‘Yeah,’ chuckled Jesse. ‘Reg too.’
‘But they buried him with his copper belt.’
‘Yeah. Fat lot of good it did him.’
‘So what do you want to do now?’ asked Mick.
‘Get a bite to eat,’ replied Jesse.
‘Okay. I’ll head straight for the rissole.’
‘Why don’t you take the car back to the hotel and we’ll walk up?’
‘Didn’t you get enough walking today?’ smiled Mick.
‘Yes,’ replied Jesse. ‘But it’s nice to walk the meal off after you’ve eaten.’ She looked at her watch. ‘We still got time.’
‘Okay,’ said Mick. ‘Good idea.’
Mick took the car back to the hotel and parked it near the shed out the back. A few people had gathered in the bar area; Mick gave them a quick glance through the cyclone-wire fence, then he and Jesse took the back way out of the hotel towards Bridge Street.
They didn’t get into any deep conversation as they strolled up the main street; Jesse seemed to be concentrating on something so Mick left her to it. He did mention, however, that after all the swimming and power walking he was tired and he’d sleep well. After reading all afternoon, Jesse replied she’d be glad to put her head down, too. As they took their time, strolling along hand in hand, they stopped to look in the odd shop window. But apart from a few bargains in a church op-shop, nothing much caught their eye. If they had left a little earlier, they would have bumped into Agent Moharic and the away team coming out of their motel restaurant.
The last time Mick had been in an RSL club was a Saturday night at Nelson Bay, dancing with Jesse. But they all had much the same atmosphere and you were always guaranteed a cool drink and a good meal at the right price. Confident this one would be no different, Mick followed Jesse through the front door into the lobby.
A set of stairs ran up in the left corner, a door on the right opened into a bar and entertainment area, and on the left another door led into the restaurant. In the middle was the front desk and on the left a notice board advised members and their guests not to miss out on the $500 Free Fuel Giveaway, memberships were due and Southbound were playing next Friday. Mick and Jesse signed themselves in and stepped through to the restaurant.
It was spacious, bright and almost full. A TV set for the bingo players hung from the ceiling, there were check tablecloths and the kitchen was down the back beneath an extensive, well-priced blackboard menu. Mick and Jesse walked down to the kitchen and quickly scanned the menu. Jesse ordered a T-bone, chips and salad with pepper sauce. Mick shrugged and ordered the same.
‘I’ll pay for these,’ said Jesse. ‘You want to get a couple of beers?’
‘Certainly,’ replied Mick. ‘And what might madam’s preference of ale be this evening?’
Jesse took Mick by the front of his Powderfinger T-shirt. ‘Tooheys. VB. I don’t give a stuff, Ralph. Just make sure it’s a schooner, and the glass has been chilled. Okay?’
‘Certainly, madam,’ nodded Mick. ‘Now if madam would be so kind as to let go of my T-shirt…’
Mick took a door near the kitchen to the bar while Jesse took a number and found a table by the wall. Mick soon returned with two sparkling schooners of VB, put them on the table and sat down. Then they clinked glasses and had a long, healthy swallow.
‘Oh boy,’ said Jesse, belching into her hand. ‘That sure hit the spot.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Mick. ‘It’s not a bad drop.’ He had another drink then eased back in his chair. ‘Righto, Oz. How about bringing me up to speed? You’ve got another theory. You spoke to Mrs Seaton. What’s the John Dory, mate?’
Jesse had another sip too. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘We know Reginald Seaton was working for Tesla. The entry in the diary and what I found out in the library both tally. Right?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Mick. ‘And not only that, Mrs Seaton said her father had a belt inlaid with copper. Lander Oldfield said in that letter to his brother that the site had the biggest deposits of copper he’d ever seen. What’s the betting young Reginald souvenired a few lumps of copper and put them in his belt?’
‘Well done, Mick,’ beamed Jesse. ‘I’m not the only one doing the thinking round here.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Yep. That’s what he’s done for sure,’ said Jesse. ‘Though he’d have been better off leaving things where they were. But, by the same token, Tesla must have had all the men on side, because Reginald wouldn’t even tell his family where he’d been working.’
‘No,’ agreed Mick. ‘He was staunch, all right.’
‘He was,’ said Jesse. ‘Now. When I asked Mrs Seaton where her father bought the horse, she said Scone. What address did Lander Oldfield put on the back of the envelope of the letter to his brother?’
Mick stared at Jesse over his beer for a moment. ‘The Grand Hotel, Scone.’
‘Right on,’ smiled Jesse. ‘Now. Imagine you’re Klaus Slate. You’re trying to be incognito and you’ve got a stack of American dollars that have to be changed into Australian pound notes so you can pay your men. Wherever you did your banking back then would arouse every gossip in town. And having a team of rough-neck miners with you would make it worse.’
‘For sure,’ said Mick.
‘So why not have your men stay at the town
where they’re working, and do your banking somewhere else? Somewhere not too far away. So Tesla did his banking in Muswellbrook. And the men worked in Scone. And somewhere around Scone is the doomsday machine.’
‘Scone.’
‘Yep. Tesla never says where the site is. But he says how the men often camped at the site. And other nights they stayed at the hotel with him and Lander. I’ll bet it was the Grand Hotel in Scone.’
Mick nodded Jesse a look of grudging approval. ‘You could be right, Oz,’ he said.
‘And I also believe,’ continued Jesse, ‘there’s a clue to the puzzle in Reginald’s horse, Tears of Fire.’
‘The horse?’ said Mick. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Mick, there’s something about that name,’ declared Jesse. ‘You don’t find names like that every day. Reginald had to get that from somewhere special.’
‘Yes. He could have, I suppose,’ said Mick.
‘And I reckon that somewhere special had something to do with Tesla or the work site. I reckon, find the Tears of Fire and you’ll find Tesla’s doomsday machine.’ Jesse smiled and raised her glass. ‘What do you reckon?’
Mick clinked Jesse’s glass. ‘I’ll drink to that, Oz.’
‘Good,’ said Jesse.
‘So this means…?’
‘You and I are booking out of the Presidential Suite at the Cosmopolitan Hotel tomorrow morning, and heading for Scone.’
‘Righto.’
‘But I have to be there when the library opens at eight-thirty, because it closes at twelve. Okay?’
‘Oz. I’ll have you waiting out the front with a latte in your hand when the doors open,’ promised Mick. He looked up as a fair-haired woman in white appeared at their table, holding two plates.
‘Two T-bones with pepper sauce?’ she said.
‘That’s right,’ said Mick. ‘Thanks very much.’
The waitress placed the two plates of food on the table then went back to the kitchen as Jesse and Mick drained the last of their schooners.
‘Hey, these look all right,’ said Mick, placing his empty glass on the table. ‘They certainly give you enough.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Jesse.
‘I’ll tell you what though,’ grinned Mick. ‘That schooner might have put an edge on my appetite. But it also hit me right between the eyes.’
Jesse grinned back. ‘Join the club.’
The steaks were tender, the chips were crisp and there was plenty of fresh salad. Mick and
Jesse ripped into their meals with great gusto. Jesse gnawed the bone when she’d finished; Mick did the same. Before long the restaurant was emptying out, Mick and Jesse were bloated and the only things left on their plates were clean bones and soiled paper napkins.
‘Shit,’ said Mick. ‘I’m glad you suggested walking back to the hotel. I feel like I just ate enough food for ten men.’
‘Yes,’ replied Jesse. ‘I’m glad it’s all downhill. I might roll home.’
They left the RSL and headed for the hotel. Traffic was light and Jesse and Mick were surprised how quiet it was in town when they turned into Bridge Street. As they walked past the Bodega they just missed two of the few people around—a casually dressed man and woman coming out of the motel who bore an uncanny resemblance to them.
It didn’t take long to reach the roundabout and the walk certainly did help the meal to go down. They turned left at the art gallery and when they got to the next corner heard music coming from the small hotel Mick had noticed when they first arrived.
‘What do you reckon, Oz?’ said Mick, nodding to source of the music. ‘We go and have
a look? Maybe have a nightcap? A Jackie’s or something?’
‘Okay. Why not?’ smiled Jesse. She slipped her arm into Mick’s and they walked up to the Criterion.
As they approached the hotel, the music got louder and louder. They stopped out the front at an open door dividing a tiny glassed-off beer garden on the right and a small public bar on the left. Behind the open door, a narrow hallway led to a set of stairs at the end. Mick and Jesse exchanged shrugs before stepping through the front door, then another door on the left that led into a tiled bar room.
The room was hot, smoky and sparsely furnished and held about twenty punters either seated or standing in front of an old style bar running across the far wall. No one appeared to be jumping up and down with joy as they sucked on their drinks, especially four young blokes with scruffy dark hair standing at the right of the bar, wearing shabby black jeans, caps and T-shirts. One elbowed the one next to him and they each gave Mick and Jesse a very sour once-up-and-down as the two walked across to the bar.
The astonishingly loud music was coming from a beefy dark-haired woman wearing a red
check shirt and white jeans, seated between two huge speakers set against the wall facing the bar. She was hammering out a throaty version of ‘With A Little Help From My Friends’ on an electric guitar, with enough volume to raise the dead. Mick and Jesse eased themselves against the bar next to the four young blokes and turned to watch the singer. The four shabbily dressed young blokes didn’t move and continued to eyeball them.
The frizzy-haired young barmaid never noticed Mick and Jesse. So after several more horrendous chords of ‘With A Little Help From My Friends,’ Mick tapped Jesse on the shoulder, squinted his eyes and held his nose to indicate the heavy cigarette smoke. Jesse nodded, then pointed to her ears and gave Mick a quick thumbs-down to indicate the noise was excruciating also. Mick nodded and indicated his head towards the door. Jesse nodded back enthusiastically and they started to leave. As they did, Jesse bumped one of the young blokes and accidentally spilt a little of his beer. She patted him on the arm, smiled and yelled an apology then followed Mick through the door.
‘Shit a bloody brick!’ exclaimed Mick as they stepped out onto the street. ‘How punishing was
that? You could go blind and deaf in there at the same time.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Jesse. ‘The woman’s voice was all right, but she must have industrial deafness.’
‘I still wouldn’t mind one drink though.’
‘No, me either after that. We’ll have one back at the hotel.’
Jesse was about to slip her arm back into Mick’s as they crossed the road, when near a strip of green on the corner, a loud, nasally voice called out behind them.
‘Hey—you!’
Mick and Jesse turned around to find the four sour-faced young blokes who had been standing at the bar were following them across the road. In the glow from a nearby streetlight they appeared to be in their early twenties. They weren’t very big and they weren’t all that tall; one wasn’t much bigger than a jockey. But they were lean and had an arrogant swagger fuelled by drink as they approached Mick and Jesse. No matter what their appearance, they were obviously looking for trouble.
‘Are you talking to me?’ Mick replied calmly.
‘Yeah,’ sneered one of the blokes, wearing a dark blue T-shirt. ‘You and your moll.’
Mick and Jesse exchanged impassive looks and
stepped a little away from each other. Jesse fiddled in her bag for a second then placed it on the ground.
‘Now that’s not a very nice way to talk to my girlfriend,’ said Mick. ‘I happen to be very much in love with her. She’s beautiful.’
Blue T-shirt ignored Mick. ‘So wasn’t the music in there good enough for you, eh?’ he sneered again.
‘What?’ asked Jesse.
‘You heard, moll.’
‘Yeah. And you knocked my drink over,’ chipped in a hoon wearing a green VB T-shirt.
‘I apologised,’ said Jesse. ‘But what was that about the music?’
‘Wasn’t it good enough for you?’ said Blue T-shirt. ‘That happened to be my cousin singin.’’
‘Is that what you call it?’ said Jesse.
Mick caught her eye. ‘Jesse…’ he said slowly.
‘I’ll bet youse are from Newy,’ said another hoon, wearing a white boxing kangaroo T-shirt. ‘Think you’re big time. Don’tcha.’
‘Yeah,’ sneered the shortest one. ‘Big time pricks from Newy. Nothin’ here’s good enough for them.’
‘It’s not that at all,’ said Mick. ‘The hotel was a little smoky. And the music was a little loud. So we left. That’s all.’
‘Bullshit!’ said Blue T-shirt.
‘Yeah, bullshit!’ echoed Green T-shirt.
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ said Jesse. ‘Bullshit! The hotel was a pit. It was full of inbreds. And your cousin—who you’re probably rooting—couldn’t carry a note if it was in a bucket. So there. Stick it in your arse.’
Mick closed his eyes for a second and shook his head. ‘Jesse.’
‘Anyway,’ continued Jesse. ‘What are you? The Spice Boys?’ One by one, she pointed at each of the four hoons. ‘Shit Spice. Rat Spice. Stink Spice. And you’ve got to be Runt Spice.’
The short one bristled. ‘You cheeky bitch.’
Blue T-shirt started to move forward. ‘I’ll tell you what, you big-mouthed moll,’ he snarled. ‘You’re not the first sheila I’ve given a smack in the mouth.’
‘No,’ replied Jesse. ‘But I’ll bet I’m the last for a while.’
Jesse moved back, set herself, then threw a sizzling left hook and Blue T-shirt walked straight into it. He gave a shout of pain as his head snapped back, then fell on his backside, blood streaming from a massive cut in his mouth. It was running down his chin that fast it began to form a shiny red pool in his lap. Green T-shirt was staring at the
mess Jesse had made of his mate, when she cranked up another left hook and smacked him in the mouth as well, doubling up with another one into his nose. Green T-shirt let out an agonised curse and did a half turn before he slumped down next to Blue T-shirt, blood pouring from his lacerated mouth and a gaping cut that ran from the bridge of his nose halfway across his cheekbone. Instead of watching Mick, White T-shirt was staring at all the blood and gore and didn’t know what hit him when Mick stepped across and let him have a short, straight right under the ear that had plenty of shoulder in it and cracked his jaw. White T-shirt gasped in agony and grabbed his face, before his legs gave way and he crumpled onto the ground alongside his two mates. To make sure he didn’t get up in a hurry, Mick walked over, swung his foot back, and finished him off with a kick in the kidneys. His beady eyes wide with fear, the short hoon decided this would be a good time to leave before he finished up joining his mates lying all over the road.