Black Wattle Creek (Charlie Berlin #2)(47)
Monkford had lent the newlyweds his recently purchased Studebaker for their honeymoon – five days down at Lakes Entrance, in one of those exotic new motels that were spreading like cooch grass. Monkford judged this to be a total waste of money and had told Charlie so. He offered to lend them his tent and a blow-up mattress, both of which he promised hardly ever leaked. He sweetened the offer with an Esky and a hurricane lamp, but Berlin thanked him and only took him up on the car.
When Berlin returned the vehicle he’d given Fred his last bottle of Haig’s as a thank you. Also a small package wrapped in oilskin cloth and a piece of old floral curtain material. In the package was a Browning automatic pistol that Berlin had picked up at a crime scene. Since he’d have a child in his house soon, he explained to Fred, he didn’t want a gun lying around.
Monkford had taken the package out to his garden shed and stuffed it behind some pest oil and a pile of mildly pornographic Swedish naturist magazines that he’d confiscated and ‘forgotten’ to turn in. The gun had been there undisturbed for almost ten years.
Now Fred licked the seam of his cigarette paper and sealed it. Errant shreds of tobacco hung out one end. He carefully pinched them off before lighting up with a gold Ronson. He’d scored the lighter during the war for looking the other way when a truckload of black-market sugar was unloaded in a neighbour’s garage.
Berlin inhaled the smoke from Fred’s first puff. That was always the best one, the tobacco smelling clean and toasted and pure. Fred offered him the pouch but he shook his head.
‘Remember what your grandad always said, Charlie, it’s a piss-weak man who uses a gun when he can still make a fist.’
‘I remember.’ Berlin knew his grandad would never say, ‘piss weak’. In fact he’d never heard the old bloke swear, apart from that comment he’d once made about Trugo. He’d seen him come home with bruised and bloodied knuckles on many occasions, and then be up washed, shaved and dressed early the next morning, ready to appear in court and give evidence. More often than not against men with battered faces who would then confess readily to their transgressions.
‘It’s all about respect, Charlie, you remember him saying that? A good copper doesn’t need a gun; the uniform should be enough. Uniformed constables on the beat with a gun on their hip would be a nightmare, like the wild bloody west. You give people guns and all they want to do is shoot ‘em off.’
Berlin nodded. But if people wanted to shoot guns it was nice to have one yourself, to shoot back.
‘Use your wits, Charlie, and your voice. Talk them into doing the right thing. And if they won’t listen then that’s when you use your fists. And if they don’t get the message from a knuckle sandwich, well, your truncheon, or better yet, a nice piece of one-inch galvanised-iron water pipe will always do the trick.’
Berlin knew what was coming next and he beat Fred to it. ‘Two feet long, no more, right? For balance. With a good bit of Elastoplast bandage wrapped round one end for a better grip.’
‘There you go, Charlie, best bit of advice an old copper can give a young copper.’
‘I still need the gun.’
Fred Monkford took off his glasses and looked Berlin dead in the face for a moment.
‘Got yourself in a bit of strife, have you, son?’
Berlin shrugged. ‘No more than usual, Fred. Just something that came up. Might be nothing, but I want to be ready.’
‘Rusty pistol that’s been living in a shed with a bunch of red-back spiders for the last ten years might not be the safest thing in the world.’
‘I gave it a good oil before I wrapped it up. And I don’t intend firing it, not if I can help it.’
Fred pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. ‘Well, it’s your funeral. No one ever intends firing a gun, but like I said, when you have the bloody things hanging about that’s what always seems to happen. Be a sad, sad day when we have uniformed coppers carrying guns in this state. You just make sure there’s no way those kids of yours can get their hands on it.’
Berlin wandered into the living room while Fred went out the back for the gun. The place was an even bigger brothel than the kitchen. If Julia didn’t come back soon Fred would be buried alive under a pile of old newspapers, empty VB bottles, Zane Grey paperbacks and overflowing ashtrays. Berlin opened the venetian blinds and studied the street for a moment, before closing them again.
He was in the kitchen when Monkford came back with the gun. The oilcloth had dried out but the pistol had no signs of rust. He took the magazine out and checked the cartridges. They looked okay too. He pulled the slide back and the action was smooth enough, considering.
‘Thanks for that, Fred.’ He de-cocked the weapon, pushed the magazine back in and dropped it into his pocket.
‘How’s the old Studi running?’
Monkford had sold the car to Berlin at a good price after his eyesight started failing and he had a near miss with a schoolboy on a bicycle.
‘Like a dream, Fred, like a dream.’ Berlin knew if he said anything else the old bloke would try to insist on paying for the repairs. And that wasn’t going to happen no matter how strapped for cash the Berlin family might be.
He shook Fred’s hand. ‘I’m off now. I’ll go out the back way, let you get back to your reading.’
Monkford settled back into his chair at the kitchen table. ‘Hooroo then, Charlie, you take care of yourself, eh. Give my love to Rebecca and the kids. Bring’ em over one day soon, that’d be nice, let ‘em see their old godfather. I’ll let you know when Julia gets back.’