TUNA LIFE (11 page)

“Snap a picture of me? Who cares about me? I’m not a public person.”

“You are now,” Andrew said, and handed Frank a copy of the latest edition of the Gold Coast Times. ‘
New technology fairy tale on the Gold Coast’
was the headline. A grainy picture of Andrew covered the lower part of the front page.

The article was mostly positive. The tempered giant, who had dumped Andrew at the Blue Grotto restaurant a few days back, had written a well-worded piece about Tuna Life’s meteoric rise from nowhere, and to the very top of the iTunes charts. If Rovio and their overexposed Angry Birds had been the symbol of app version 1.0, entertaining apps for timewasting and fun, then Tuna Life was the symbol of app version 2.0; mobile applications with the power to disrupt entire industries and bankrupt traditional companies. Industry experts expected a rush of more advanced applications now that the world had seen what Tuna Life had been able to make.

The article did, however, focus mostly on the fact that the app was developed by three largely unknown players in the tech industry. And not just that, they were old; none of them was younger than thirty. Who were the mysterious founders of Tuna Life, the article asked, and promised to bring an interview shortly.

Frank stared at the paper. It seemed as if reality had hit home. He was now part of something important, something bigger than him, something that could get very big. It meant that he couldn’t travel to Nimbin to buy marijuana, it meant that he couldn’t walk around naked in his own yard smoking pot. He was about to become a public person, and life was about to change.

“Thanks. Thanks for the warning,” he said before leaving the kitchen.

Andrew was surprised by Frank’s reaction. He had expected an irrational blow out, a joke or a funny remark.

Everything but what he had received.

Maybe he had to reconsider his view of Frank?

26

A couple of firm silicon tits slapped Mark in the face. His smile went from ear to ear as he wriggled out a ten-dollar note from his wallet, and then proceeded to stuff it down the G-string panties of the woman straddling him.

“I don’t think you’re going to find any tattoos there,” Scott commented dryly.

The woman wormed back on stage on all four, like a big cat. She curled around a metallic pole, purring. Then she hung upside down for a while, attempting to catch Scott Davis’ attention, it appeared. When she realised he wasn’t interested, she quickly moved on to the two middle-aged men in business attire at the other end of the stage. They had obviously been there a while. Empty beer bottles and glasses of scotch covered the tiny oval table in front of them. The oldest of the guys, a bald fat guy with a red face, shot Mark a smug look. As he wanted to say; she came back, she likes me more. Poor guy, Scott thought. It was only the guy’s money she liked. In this place you weren’t worth more than your last five dollars. He had interviewed strippers before. Most of them hated their jobs. They hated their customers even more. Perhaps they could stand someone like Mark Moss perving at them; a twenty-five-year-old good looking kid, sincerely enthusiastic at the sight of half-naked women dancing to crappy music. But people like Scott Davis – almost two metres tall, bald, fifty-two years old and completely devoid of any fashion sense, a bitter and angry person; there was absolutely no possibility that any of the girls on stage would ever look twice at him in a night club, so why should he believe that this place was different?

The music phased out and the lighting changed. Next woman out, Scott Davis thought, as he had a drink from his Peroni. He had asked for a schooner of Tooheys New. Local tap beer. Instead Mark had bought him a bottle of imported beer from Italy. How was it possible to get that so wrong? Still, he didn’t have the heart to complain. Mark was buying.

“Look,” Mark pointed at the new blonde wriggling her abdomen and throwing her hair around. Scott squinted. It looked like she had something on her arm. He handed Mark a twenty-note.

“Get yourself a private lap dance, son. And find out some more about that tattoo. Where she got it and what it means.”

Mark’s smile didn’t go from ear to ear anymore. It was much bigger than that.

“Don’t fall in love,” Scott said. “It’s not going to last.”

“You take my breath away,” Mark hummed as he waved to the girl with the twenty-dollar note.

Scott Davis stood at the bar, chatting with the girl from the tattoo parlour, when Mark exited one of the private booths, hand in hand with the stripper.

“See you later, Felicity,” he said. She blew him a kiss in return.

Scott was bit taken aback, and raised his left eyebrow. “What did she say?” he asked.

“Not much. She wants to meet at East in Broadbeach later tonight.”

Scott Davis involuntarily let out a laugh. “About the tattoo. What did she say about the tattoo?”

“Oh. It’s not really a tattoo. It’s one of those Henna tattoos. Disappears by itself after a few weeks. They use it to get into a club.”

“A club for strippers?” Scott Davis asked.

“No, a private gentleman’s club. She’s only been there three times. Had to get the tattoo to gain entry.”

“A tattoo to gain entry? What happened to the good old stamps?” Scott Davis said with a sombre voice.

“She said the money was good. Very good. But in the end it wasn’t worth it.”

“Did she say something more? Did she say what the club was called?”

Mark Moss shook his head. “She seemed a bit nervous talking about it. As if someone could be listening in on the conversation. I’ll get some more information from her at East.”

East was the new hip night club on the coast. Surfers Paradise was for the tourists and bogans, Broadbeach for the cool locals. It was at East the beautiful girls, the VIPs and the partygoers spent their nights. With well-used credit cards they purchased magnum bottles of Moet, and rows of wet pussy shots into the wee hours. Scott was glad he didn’t have to tag along with Mark. He was well past the thump-thump music.

A brown Irish pub.

A lone guy with a guitar and a strong voice.

A beer and some hot chips. That was Scott’s definition of a good night out. Not standing straight up with an overpriced and diluted drink, in the middle of an ocean of people, listening to something they called music, but in reality was something that a DJ had stolen, recycled, and spit out again.

“Good luck. See you in the morning,” Scott said as he dropped Mark off outside the Oasis Shopping Centre in Broadbeach.

“Sure you don’t want to come for a drink? It’s just me and two mates from university; Smiley and JB,” Mark said.

Scott politely declined. But oddly enough he felt a bit proud. Proud because a twenty-five-year-old journalist invited him to have a drink with his friends. It meant that Mark truly enjoyed his company. That he had most likely been honest when he had said that he looked up to Scott, and that he aspired to write as well as Scott in his career. Maybe he should be nicer to the kid? Scott closed the car door before inspecting his watch. Eleven pm. He wasn’t tired. There was no point driving home to stare at the ceiling. Come to think of it, he had one more lead he could follow up on. He turned the wheel and spun out into traffic.

The evening had told him something important. If Marissa had a Henna tattoo, then that arm could only have been in the sea for a few hours.

Roman stared at the computer screen in front of him. “When was this recorded?” he asked. The massive Russian leant over Roman’s shoulder and pointed to the time and date in the upper right corner.

“Earlier tonight, Roman nodded. “And what did they want?”

“They asked around about a tattoo. The one you know.”

Roman sighed. “I think it might be time to get rid of Crazy Kangaroo. Set up a meeting with Mikhail. Tell him I have something he wants for sale.”

The big Russian without a neck, Roman’s bodyguard, Andrej, nodded with an expressionless face. He almost never smiled. It wasn’t only because he feared it could ruin his image. He was embarrassed of the big gap between his front teeth. Too many cheap Russian steroids in his teenage years had made his jaw grow, and left a rugby goal post between his incisors. Roman had told him to get it fixed. He paid him generously so there shouldn’t be any financial problem. But the big guy apparently had a dentist phobia. Dentist phobia. Roman had seen him pull out toenails and crush faces to a pulp of blood. Pain and fear weren’t things you associated with Andrej. But he was afraid of dentists. The world was strange.

Roman remained alone with his laptop as the big Russian went to call Mikhail. He squinted at all the empty houses at Sovereign Island. There were hardly lights on in any of them. It hadn’t always been like that. Before the GFC there had at least been people in every second home. There was no doubt that the GFC had hit Sovereign Island especially hard. A lot of the people living there had used the Island as the basis for their wealth. They had bought a piece of land, built an over-dimensioned house with all imaginable and unimaginable luxury; five bedrooms and garages accommodating at least ten cars. The list went on and on. Then they had flipped their mansion in a rising market only to invest the profits into a new project. A bigger piece of land, a bigger mansion, even more luxury. It had all worked well until the rug had been pulled from under their feet. With a stock market in free-fall and difficult banks, the market had evaporated in less than a year. Suddenly only rich Asians could afford to buy. And there was a reason the Asians were rich. They knew it was a buyers’ market. They sat there patiently on the fence until the banks and receivers moved in and sold off the mansions at fire-sale prices. Roman had also picked up a few houses that had foreclosed. But he hadn’t primarily done it to make money, he had done for security. It was nice to own the neighbouring houses. It was nice to know who lived around you.

Roman emptied the drink of vodka in front of him. Why had these reporters from the Gold Coast Times started to nose around at Crazy Kangaroo? Were they working on a piece on him? He should have listened to Richard Smith a long time ago. Divested all the night- and strip clubs. He was trying to build a serious businessman image. That image wasn’t compatible with being a club owner. He needed to get rid of them. He needed to get rid of all the baggage from his previous life.

27

The smell of freshly brewed coffee teased with Vesna Connor’s nostrils, as she was waiting for the Gold Coast mayor, Eddie Molan, in the flashy offices of the Gold Coast City Council. The mayor was running late for their meeting. Apparently he was driving back from Tugun, where he had spent the morning discussing the new Casino plans with local real estate developers.

“He’ll be here in five minutes,” the polite receptionist said. The new logo of the Gold Coast, a massive red dot, adorned the wall behind her.

Minutes later the mayor arrived, huffing and puffing through the door, with a tail of lackeys behind him. He greeted Vesna with a big smile. One of those big smiles only politicians and car salesmen could muster. Vesna studied the mayor’s face. He was a good looking man. His parents had moved to the Gold Coast when he was three years old. They had taken the normal route; emigrated from Thailand to New Zealand where they had run several Thai restaurants until their five-year period was up. Then they had promptly moved on to Australia and the Gold Coast. The climate suited them better, and the Gold Coast, with its hundreds of thousands of tourists every year, provided a good foundation for a restaurant business if you knew what you were doing. And the Molan family knew what they were doing. The mayor had initially followed in his father’s footsteps and quietly set about expanding their small empire of restaurants when he had taken the reigns at thirty. He had, however, quickly expanded into other industries. First by buying a small car dealership, later by developing several duplexes. He was respected by both the working class people and the established business elite on the Gold Coast. When he was first elected, many worried that he was too close to the city’s real estate developers. They feared he would give them free rein. But the mayor had proven himself to be a man of own opinions. And he got things done. For the first time in a very long time it appeared as if the Gold Coast City Council really did something to improve the situation for all the people who were struggling financially. After a decade of ballooning bureaucracy, red tape and property taxes it was refreshing that someone actually tried to improve things, not only increase the number of government employees.

“Hi Vesna, I’m so glad you had time to come in for a chat.” Eddie Molan offered his extended hand. The smile was the same. It reminded Vesna about a billboard ad she had once seen; come to Thailand, the land of smiles.

They sat down. Eddie Molan in a black leather chair with his hands folded in his lap. Vesna straight opposite him. They were alone in the spacious conference room.

“Let me first say that I’m mighty impressed by what you have achieved, Ms Connor,” the mayor started. “This city needs more positive stories. There has been enough reporting on motorbike gangs, ruined beaches and struggling businesses. I don’t say we shouldn’t write about those issues.” Eddie Molan held up his index finger, to make a point. “These issues are important for my constituents. But this beautiful city has so much more to offer.”

“Thanks,” Vesna Connor said. “I only try to provide a balanced picture. Yes, many are struggling financially, but there are also those who do exceptionally well. It is in tough times that tomorrow’s winners are created.”

“Exactly!” Eddie Molan almost yelled the word. “And these stories about the new economy, these technology companies from the Gold Coast conquering the world, these are exactly the sort of stories we need.” The mayor rose from his chair. “As you so correctly stated: It is in difficult times that tomorrow’s winners are created. It never ceases to amaze me how many people are running their own businesses. When the rough times hit, the first thing many businesses cut is their marketing budget. Probably because it is one of the easiest costs to cut. But it is also the last one they should cut. If you are struggling financially you need to increase your revenue. And you can only increase your revenue by getting more paying customers. To cut your marketing doesn’t really help you in that regard.”