen family.
It had been a while, but I could still remember his last words to me: ‘Money won is twice as sweet as money earned—remember that, Bill.’ That was just after he’d swindled me out of a hundred quid. Three or four years later he’d written to me from Adelaide to say he’d started a business and that there might be a place for me if I was interested. I hadn’t replied to that letter and there’d been no communication between us since. He could be anywhere by now.
I put aside thoughts of lost uncles and looked at the jobs section in the newspaper. I was shocked and appalled to see how little money was to be made for forty hours’ hard yakka. I closed the paper, ordered another sherry. I wrote a letter to Dick right there at the bar and sent it straight off to his old post box at the Adelaide GPO. It couldn’t hurt, I thought.
Eight days later I received a reply.
Dear Bill
It was a very pleasant surprise to get a letter from you after so long. I’m glad to hear that you’re interested in the mail order business—after all, it’s only right that family should stick together. Of course, I’d be delighted to do anything I can, even though your late father, God rest his soul, had some reservations about me. But I know I don’t need to tell you about that.
I’ve enclosed two adverts cut from the sports pages of the Adelaide Advertiser. These ads are for my two best-selling products. As you can see, one is a cure for nicotine addiction, the other a cure for bad luck. The latter consists of a small booklet (which stresses the importance of mental outlook) and an accompanying good-luck charm, the patented Lucky Monkey’s Paw. At the moment I have a number of different products for sale. They include Stop Now! (a cure for bed-wetting), Straight Talk (a cure for stammerers), and Love Secrets for Young Marrieds (a ringing indictment of prudery and narrow-mindedness). I also offer a nerve tonic and a series of life-study photographs for artists and students of the human form.
I have long been in favour of expanding the business into Sydney and possibly Melbourne. The only thing holding me back has been a lack of suitable business partners.
With you working the Sydney end, and me the Adelaide end, we could do very well, I’m certain. And who knows, maybe you will be able to introduce some new products to the range?
There’s nothing wrong with commerce and enterprise so long as you are doing better than the other fellow. You may remember me once advising you to avoid any line of work in which you are required to join a trade union or similar association—not that I’m against the working man, heaven forbid! But the way I see it, any such occupation must by definition be strenuous, possibly dangerous, and will almost certainly be poorly recompensed. That is not for the likes of you or me (although it was for your father, God rest his soul).
Anyway, in the postal sales area, you will find that not more than a few hours’ work a day, for two or three days a week, will produce a handsome return, leaving you plenty of time for the finer things in life.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours Sincerely
Dick Glasheen
There were two press clippings with the letter:
That night I put through a trunk call to Uncle Dick. We had a yack about the old days. About how he used to drop by to pay his respects to my recently widowed mum and see that everything was all right. Or sometimes take my brother and me to the Easter Show or the fights, and sling us ten bob each. There were other things we didn’t talk about, like when he used to stay over at our place, supposedly sleep in the spare room. After lights out he’d tiptoe into Mum’s room, a bottle of scotch in hand, be gone before daybreak. Then there was the time he shot through suddenly and the housekeeping money went with him.
Anyway, we got the cherished memories stuff out of the way and then I hit him with some questions about the business. The Lucky Monkey’s Paw, he said, was a plastic thing he had made up at a factory in Hong Kong. The nerve tonic was a harmless concoction put together by a bloke in Melbourne. All the items were small; you could squeeze the entire stock into a couple of suitcases.
‘I’m telling you,’ he said, ‘the mail order business can be marvellous. Every week there’s a slew of money orders in the post box.’
I said, ‘But are there really that many mugs out there?’
‘We call them customers, Bill. And yes, armies of them, have no fear. Didn’t you have a Phantom ring when you were thirteen?’
‘One for each hand.’
‘I rest my case.’
‘How
