Anyone who looked in the window of Bruce Kerr’s Real Estate could tell that there was a slight turnover of properties in Satara Bay. The houses were the colonial type, tin roof, weatherboard to mid section, then fibro to the top and under the eaves. Some places were run down, being holiday cottages, and others, the permanents, were usually cared for with flowering gardens in popular pink and blue hydrangeas. It was the country, so rooster calls could be heard early in the morning, then later the brooding sounds of hens. Most backyards had aviaries and pink and grey galahs could be heard scratching tin or squawking non-stop after a dog bark. Dogs roamed freely down the beach, in the town, and there were few dog fights. Now and again you’d see a ginger cat in the early morning at a quick pace across Sandy Bay Road. Tabbies and old toms chin-buffed the oyster sheds or waited on a jetty for a feed. Children walked to school along the same arterial roads, some in groups, some holding their mother’s hand. Globite school cases were filled with banana or vegemite sandwiches, frozen cordial, pencils, exercise books and the NSW school songbook.
* * *
Marjorie has been in the office for at least an hour after the doctor’s, singing. She wipes down the kitchen bench tops and empties stale food and drink from the refrigerator. She is about to make a cup of tea, turning on the kettle, when she hears a car pull up outside. Ronny crunches his shoes on the gravel stones in the carpark. She knows he’s been out to those hillbillies at Black Mountain. Rentals. They took up most of her time, all the filing, contracts, inventories, advertising, calming some irate tenant down when their three monthly inspection was due.
‘Thought I heard ya. How’d it go with Ma and Pa Kettle?’
‘What a family. I could put a fist through that Nigel, if I wasn’t such a gentleman. He’s a spiky prick, that one, and his old man’s no better,’ says Ronny, ripping open the day’s mail. ‘Bill Haycock say anything about Bream Street?’
‘Oh, yeah. Says he wants to talk to you, but not over the telephone. Something about a Demolition 121, whatever that is. He says he can see you tomorra, at noon, at the Leagues Club. Just give him a tinkle.’
‘I got anything on tomorrow?’
‘Vinnie Polamo wants you to go to his place, something about his three sisters. Gosh, he’s hard to understand. I have to tell him, go slow, go slow mate. I got all day.’
‘Italians. Still they’ve got the dough when it comes to property. Do me a favour and confirm Haycock and tell Polamo that I’ll visit him Wednesday at two. I may have some good news for him.’
‘You know when you think about it, that old house must’ve been empty now for eight years. Do you think the Shire’s about to demolish it? And what wiv the state it’s in, you’d think they wouldn’t done something by now. Dangerous for kids, I reckon.’
‘No-one’s going to demolish it, Marjorie, not if I can help it. The property’s worth more with a building on it. And if it does go down, it will be when a nice little commission is tucked firmly in my bank account.
* * *
The Leagues Club. Good food. Good deals, but it wasn’t the kind of place Ronny Williams really liked to do business, but that’s how Bill Haycock wanted it. A beer, a fisherman’s basket with plenty of chips and he was your ticket to a sale. They had done the odd deal, but he never asked any questions about the zoning changes Bill could effect. That was Shire business. But a good solid handshake, and a deposit stub sent to his post box address later on, meant that mountains could be moved in Heystbury Shire. It always intrigued Ronny how things got done closer to home, like the huge Memorial Club that was practically sitting on three large blocks. It was, and could have been the size of a new hospital, which many locals had campaigned for. The only hospital was in Heytsbury, twelve miles away. Too bad if you croaked it on the way in the ambulance. Apart from that, the majority of the townsfolk didn’t complain, especially the old Diggers. Most were happy if they won a lamb roast in the chook raffle, or watched a weekly movie for nix. Mother’s Day, they handed out free cups of coffee. Members were content to dabble either on the gee-gees, or exercise the one-armed bandits. It was commonly known that there were higher stakes going on upstairs. Gambling. It was something Ronny Williams didn’t want to do with his hard-earned money. A small flutter on the Melbourne Cup was enough to lose. He was a simple property man, keeping to himself. That was the best way to conduct a Real Estate business.
* * *
The Leagues Club. Good food. Good deals, but it wasn’t the kind of place Ronny Williams really liked to do business, but that’s how Bill Haycock wanted it. A beer, a fisherman’s basket with plenty of chips and he was your ticket to a sale. They had done the odd deal, but he never asked any questions about the zoning changes Bill could effect. That was Shire business. But a good solid handshake, and a deposit stub sent to his post box address later on, meant that mountains could be moved in Heystbury Shire. It always intrigued Ronny how things got done closer to home, like the huge Memorial Club that was practically sitting on three large blocks. It was, and could have been the size of a new hospital, which many locals had campaigned for. The only hospital was in Heytsbury, twelve miles away. Too bad if you croaked it on the way in the ambulance. Apart from that, the majority of the townsfolk didn’t complain, especially the old Diggers. Most were happy if they won a lamb roast in the chook raffle, or watched a weekly movie for nix. Mother’s Day, they handed out free cups of coffee. Members were content to dabble either on the gee-gees, or exercise the one-armed bandits. It was commonly known that there were higher stakes going on upstairs. Gambling. It was something Ronny Williams didn’t want to do with his hard-earned money. A small flutter on the Melbourne Cup was enough to lose. He was a simple property man, keeping to himself. That was the best way to conduct a Real Estate business.
Hell, he had to climb those stairs again. Why did the club have all the pokies on the ground floor and the dining room upstairs? He preferred the Memorial Club in Satara, ground floor restaurant easy access through two swing doors. Bars to the right, machines one step down. Formal cocktail bars, huge dance floor, and cinema upstairs. It made sense that the Return Soldiers had their meetings and office upstairs, while the old codgers could partake of their vices easily. This club was different, badly planned, ostentatious, decorated in the team’s colours, dark blue and gold everywhere. Blue carpet imprinted with the club’s insignia at every step, brass fittings in the toilets, at the bars, on handrails, counter tops, banisters and furniture.
He wondered if Hayley was on duty. But there was no sign of life in the foyer. He thought about her long black hair tied in a knot at the back. One kid, no husband. She was popular with the men and he’d have to make some drastic changes to his appearance to get her interested. Maybe then he could buy her some expensive jewellery, make up for the loss of funds she accused him of.
* * *
‘Waiting for me?’ Haycock, dressed in suit and tie, takes out a handkerchief and wipes his nose. ‘Sorry I’m late. You know what it’s like, meetings, then those bloody councilors are arguing about the state of the highway. Road crews can only go as fast as they can, hey Ron?’
* * *
‘Waiting for me?’ Haycock, dressed in suit and tie, takes out a handkerchief and wipes his nose. ‘Sorry I’m late. You know what it’s like, meetings, then those bloody councilors are arguing about the state of the highway. Road crews can only go as fast as they can, hey Ron?’
Ronnie lifts his chin in agreement. They sit amongst other chattering diners in one of the largest rooms in the club. It’s smorgasbord, or you can order something listed on the wall. The specials are chalked on a blackboard.
‘Fisherman’s basket will be fine. What about you Ron?’
‘Fisherman’s basket will be fine. What about you Ron?’
‘Yeah, same.’
When their meals arrive along with glasses and a jug of beer, Ronny and Bill shuffle their chairs in. It’s a ritual they have learnt in the practice. ‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ says Bill, lowering his voice. ‘It was owned by a Mr. Sawbridge, an old fellow of eighty-two who passed away, leaving no will. From what I can understand,’ and Haycock moves in closer, ‘no family - equals - no inheritors.’
‘So what’s this Demolition 121 Marjorie told me about?’
‘Never mind about that. Not a problem. My cut of the sale will be two grand.’
‘What!’ says Ronny Williams, nearly choking on a calamari ring.
‘Shush will you. It’s worth a lot more than you think. Some of the big boys have been sitting on the property for reasons of their own, especially the Mayor. There’s talk that Tyrone is doing deals with the Memorial Club. So it’s just a matter of time before they will whip it out from under us. But we’re not going to let that happen, are we Ron?’
‘What I don’t understand is, how come probate hasn’t got their hands on it.’
‘Oh, my boy. Just think how the stationers are running out of brown paper bags right now.’
‘So, you want to get in first?’
‘Exactly. Otherwise there’s no sale and we don’t get rich.’
‘You’re amazing.’
‘You’re amazing.’
‘Best in the business, mate.’ Haycock pours another beer and offers a top up, but Ronny holds his hand over the glass.
‘I better get back to the office. Got some figures to tally. Shit, I only hope my client goes for it. It will be way over price.’
‘What’s he want that old thing for?’
‘A café.’
‘Oh, so it’s a rezoning. That would now make my tally two and half grand.’
‘Jesus!’, says Ronny, rubbing his chin. Both men crumple their serviettes, and move away slowly from their chairs. At the bottom of the steps, Haycock puts his hand on the Ronny’s back, huddles close. ‘Hope your client is keen, Ron.’
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