Good Money (24 page)

‘Listen, I'd appreciate a good word, if you can manage it.'

‘A good word about what?'

His smile was as real as a botoxed android. ‘A long-time, faithful servant of the community.'

‘You?'

He appeared crestfallen. ‘Donors expect certain favours. Sometimes these favours are not in my power to give. This makes them unhappy.'

‘You mean the police have failed to find Nina,' I said.

‘Failed is a strong word. Every effort is being made. But …' He glanced around the office, ‘it's another matter I'm talking about. Party colleagues in WA have taken a decision that is against our mutual friend's interests.'

‘Shine Point?'

I thought Pukus might actually puke. ‘How did you … I mean, it's hush-hush. But you're his friend, so he must have told you. Yes, I see that.'

The poor man was completely delusional. ‘Mr Pugh —'

‘Marcus.'

‘Marcus, listen, the only concern Clayton Brodtmann has right now is for the welfare of his daughter.'

‘I'm looking for a win-win here. Give and take, eh? Let's sweeten this arrangement, shall we?'

Yep, delusional and pretty far gone, too. I looked over my shoulder at Boss. ‘Tell you what, WORMS is rather fiscally challenged right now. Things being different, a girl could pile on the praise about a certain faithful servant to a certain mutual friend.'

Pukus's eyes shone with evil comprehension. ‘Right. Impecuniousness readjustment. I'll see what I can do, Hardy.'

It was a huge relief when he gathered his followers into the government car and left; I was exhausted.

I figured this conversation qualified as work, and decided to call it a day. I went home to the empty flat, did some washing in the empty laundry, hung it out on the communal clothesline. I was about to have a shower, but thoughts of Brophy made me pause and look longingly at the phone. An age had passed since this morning, when we'd shared tea and Vegemite toast and each other. It wasn't healthy to spend too much time alone — this was legitimate grounds for a phone call. Not some flimsy pretext.

‘Hello?' He sounded sleepy.

‘Busy?'

‘Nope.' He sounded happy.

‘Meet you somewhere?'

‘You want to come here?'

Did I? I'd teleport there in an instant if I could, but a shower first was essential. ‘See you in an hour.'

Though the drawbacks of my humble flat were many — the low ceilings, the cramped space — the water pressure was first class, and the hot water unfailing. I stood under its soothing force for a long while, as I considered Mabor's information. When things settled down a bit, I would arrange some decent legal advice for him. As I patted myself with a towel, the landline trilled. Thinking it might be Peter, I ran, dripping, to the lounge room. ‘Hello?'

A long delay, distant static. ‘Hello Mrs Hardy? I am John, and I am calling from the Computer Watchdog Violation Centre, how is your computer doing today?'

I slammed down the phone, went to my room and started to dress; it rang again. I hopped over to the phone, one leg in my jeans. ‘Hey,' I yelled. ‘Why don't you just fuck off?'

‘Stella? Vince McKechnie.'

‘Vince. Sorry. Caught me at a bad time. I was just —'

‘Some tourists, a German family, went off-road near Laverton. Got a bit lost.'

‘Lost in Hoppers Crossing?'

‘No, sweetheart — Laverton, Western Australia. Pronounced
Lay
-ver-ton, as in Rod Laver. Back of nowhere.'

I didn't like where this was going. ‘Germans got lost, you say? That can't be right.'

‘Well, it happens. Gits drove the Winnebago the wrong way for hours. They come across a little billabong, an unreliable water source that they call a ‘soak' around there.'

‘Vince, I'm in a hurry.' Steam rose from my still-damp skin.

‘The wife goes to fill the billy, finds a car up to its axles in the mud, with a body inside.'

‘Who was it?'

‘Don't know yet.'

‘Male or female?'

‘Male. That's all I know. The area is restricted, off-limits except to mining company personal.'

‘What company?'

‘CC Prospecting. The area is known as Mount Percy Sutton.'

My blood turned anaesthetic-cold in my veins. ‘Why are you telling me this?'

‘Because this is serious shit — a woman is missing, people are dying. Isn't it time you told me what you know?'

‘I have to go.'

‘Give us your mobile.'

I recited the number and hung up. In a daze, I finished dressing and ran a comb through my hair. My mobile rang.

Vince. ‘I know it's a shock, but we need to talk. It concerns Tania.'

‘How does this have anything to do with her?'

Vince's breath was a wet crackle. ‘What are you hearing at your end — anything concrete?'

‘Nothing. You want information, why don't you ask your mate in the force?' I could hear him tapping on what sounded like a typewriter.

‘Don't want to push my luck,' he said pointedly.

‘Well, I'm sorry, but the media are not supposed to know anything right now.'

‘You must have something.'

Was it time to tell him about the report? The one Tania gave to me to keep safe? The one that was password protected from copying, printing, or attaching?

No. I couldn't trust him. Brodtmann was right. It was all part of the profession; journalists were duplicitous bastards. But I did have one thing I could tell him. And maybe McKechnie could be of use to me.

‘Tania has a friend called Jimmy. That's all I know. No last name. He worked for Faurtinaux Bath apparently, and he might still live in Perth.'

‘Jimmy? Never heard of him. But thanks, Hardy. I'll do a bit of digging at my end.'

I ended the call and thought about his request for a progress report. Even with Phuong as my BFF, I was told nothing. I desperately wanted to believe that Mucous Pukus and Deputy Commissioner Conway, and every cop in the state, were busy following leads, combing the state for Tania.

I put my mobile in my bag and took the tram to Footscray. When I reached the steps of the Narcissistic Slacker, I paused to remind myself that this was a short visit. I was meeting with Phuong later and planned to go to Cesarelli's hideout after dark.

There was the usual music coming from inside. Before I reached the studio's top step, Brophy slid the metal door open. He pulled me inside and pashed me senseless.

‘Cup of tea?' he asked when we came up for air.

‘Mind reader.'

He put the kettle on. ‘How's your client?'

I didn't want to go into the whole Chol business. And the news about the dead body in the WA desert was too depressing to share with my new … with Brophy. Best to say as little as possible. ‘Okay.'

‘And you?'

‘Fine.'

A girl of about ten came up the steps and flounced into the room: blonde bob, freckles. She threw her bag on the floor — a satchel decorated in skulls — and slouched into a chair beside Brophy. ‘What it do, boo?'

‘Okay,' said Peter. ‘How was Mum's?'

‘'K.'

‘Hi Marigold,' I said. Oh no, I had used the wrong voice. I intended to sound neutral but it came out in a high-pitched singsong — the I-want-you-to-like-me-so-badly-I'll-demean-myself voice.

‘Yo,' said the child.

My phone started singing: Phuong. I waved to Brophy and his daughter and went out onto the stair. ‘What it do, boo?'

‘I have no idea what you're talking about,' Phuong said. ‘Now, bit of goss for you: Ashwood got the sack.'

‘'Bout time. Fondle the work experience student?'

‘No — humorous email. Pictures with a stupid caption.'

‘They never learn.'

‘No, they don't. Escorted from the building. He reckons top brass have no sense of humour.'

‘Escorted, you say? I'd say they probably do.'

Phuong laughed. ‘See you at the Station for a happy-hour debrief.'

I went back inside and sat on Brophy's couch, a relic the Salvos would have chucked. Meanwhile, Marigold swivelled on an old office chair, playing a hand-held device that emitted a jaunty, repetitive tune and the occasional tinny beep. ‘Looks like you guys are getting pretty serious,' she said.

Peter sighed, ‘Whatever it is, Marigold, knock it off.'

‘What?' Playing the angelic child, her eyes on the game.

Peter handed me a matching cup and saucer. ‘Too cold for the roof today.'

‘Shame,' I said, eyes on the swivelling girl.

‘I'm just saying, if you're serious then you should tell her.' She made a half-hearted attempt to suppress a grin.

I stirred my tea; there was a small chip in the cup, and a crack that probably went all the way to the bottom. ‘Tell her what?' I asked Peter.

Colour rose in Peter's face; he looked like someone cornered.

Marigold snorted. ‘Oh. My.
God
. This shit is going to be good.'

Peter took the computer game from her. ‘Go and watch TV in your room or something.'

She turned to me. ‘Ten thousand junkies can't be wrong, you feel me?'

I was having trouble understanding my native tongue. I turned to Peter, bewildered. ‘What is she talking about?'

Marigold sighed condescendingly, closed her eyes and said, ‘I'm talking about
methadone
. Have you heard of it? It's this drug for people —'

‘I know what methadone is, thank you, Professor Smarty Pants.' I wondered why no one had put this child to work in a mine somewhere. They don't mine like that anymore, that's why. It's all open-cut: dynamite and big trucks. They should go back to digging underground with picks and shovels, little lights on their hats — with children like Marigold loading coal into bins. ‘What's ten thousand junkies got to do with it?'

‘Ten thousand registered methadone users in the state of Victoria.' Smart little bugger gave me a smug look. ‘Aren't there, Dad?'

Time slowed, my perception sharpened. There was my cup on the coffee table, with blue flowers on a white background, and the unhurried thought: I didn't have one sip.

‘Go.' Peter was standing over Marigold. ‘
Now
! Go to your room.'

The child baulked. Discipline was evidently a new experience — an affront.

‘Now,' said Peter again, soft but resolute.

‘Fine.' She slid off the chair. ‘But you should have told her.' She ran from the room.

Peter coughed. ‘Ah, you will probably —'

I addressed a spot on the linoleum. ‘Don't tell me what
I will probably
. You have no idea what
I will probably
.'

He waited, silent.

The evil spawn had a point. Status: junkie. That's probably something he should have told me sooner. Much sooner. Like at ‘hello'. I gathered my belongings, made some progress at the laborious business of walking. At the door, I pulled my shoulders back. ‘Lates, yo.'

The stairs appeared obscured by cloud. I stumbled down and out into the street. In a panic, I turned right. The eastern end of Paisley Street was bus-stop central — buses all over the place, pulling in and trying to pull out. Car horns beeped. And the crowds. What time was it? A surge of humanity churned along the footpaths, spilling onto the road — groups of men laughing together, herds of school kids, big kids like giants in school uniform, mothers with children in strollers, hipsters, junkies, office workers, people with ten shopping bags on each arm or pulling two-wheeled shopping carts — all trying to squeeze around each other.

I moved among them, was absorbed, going nowhere. I changed my mind and did a one-eighty, aiming now for a café at the far western end. I passed by The Narcissistic Slacker in a rush, not looking up. I kept going, passing the medical centre on the corner. Around the café entrance, a group of locals had stopped to discuss important matters of the day.

I pushed through the crowd and practically fell through the doors. The café was an old-fashioned coffee shop that made cheese-and-tomato toasted sandwiches on plain white bread, with butter on the outside. Here quinoa or kale were unheard of. I ordered a pot of tea — and like I always did when my heart was broken, I pretended it wasn't.

I took a table by the window and watched the crowds. It wasn't so bad. Things had not really progressed so very far. It wasn't like I had to sift through the bookshelf or record collection. All we'd really shared was one night and some crazy ideas. A nice lady brought the tea and called me ‘love'. I held the little stainless steel pot over my cup and poured; tea went everywhere, some made it in the cup.