Good Money (23 page)

24

A RUBBISH-TRUCK,
working the hydraulics, lifting bins, dumping them. Then daylight. Brophy's soft breath. I closed my eyes, drifted back to sleep. Light filled the room from high, bare windows. My eyes were closed but I was awake. I moved my hand around his bare chest, along his arm. I turned to meet his face, and kissed his mouth.

‘Tigers,' he said, a lingering, ridiculous smooch on my cheek.

‘What about them?'

‘Braver. A Tigers supporter.'

‘You poor sap.'

‘Hereditary. My old man, his father.'

‘Born like that then. Unfortunate.'

There was a persistent meowing at the bedroom door. Brophy went to let him in. Then he went to the kitchen, and I could see the cat fold itself around his legs while he fossicked in cupboards for cat food. I raised myself up on an elbow.

‘Have you heard of Oarsman's Bay?' I called through the open door. ‘Fiji. Wonderful this time of year, so I hear. Paragliding, snorkelling.'

He looked at me over his shoulder; one eyebrow rose.

He made toast and tea, and I was feeling content. Then my phone sang ‘Map of Tasmania'. I retrieved my bag from under our clothes on the floor.

Mrs Chol. ‘Stella. Are you in Melbourne? Can you come now?'

I'd forgotten. ‘Now?'

‘Yes. Please.'

Brophy was kissing my shoulder.

‘I'll come … today. Soon.' I ended the call. ‘I have to go.'

‘Can I drop you off somewhere?'

Too soon, we were outside the commission flats on Flemington Road.

‘Can I see you later?' I asked.

‘Today. Soon.'

Brophy tooted as he drove away in his clapped-out van.

Mrs Chol opened the door, wearing an apron over her dress. ‘Come, come.'

I followed her to the kitchen. The gas stove was busy: a stockpot was on the front burner while another frying pan sizzled with chopped onions and parsley. A coffee pot steamed at the back.

‘Excuse me while I finish here.' I watched with some unease as Mrs Chol slammed some lamb bones to pieces with a meat cleaver and slid them off the chopping board into the pot.

‘What're you making?' I inhaled spicy aromas.

‘
Shorba
. For my neighbour. Yesterday she was at home with her children and someone threw a bucket of petrol at her front door and threw a match on it. And the fire came right inside her flat. Did you ever hear of such a thing?'

Bored, destructive delinquents who attack their neighbours for fun? Yes. That particular act of arson? No.

Mrs Chol washed her hands and took out a tray. ‘She is so upset, she can't leave the flat. Can't go outside.' She carried the tray to the lounge. ‘Come. Sit down and have coffee. Have you eaten?'

‘I'm fine, thanks.' The smell of meat made me woozy. I sat on the couch and watched her pour coffee into two small cups. ‘What was it you wanted to tell me?

‘Stella, you are my friend.'

‘Yes, of course. Is it about Mabor?'

She adjusted her scarf. ‘My brother from Shepparton — he came to take Mabor.'

‘Did he go with him?' I sipped the coffee, bitter and sweet in extremes.

‘Yes. But before he left, I was helping him pack his bag, and he suddenly held my hands. He had tears in his eyes. He said to me, “I must tell you something.”'

‘What something?'

‘That Adut had been selling drugs for a man. Cesare …'

‘Cesarelli.' I put down my cup, waiting for her to say that Mabor killed him.

‘This man, he makes the drugs. He has some men and they cook this thing up in a laboratory.'

‘A meth lab.'

Mrs Chol stood. ‘You know what it is?'

I gave her a grim affirmation.

She went to the kitchen and took a long metal spoon, started moving the stew around. ‘I love both my sons. Adut was a difficult boy — in trouble at school, drinking, running away. But Mabor, he is quiet. He does his homework. Up very late, reading.'

She looked at me, and I was nodding emphatically. It was true — at one time, Mabor had been studious.

‘Adut introduced him to some bad people and he changed.'

‘He's still …' I tried to think of something helpful to say. ‘Mabor.'

Mrs Chol shook her head. ‘Adut is gone, and I don't want to say bad things about him, but I am …' her voice dropped ‘… very angry with him.'

‘It's understandable.'

She waved the spoon at me. ‘I think Mabor wants me to tell you.' She looked at me with that direct, clear expression of hers. Her face had an ageless quality. Like most refugees, Nyahol Chol did not know her date of birth. She put the first of January on her documentation. Even the year was a guess. She bore five children — was maybe sixteen when Adut was born.

‘To tell me? Why?'

She turned down the gas and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘He said to me, someone must know this things. Someone must be told. He won't go to the police. I'm sure he meant you.'

I was confused. Mabor wouldn't want me to know he murdered Cesarelli. ‘And is that it? Adut worked for Cesarelli.'

‘No. Mabor said that after he heard that Mister Cesar was killed, he went to this laboratory.'

‘How did he know where it was?'

‘Adut told him.'

‘And why did he go there?'

‘I don't know.'

A door slammed in the flat next door. I jumped. Then there was a knock on Mrs Chol's door. She opened it to a tall African man with one milky eye. He shook her hand, said something in soft Arabic. She thanked him and came back to the sofa.

‘My neighbour. Some of the people here are kind. But, in this place, also there are many bad people.'

‘I know.' I hoped it was better in Shepparton.

‘Now listen, Stella. This is important. Mabor said that a bad thing happen there.'

‘At the meth lab? What bad thing?'

She shook her head. ‘He won't tell me. He was very upset and said that I must tell someone. He said someone must go to the house to see.'

I realised that my hands were clenched. I made myself breathe more slowly. ‘Mabor — where is he now?'

She closed her eyes. ‘Shepparton, with his uncle.'

‘Mrs Chol, what did Mabor find?'

‘I don't know what he found. Mabor wouldn't say. I think he was too afraid to say, even to me. But what can I do? I don't want Mabor to get into trouble.'

‘Where is this place? Is it in a house?'

She grabbed my hand. ‘Promise me, Stella. Promise you won't tell the police.'

If I had a dollar for every time a client said that to me. Most times, I would say, ‘sorry, mandatory for the profession, I can't withhold information from the authorities,' but with Mrs Chol holding my hand, I heard myself saying, ‘Trust me. I'd never do that.'

She stood up. ‘He wrote it down for me.' From a drawer under the family photos on the sideboard, she took a writing pad.

Adut's murder was only the tip of an iceberg — literally, a mountain of ice. The police, going on what I'd heard at Darren Pickering's trial, were clueless about a resurgent drug market in this area. A meth lab was not in the memo either.

She tore off a piece of paper. ‘Here, it is in a Diggers Rest. You know this place?'

‘I'm afraid so. For now, it would be best if Mabor stayed where he is,' I said.

As soon as the door was shut, I heard the lock turn and a chain go across.

I looked at the scrawled directions on the paper in my hand. Of course something was amiss at Cesarelli's meth lab. It was a meth lab. Obviously, I should now go immediately to the nearest police station with this information. On the other hand, there was client confidentiality, a professional requirement for discretion, and my burning need to know what exactly the bad thing going down at Diggers Rest was. I stood on the walkway on the thirty-sixth floor, where an icy squall messed with my hair. Mrs Chol had said nothing about the actual murder of Gaetano Cesarelli. I remembered Mabor in the café — his nervousness and Gaetano's cool indifference. I wondered if Cesarelli had underestimated the quiet, scholarly younger brother.

Cesarelli was dead, but what of his crew? At least, in Shepparton, Mabor was safe for now.

It was after eleven; the morning was disappearing. I put the directions in my wallet and sent a text to Phuong —
Call me
— and headed home. Almost at once, Amanda Palmer was singing in my handbag.

Boss: ‘Where are you?'

‘Um, I'm back in Melbourne.'

‘That's terrific, Stella, but why aren't you
here
?'

‘Oh, I was doing a client visit, seeing Mrs Chol …' This time, my excuse was true.

‘You've forgotten, haven't you? Bloody Pukus will be here in one hour.'

The big announcement — the partnership thingy between justice and community services — I had
completely
forgotten. ‘Relax, will you? I remembered, I was about to buy some biscuits and orange juice, or would you prefer more posh refreshments? Cocktail onions? Cheese sticks?'

‘I've already organised catering, got a large packet of Family Assorted. So get your arse here pronto.'

I ended the call and started to jog up Racecourse Road, towards Wellington Street and WORMS.

25

‘AND NOW
the minister will say a few words.'

There was a smattering of applause, and The Right Honourable Marcus Pugh smiled benignly at his audience. His sizable entourage of staff and advisers and PR people made up most of the numbers — then there was Boss, Shaninder, and me. A Burmese refugee with her three children, who happened to be in the waiting room, were ushered inside as a hasty rent-a-crowd. One commercial station had sent a crew of one underage journalist, currently mesmerised by her phone, and one camera operator. Pukus glanced inquiringly at the camera to see if everything was ready and received a thumbs up.

‘It is with great pleasure and personal satisfaction that I announce today the launch of the new partnership between justice and community services, a program we call Justice Uniting Neighbourhood Knowledge with Inter-agency Expertise — or JUNKIE.'

The minister frowned and paused to make a closer study of his notes. He glanced at one of his advisers but she only shrugged and made a
keep going
gesture.

‘Yes. Er … um … I …' Pukus stammered, looking into the camera lens.

A thin PR woman in a lavender pantsuit was taking photos. The flashing lights delighted the Burmese children.

‘I believe JUNKIE will make a significant contribution to the lives of people living in Flemington.'

‘Yay!' said the children.

‘It is my hope that the people of Flemington will embrace JUNKIE, that they will trust JUNKIE, and that they will turn to JUNKIE for aid. I want the people of Flemington to understand that JUNKIE is here to help.'

‘Yay!' they called, and clapped their hands.

One of the advisers was sent to quieten them down.

At that moment, my phone started to wail. I fished in my handbag, but it was right at the bottom. The song was getting louder and louder and still I couldn't find the damn thing. At last I had it — but now I couldn't turn it off. Pukus had stopped speaking and was glaring at me.

I went outside. It was Phuong. ‘You rang?'

‘Got a good one for you. One percenter.'

‘Go on.'

‘We have to break into a house,' I said.

If this request surprised her, Phuong didn't show it. I heard only a chortle. ‘I'm busy all day. Can it wait until after work?'

‘That would be best — under cover of dark,' I said. If Cesarelli's place had already been taken over, we'd need to be careful. ‘Okey dokey, I'll meet you at the Station Hotel.'

I went back inside just as things were wrapping up. The Pukus retinue was packing up. Boss was schmoozing the shit out of Pukus, so I went and started inhaling the biscuits before the kids finished them all. When I looked up, Boss was back in his office, looking greatly dejected — some further loss of WORMS funding, I imagined. I stuffed a couple more Anzacs in my mouth and turned to go to my desk, but Pukus was beside me, grinning weirdly. ‘Hi,' I said.

‘You were at Brodtmann's apartment in Crown the other day,' he said, as though he could hardly believe it himself. ‘You two seemed rather chummy.'

Chummy? ‘Not really.'

‘It's just that he seemed taken by you.'

I thought of the night before — my assault on Ben, Brodtmann fleeing. ‘I don't think so.'