it mate? ‘Ave a drink.’
Eddie turned, saw and smelled a bloke offering him a bottle wrapped in newspaper. ‘Go on, son. It’s a good drop.’
‘Ta.’
Eddie took the bottle, wiped the top with his sleeve and drank. He spluttered as the cheap booze burned his throat, but drank again and again until the pictures in his mind blurred.
‘Go easy, mate.’
He handed the bottle back. The other bloke was thin and wiry with a few days’ growth on his face. He was wearing a battered hat and a worn coat and he stuck out a grimy hand. ‘Tom’s the name. Tom Rogers.’
‘Eddie. Eddie Be ... Eddie Bertoli.’
‘Dago?’
‘Nah. Me gran’s an aussie and she married a dago.’
‘Yer live round ‘ere?’
‘Yeah. On the vag?’
‘Nah. Been rabbitin’. Gunna get cleaned up; get some togs and a feed. I’ll doss down somewhere fer a day or two. Then I’m headin’ back. Pannin’s the go, they reckon.’
Eddie had seen men, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups, walking out of the city carrying everything they owned in blanket swags. Thin, their shoulders slumped; they seemed beaten before they began their trek in search of work. Any work.
He’d also seen rabbiters driving their horses and carts round the streets calling ‘rabbit-oh, rabbit-oh,’ the skinned red bodies strung from the carts.
Last night’s catcalls were still in his head. Lofty’s ugly mug. Ida. Oh, Ida. Jesus Christ. The pain seared his gut.
‘Could yer do with some company on the road, Tom?’
Chapter Three
All That Jazz Sydney 1935
After he had locked the front door of Harry’s Jazz Club, Eddie leaned against it and watched Vivien dancing; her black curly hair bounced, long jet necklace swung, hips swivelled. As the tempo increased, her movements grew faster, wilder. Reflected in the mirrored ball spinning above, her red flimsy dress revealed glimpses of her slender body.
After he’d landed the job as head doorman, he’d been bored until Vivien showed up with Doug Roberts, that flaming toffy-nosed snob. A girl like that needed a real man; if she belonged to him, he wouldn’t stand for her wearing clothes that showed all she had. He glanced at the toff’s table. Maybe things were up the creek. Roberts and Harry had their heads together. Harry’s girl, Gladys, couldn’t keep her paws off Doug.
As the trumpet reached its highest note, it faltered. The door crashed in. Bellowing coppers stormed the club, batons cracking heads. Whistles shrieked; punters tumbled. Drums and cymbals went spinning as the musos bolted. Eddie charged through the panicking crowd, up-ended tables and jumped fallen chairs to reach Vivien. He grabbed her hand, towed her through a door near the bandstand and up a flight of stairs to a room at the top. He pushed a window open, pulled her behind him up the fire escape to the roof. Eddie sat, leaned against the parapet and drew her down. Away from the smoke-filled club, the smell of booze, sweat and heavy perfume, the night air was cool and fresh. Vivien shivered; Eddie took off his coat and, as he tucked it around her shoulders, saw the rise of her breasts, her nipples erect with cold, the way the clinging dress hugged her body.
Vivien stared at him, then whispered, ‘What in God’s name happened in there? She paused and pulled the coat tight. ‘Why did you help me?’
‘I saw the coppers nab Doug.’
‘How do you know Doug’s name?’
‘I asked around.’
‘Why?’
‘I wanted to meet you.’ He saluted. ‘Eddie Bertoli at your service.’
She frowned. ‘Why did the police raid the club?’
‘Some sore loser tipped off the rozzers, I reckon.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what Harry does?’
‘He owns the club.’
‘And he’s up to his eyes in the rackets, runs the biggest two-up game in town, sells dodgy booze cheap. Probably a bit of snow.’
‘Snow?’
‘You’ve heard of opium?’
‘It’s used for pain.’
‘Well, the crims make it into a powder, cocaine; they call it snow.’
‘Why do people want that?’
‘You really are green. They sniff it and it makes them real excited. A bit mad like.’
Vivien chuckled. ‘Have you ever sniffed this snow?’
Eddie cleared his throat. ‘Not so you’d notice.’
‘Admit it. Did you go really mad?’
Gruff now, Eddie muttered. ‘Look here. I did it once or twice, hated the stuff. I’m not proud of doin’ it, so can we forget it now?’
Vivien tried and failed to look serious. ‘Tell me, how does Harry get away with all his dirty deeds?’
‘Slings a few quid to the right blokes. Must have picked a wrong’n tonight.’
‘But he’s always so nice.’
‘He’s as crooked as a dog’s hind leg and his booze’ll rot your guts.’
Vivien’s voice dropped. ‘I hate the way it makes me feel.’
‘You’re better off without booze, even the good stuff.’
‘What will happen to Doug?’
Eddie tried to look as if he gave a rat’s arse. ‘He’ll be charged, but he’ll bail himself out. He’s got it comin’ for bringin’ a girl like you to this dump.’
Vivien stifled a giggle. ‘Have you worked here long?’
‘A few weeks.’
‘Where do you live?
‘Ma Peter’s flea pit at the Rocks. I’ve been on the road a couple of years. Now, I’m workin’ me way back to Melbourne for me gran’s seventieth next month.’
‘You must be close.’
‘Too right. She brought me up after me mum died.’ He paused. ‘Gran still chops her own wood. Keeps a few chooks.’
Vivien smiled and shook her head in admiration. ‘Will you be able to get another job?’
‘Yeah, but I don’t want one. I’m gunna buy a milk bar. What about you? I don’t suppose the depression’s worried you much.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘You dress like a film star and Doug’s not short of a bob.’
‘Well, Eddie Bertoli, you’re quite wrong. Pa lost his business when I was still at school.’
‘What sort of business?’
‘He was a carrier, had a fleet of horses and drays; employed eight men. I used to have lessons in ballet, music, elocution, drawing, but we lost everything, including our house in Lane Cove.’
‘Where do you live now?’
‘Balmain.’
‘A bit of a come down.’
‘Mum hates it. We’re better off than a lot of people.’ She paused, thinking of thin, barefoot children, families who were evicted.
‘What does your dad do now?’
‘Nothing.