Dead Point (18 page)

‘With tiny pink nose. Yes, Anaxan’s got the spin doctors putting out that story. Best in the business. Ponton’s. Did you know Gavin Legge works for them now?’

‘Openly? He’s come out?’

‘This mole has lost his value on the inside. Damaged goods is Gav.’

‘What’s his book called?
Living Off the Land: How to Take With One Hand While Also Taking With the Other
?’

‘
Media Relationship Management in the Cyberage
. It’s a slim volume.’

‘I beg your pardon? Are we talking about the Gavin Legge who offered to get the name of the man who was tiling his shower into the paper? As a contra deal?’

‘We are. Ponton’s keep people chained up in New York to write a book for every new consultant. It’s called WTB cred.’

‘What? Wing Tailed Buzzards?’

‘Wrote the Book. As in, the expert on the subject. Then they subsidise publication and bribe the reviewers in the business press to say things like succinct and definitive work, brilliant insights, etcetera. All easy, cheap. One decent contract, Ponton’s are in profit.’

‘Shocked, that’s all I can say,’ I said.

She gave me the Linda eye and half-smile. ‘Yes, well, you would be, pottering around as you do exclusively in Christian outreach circles.’

‘Have a heart,’ I said. ‘Not just Christian. I don’t discriminate on grounds of faith.’

She raised her glass, serious, put out her left hand and touched my face for an instant. ‘To old friends new again.’

We touched glasses. I also thought I felt a leg touch mine and an erotic charge went through me, through the core. I often thought about her athlete’s legs. ‘That’s a good toast,’ I said. ‘Welcome home.’

‘I may never leave Melbourne. Well, maybe not never.’

‘No. They say never is now down to six months.’

Donelly appeared, beaming smoked-salmon face moist above his surgical garb. ‘You’ll be wantin somethin to close with.’

I shook my head. Something about this personal attention was nagging at me. Celebrity-sucking, yes, but there was something else.

‘I want the memory of your stuffed squid to stand alone,’ said Linda. ‘So a short black would be lovely.’

Donelly smiled at Linda, smiled at me, bowed and departed.

I poured the last of the wine, having had the sense to come by cab. ‘You’re not driving?’

‘The station pays for after-work limousines,’ said Linda. ‘It’s in my contract.’

‘Good.’ We looked at each other, smiles beginning.

‘As someone steeped in the lore of Sydney,’ I said, ‘do the names James Toxteth and Colin Blackiston mean anything to you? They’re venture capitalists, but that’s all I know.’

‘Jamie Toxteth, yes. Are you planning an IT startup? Involving horses?’

‘I’m trying to find out about someone who ran away with someone else’s album of naughty snaps, died of smack, turned out not to be who he said he was.’

‘This doesn’t sound like Jamie Toxteth country to me,’ said Linda. ‘Jamie plays polo. The Toxteths are landed gentry. They own Mount Toxteth station. It’s huge, like a small country. A country of sheep. Prince Charles spent weekends there.’

‘He’d like a country of sheep. They have no problem with following the most stupid. What would a woman in Melbourne be doing driving a car owned by a two-dollar company Jamie owns?’

She raised her cup. ‘This place is closing. For all I know, women all over Australia drive cars owned by Jamie. I may be the only one left out. This was a lovely evening.’

Linda found her mobile and rang for a cab.

We rose. Linda went to get her coat. I appreciated the way she looked from behind as I strolled towards the waiting Donelly.

‘Show me where to sign,’ I said. ‘And may I say that if I were a squid, you would be my preferred stuffer.’

He ran fingers over his brow, disturbing the long strands of hair that originated well to the west.

‘That’ll be $38.50,’ he said, a light in his eyes, a glow, an unearthly glow. He’d been waiting for this moment for three years. ‘Your outrageous bill paid in full plus $38.50. And we’d prefer cash. If it’s a cheque, you’ll have to leave your watch.’

An era ended, closed. A watershed, a turning point. Dining out would never be the same.

I gave him a $50 note, said, ‘I presume there’s a discount for cash.’

‘Certainly.’ Donelly went away, he was gone for a few seconds, and when he returned, he counted out $11.50 in change. Then he said, ‘And here’s your discount.’

He put half an unshelled peanut in my palm.

‘You’re being petty, Donelly,’ I said. ‘Give me the other half.’

Outside, rain and cold had driven everyone except a few drug desperates into shelter. We stood against Donelli’s window. ‘I’m back at the boot factory,’ I said. ‘What about you?’

‘I bought a place in Carlton. On Drummond Street, near your old office. It’s nice, an old building, used to house nuns.’

‘I can understand you feeling at home.’

She put a fist under my chin. Her cab arrived. ‘I’ll drop you,’ she said.

Seize the moment? No. Patience. I shook my head. ‘Wrong direction. We’ll do this again, I hope.’

She opened her hand, touched my lips with three fingers. ‘Call me.’

I was at home on my way to bed, in a better mood than I’d known for some time, when the phone rang.

Cam said, ‘Somethin we should do tomorrow morning. You okay?’

‘Any luck on short Artie with a Saint tatt?’ I said.

Cam shook his head. ‘That Braybrook address, he was there for three months in ’98 after he came out. Three years for serious assault.’

Artie’s name was Arthur Gary McGowan, he had form going back sixteen years, and he lived outside the world of telephone books, credit cards, Medicare, voters’ rolls, and phone, power, gas and rates bills. He was out there in the cash economy and all we had was an old driver’s licence address.

Today, we were in a non-threatening vehicle, a new Subaru Forester, dark-green, parked outside the Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology on Swanston Street, just up from the ugliest new facade in the city. The architects had played an end-of-century joke on the university. Needless to say, the university hadn’t caught it yet. Universities never do catch the joke until it’s too late. Many a French fraud had died laughing while earnest Australian academics were still doing PhDs on his theoretical jokes.

‘She finishes at twelve today,’ said Cam, eyes on the passers-by. ‘Fashion, that’s what she does. Whatever that is.’

He was talking about Marie, the eighteen-year-old daughter of Cynthia the commission agent.

I watched the throng of students, many of them the sons and daughters of the old colonial world, the Asian part. We’d closed our factories so that we could exploit the cheap labour their parents provided. Then we had a second cunning and rapacious thought: we could convince them that our universities were intellectual powerhouses and charge huge fees for admitting their children.

It worked.

‘What’d Cynthia say?’ I said.

‘The boy told her Marie’s got a habit. Coupla days ago. She says she went wild, grabbed Marie when she came in the house. Marie says it’s over, she’s clean, clean since Cyn got bashed.’

‘That’s all?’

He nodded.

‘This Cynthia’s idea?’

‘No. She doesn’t make any connection. I never said anythin. There she goes. You start.’

Cam was out of the car, walking round the front, long strides in his moleskins. He caught up with a slim young woman in black jeans and a purple top, said something. She turned her head, smiled, stopped, obviously knew him. He gestured at the car. She nodded, came back with him.

Cam opened the back door for her.

‘Hi,’ she said.

I turned and said hello. Her spiky hair was the same colour as her top, her lipstick was green, and she had ear and nose rings. The overall effect was innocent, something a five-year-old let loose on her mother’s things might achieve.

Cam got in. ‘Marie, Jack Irish. Your mum knows him. He’s a lawyer.’

‘Hi,’ she said again. ‘I’ve only got a minute. What’s it about?’ Her speech was rushed, nervous.

Cam took out his Gitanes, offered her one. She took it, leaned across for a light, had a coughing fit.

‘Jeez,’ she said, ‘what is it?’

‘There’s somethin milder here somewhere,’ said Cam.

‘No, it’s cool.’ She coughed again. ‘Just a shock.’

Not turning, I said, ‘Marie, we’re trying to find out who bashed your mother.’

I could hear her exhale smoke. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Yeah, that’s good. It’s like a nightmare. Weird.’

I waited a few seconds. ‘How long have you had a habit?’

Silence. ‘Christ, what’s this shit? I’m out of…’

Cam leaned over the seat, draped his arm. ‘Marie, listen, it’s not about you and drugs, right? It’s about who nearly killed your mum. You love your mum, don’t you?’

More quiet. Marie began to cry, a sniffle, throat noises.

‘Don’t you? Love your mum?’

Then she was making crying noises, not loud, and saying, ‘Oh, Jesus, oh Jesus…’

We waited.

After a while, I said, ‘Tell us about it, Marie.’

She did a lot more sniffing, then she said, ‘Mum sent you?’

‘No,’ said Cam. ‘Your mum told me you’d had a problem, but that now you’re clean. She’s proud of you, your mum.’

The sniffing resumed. Then she said, courage plucked, ‘There’s nothing to tell, like. What’s this—’

I said, ‘Last chance, Marie. You could go to jail for this. Conspiracy.’

This time it was a cry from deep down, a wail, then more sobbing. I looked at Cam. He was looking at Marie, flicked his chestnut-brown eyes at me. I thought I detected a hint of compassion. Probably just the light.

We waited.

‘I just told this bloke my mum did big-money bets,’ she said, sad voice. ‘Don’t even know how it works—’

‘Which bloke?’

A long silence.

‘Can’t go back now, Marie,’ said Cam, gently. ‘Which bloke?’

‘Around the bike shop. He deals, everyone knows him, it’s safe.’

‘Why’d you tell him?’ Cam said.

Sigh. ‘I dunno, I just told him one day.’ Sigh. ‘Like I thought it was smart, like my mum didn’t do ordinary kind of… Just stupid. Mum always said… Oh, shit.’

‘You told him that and then what happened?’ I asked.

She became matter-of-fact. ‘He said, give us the word when you’ve got a horse. I didn’t know anything about that, Mum never said a word, all I knew is some days she’s got something on at the races, she’s phoning people, you can’t understand what she’s saying to them.’

‘You told him you never heard the names of horses?’ I said.

‘Yeah. Then one day he says, tell me when your mum’s going to the races and I’ll give you a hit.’

Silence, waiting, Cam leaning over the seat, looking at Marie, tendons like cable in his neck.

‘And?’

‘That day, I was hanging out, didn’t have a cent…’

‘You told him,’ said Cam.

‘Yes.’ Tiny voice. ‘I’d’ve cut my wrists before I told him if I knew what…’

‘Where’s the bike shop?’

‘Elizabeth Street.’

Cam started the vehicle and waited to pull out.

‘My mum,’ said Marie, ‘you’re going to tell Mum?’

‘No,’ said Cam, getting into the traffic, ‘you’ve got your punishment. This bloke always there?’

Marie sniffed. ‘Most of the time. He sees you’re chasin and he meets you at the Vic Market. Keeps the stash there.’

‘We’ll drive by. See if you can point him out.’

We went around the corner into LaTrobe Street, turned right into Elizabeth Street.

Marie saw him almost immediately.

‘Next to that white car, the bloke on the bike.’

‘Sit low,’ said Cam.

He was across the street from the motorcycle dealers, sitting on a black BMW, helmet on his lap, talking to someone in the passenger seat of a car. We got a good look at him – tall, curly red-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, short beard around his mouth.

We took Marie back to Swanston Street. As she was getting out, she said, ‘Cam, I’m so scared my mum’ll find—’

‘Not from us,’ said Cam. ‘Stay clean or you’ll break her heart.’

‘I’m staying clean. That’s over, over.’

We watched her go, long-legged walk, bag swinging.

‘Get that number run?’ said Cam.

‘Five minutes. Find a public phone.’

Cam took out a mobile. ‘Safe phone,’ he said.

I didn’t ask what that meant. I took it and dialled Eric the Geek.

There was a fax from Jean Hale waiting at the office. Two names on the Lucan’s Thunder betting team were circled. One was someone called Tim Broeksma. In the margin, Jean had written:
He’s new. Sandy doesn’t know much about him. A plumber
.

The other name was Lizard Ellyard. There were quotation marks around Lizard.

He’s got a firewood business. Bit of a sad case, was in a bad accident, I think. Anyway, he didn’t show up on the day so he really shouldn’t be on the list
.

I drowsed in the captain’s chair, mind picking daisies. Cam and I had lunched well at a pub in Abbotsford. It was a place frozen in time like the Prince, except that this pub had been deliberately frozen, used as a television series location for years, and it was in excellent shape. Halfway through the sausages and mash, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

‘Straying out of your territory, Mr Irish.’

Boz, in jeans and a jerkin. I introduced her to Cam. She sat down for a few minutes and I told her about Mrs Purbrick’s party.

‘You’ll end up choosing her books, Jack,’ said Boz. ‘I saw the signs.’

She was getting up to rejoin a table of people, all talking, telling stories, film people if I read the signs, when Cam said, ‘I do a fair bit of movin. Got a card?’

Boz shook her head. ‘Got a pen?’ She wrote her name and phone number on a drink coaster. He put it in an inside pocket.

I saw the signs.

Now, half-asleep in my office, I was thinking again about who had given me the Marco video. The people who’d taken it? I’d assumed it was a cop video – federal, local. That might still be true. But I had to assume that the cops hadn’t given it to me.

Who then? And why me? Why would someone other than the cops give me a surveillance video? What could they want from me?