The Big Whatever by Peter Doyle Read Free Book Online

thing weighing on my mind: I’d left Johnny in the hot seat. But if anyone in the southern hemisphere could slip out of knots it was our Johnny. And on the other side of the ledger, he still had our nightclub, which returneda handsome dollar – not that I’m into money, which is a capitalist mirage we’d be better off without – being as the Joker was party headquarters for an endless stream of American servicemen desperate for rocks-offedness and all manner of diversions. So yeah, when things quieted down I’d return, but meanwhile Johnny could pocket the whole take.
    The more I mulled it all over, the better things looked. I was in a new city. I had a car, a Hammond B3 (the sacred instrument of the electric gods, as revealed by their prophet, Saint Jimmy Smith), enough bread to cool it for a while, and a good chunk of hashish. I could feel the karmic current moving me. I had that tingle in my cells, a surge in the blood, that told me: Mel baby, something is about to happen. Have your wits about you, because fate just remembered your name and phone number.
    I needed to be prepared for untoward events, just the same. So that afternoon I went to a certain pub in South Melbourne, mentioned a certain name, a name I’d been given one time back in Sydney. No one knew the bloke whose name I mentioned. I waited around, but nothing happened. I went back next day, waited again, drinking just enough to avoid suspicion but not enough to get drunk. Eventually a hard old gaffer moseyed over, dropped the name I’d mentioned, and we had a nice little chat. Nothing was said outright, but later that night I swapped a wad of money for a clean .38 Special. Even if I didn’t expect to encounter Dutch Harry, or the Greek, or any of the Sydney crew, it was nice to know that if I did, I’d have some bargaining power.
    I checked out of the George the next day, drove down to Geelong, and took a room in a run-down but comfortable enough guesthouse.
    The weeks went by. I’d left Sydney needing a haircut, but I let my hair grow longer, grew a beard too. Killed time reading, smoking hash, practicing scales. It wasn’t too bad, especially with the good gear. A simple schedule: wake up, smoke something, go for a stroll along the beach. A bite toeat, mucho coffee, the newspapers, then back to the pad to practice.
    The dope was holding out better than the money, but no urgency with either just yet. I could’ve carried on this way for months. But with all that practice I was itching to make real music. And – more wise words from old Mel – it’s a thousand times easier to make money when you’ve got money than when you don’t.
    So one mild and mellow morning I packed the B3 into the station wagon, paid off the landlady and took my leave. I headed around the bay into Melbourne, all the way to St Kilda, put down a bond and a month’s rent on a furnished flat on an out-of-the-way block, stuck between a garage and a vacant warehouse.
    The place was one block back from the beach, but it had glimpses of the bay, and a lock-up garage, too. (Now hear me, brother and sister musicians: a lock-up garage is a must for those late nights when you get home too drunk or stoned to unload your gear).
    That night I hit the bricks.
    All right, hipsters, I know what you’re thinking – Melbourne! Trams and quiet Sundays. Glen Waverley and Moomba. Blokes in grey cardigans going home through grey streets to grey wives and grey kids. Industrial shithole or suburban death zone. Yeah, I know. Well, listen to your Uncle Mel, because I’m right here telling you, Melbourne that year was the funkiest town in the country. Nay, fuck that, in the southern motherloving hemisphere . Oh sure, the discotheques were dry, the pubs closed early, the streets were empty. And there was nothing like Kings Cross, with its clip joints and nightclubs and brothels, all existing solely for the extraction of dollars from