Cooking the Books (9 page)

Kitchens. They are a stringent arena. I sighted Kylie and Goss picking at some eggs. Good. They had to eat something in preparation for a long day’s work. Tash the director was ploughing through a mound of bacon and poached eggs as though stoking a boiler.

‘Filming today,’ said Harrison, taking a mouthful of kedgeree. ‘That’s why everyone is on edge, Corinna. Pepper, please.’

‘I’ve got a question,’ I said, passing him the ground pepper.

‘I am at Madam’s service.’ He bowed slightly.

‘Why doesn’t Tash replace Ethan, if he and Ms Atkins are such bad friends?’

‘Oh, the hard ones first,’ he quoted
The Goons
. ‘Well, dear, it’s a matter of filthy lucre. Big money is backing Ethan because he’s the flavour of the month. Without Ethan, no show. And Molly hasn’t had all that many offers lately.’ He lowered his voice. ‘She’s getting on a bit, even for a superbitch. Though she does seem to be channelling the ageless Joan Collins. Therefore, she stays even though she despises Ethan and he stays because this is his big chance. Do have some of this kedgeree, it’s excellent,’ he added in a louder tone as Ethan heaved into his orbit.

‘Good idea,’ I told him, and picked up a plate for myself. There were lots of leftovers and the actors and crew were beginning to drift away. I was eating pleasantly when Molly Atkins emerged from her dressing room. She was perfect, down to the unchipped scarlet claws and the perfection of her shoes. I could not imagine how she could walk in them. Stiletto heels. Bright red, of course. Ethan gulped down the last of his breakfast and grinned at her. It was not a charming grin. She noticed him, stiffened, was about to deliver a blistering rebuke and then—didn’t. At her heels scuttled Emily, looking harassed.

Odd, but, like the mayonnaise, not my problem. Back to the kitchen, Corinna.

Tash called ‘Ten minutes!’ and the film day began.

Mine was ending. I was pleased. I tasted one of my spanakopita, and then, on Bernie’s insistence, one of her mushroom ones. Perfect. Crispy and tasty. I said so. Bernie beamed. Time to leave on a high note. I left.

Home again. The couch contained Horatio, drowsing, and the bed contained Daniel, sleeping. I know when I’m licked. I took off my baker’s clothes, put on my gown, and joined them in a small refreshing nap.

Afternoon declared itself with a shaft of light through the curtains. I rose slowly. Daniel was cutting a baguette in preparation for lunch. I really wasn’t hungry. I watched him make a salade Niçoise and ate a token mouthful or two. Then another, because I love anchovies. So does Horatio. Those furry fish are so tasty.

‘How was your night?’ I asked.

‘Good. I’ve got three names. The trouble is that everyone in that drunks’ camp down by the river is known by at least three names, some of them quite unprintable, and tracking them down is going to be difficult. Because even if they do know a Spazzo, it might not be the Spazzo I am seeking.’

‘And they may not want to tell you where he is, assuming they know, and assuming he hasn’t moved on.’

‘That too,’ he agreed gloomily. These nights among the lost, stolen and strayed were beginning to get Daniel down. There’s only so much squalor that one man can handle. Horatio sat down for a really thorough wash and I watched him.

‘What say I come with you?’ I asked.

‘You’re working, so you need your sleep,’ he replied.

‘Not tomorrow. Tomorrow the whole lunch is being catered by a rather famous Thai restaurant. And how that touchy collection of diners are going to cope with the chilli in Thai food is not my problem.’

‘I would really like some company,’ he admitted.

‘Good. Then let’s have a lazy afternoon. Egg and bacon pie for dinner—I made us one while I was constructing the others. Then we can go forth and find out what we can . . . er . . . find out.’

‘Nice,’ said Daniel, and kissed me, which is ample reward for a space of time mixing with the dispossessed. I picked at the olives in the salade Niçoise and stopped asking questions and the afternoon passed very pleasantly with me doing my own accounts and Daniel watching
Babylon 5
.

I love doing my accounts. It’s probably a character flaw.

That fiendish north wind was still blowing when we set out, on foot, towards the river. I was sweating by the time we crossed the bridge and began to descend through the park into the underworld. The stone steps were designed for ladies in crinolines, so they are very broad and shallow (falling over in a crinoline was a deeply embarrassing experience, as I had found once during a school play). Leaves were being torn from the English trees and flung past us like dirty confetti. Even the Australian trees were bowing before the gale. Apart from anything else, it was very noisy. It was like trying to converse while a train is pulling into the station. There are many things I loathe about Melbourne, and one of them is this habit of the hot wind to just manifest itself like the Demon King in a pantomime and desiccate and destroy everything it touches. Kepler, Jon’s lover, who is Chinese, calls it ‘Dragon’s Breath’ and that is a good name. We don’t have a name for it, just ‘that bloody north wind’. Cops say that after it has been blowing for a while, tempers are frayed, nerves scraped raw, and homicides happen. It is at the height of a north wind episode that people decide that they really cannot stand their neighbour/spouse/children/drinking buddy/man who just looked at them funny and try to obliterate him/her/them with a handy axe. I can understand that. Other places call it Mistral or Khamsin. It’s unbearable, whatever you call it.

But down under the trees the fury of the gale was foiled by the foliage and the solidity of the Victorian garden design. The old builders didn’t take any lip from Nature. If she talked back, they felled her. They built walls to conduct the respectable feet of the gentry to points of botanical interest and they labelled every tree. It must have been nice to be that sure about everything. I’m not that sure about anything.

But under the canopy the natives were restless. We heard voices, now that it was quiet enough to hear anything. There was a party going on under the trees on the edge of the river, where the locked boathouse loomed and its security system provided light. There was a fire—even on such a night as this!—and men sat around it, toasting sausages on sticks, leaning back on stacks of boxed wine.

‘Someone’s come into money,’ said Daniel.

They were ragged and pitiful, the rejects. Clothes which might originally have been good—I saw at least one handmade suit, fraying, the stitching coming adrift—trackies, polo shirts, T shirts, they were all filthy and falling apart. The bodies underneath were malnourished, white and skeletal. Their hair was long and they reeked of cheap wine and dirt. But their eyes, oh, their eyes were glittering, and I felt that I had strayed into one of Dante’s less pleasant Circles of Hell. I wanted to run away. But I had volunteered so I stayed.

Daniel walked easily into the encampment and leant on the boathouse door. The eyes examined him. Not a cop, not a social worker, not someone coming to do them either good or harm against their will. Not another drunk who might fight them for their bounty. Not, in point of fact, important, and they soon looked away from him. A man in a partly destroyed suit half stood and asked him, ‘Want a drink, mate?’

‘Looking for Spazzo,’ he said clearly.

‘Over there,’ said the suit. ‘Him and Pockets got lots of wine,’ he added, and sank down to his seat again in the contaminated dust.

Daniel hoisted himself off the wall and sauntered slowly to the other gathering. The little fires dotted the river bank. I knew from recent museum research of middens that the local Aboriginal people had built little fires like this at about this time of year, to feast on mussels and dance away the Big Heat. How surprised they would be at their replacements. Disgusted, too, I expect. These camps knew no gods except Alcohol.

Daniel repeated his request for Spazzo at the next fire and found him. He was a thin, small, hairless man in old track pants, reclining on a pile of wine boxes like a pasha and very pleased with himself. He had a wide and toothless grin, surprisingly like that of a baby. Daniel accepted a plastic cup of wine from him and sat down on his heels to talk. Spazzo was happy. He was afloat on a sea of Yalumba Autumn Brown and sinking fast.

‘You’ve got lots of wine,’ observed Daniel.

‘Lots!’ gurgled Spazzo. ‘Lots ’n’ lots.’

‘Where did it come from?’ asked Daniel.

‘Bought ’n’ paid for,’ said Spazzo with dignity. ‘By my mate. My good mate,’ he elaborated.

‘It’s good to have a mate like that,’ said Daniel. ‘What’s his name?’

‘He’s got lots of wine,’ said Spazzo. ‘Lots ’n’ lots of wine.’

‘And his name? Tommo, was it? Big bloke, red hair?’

‘Nah,’ replied Spazzo scornfully. ‘Tommo’s got black hair. Pockets’s got no hair. Pockets’s me mate.’

‘The mate who gave you lots and lots of wine?’

‘Pockets did,’ agreed Spazzo.

‘Perhaps if I ask him he’ll give me lots of wine, too,’ sug- gested Daniel.

Spazzo was too happy not to feel regret in crushing this delightful dream.

‘Nah, he’s got no more,’ he said sadly. ‘Said we had to make this lot last. Said to keep some for tomorrow. But where can I keep some wine with all these bastards ferreting through the bushes? Better drink it all now,’ said Spazzo, gulping down some more. The sweet scent of the fortified wine combined with the human stench was making me nauseous.

‘Where can we find Pockets?’ asked Daniel gently.

‘Dunno. They might know,’ said Spazzo, waving an uncoordinated arm in the direction of downriver. We went that way, past the little fires. I was sweating like a pig. Plump persons seldom tolerate heat well.

Then we found Pockets. He was reclining on a throne made of wine boxes. He was a bald, skinny man in a grey dustcoat which some amateur hand had sewn with extra pockets, hence the name. He had a bunch of papers in his hand and was perusing them by firelight through pickle-bottle glasses. Cryptic crossword puzzles, mostly filled in faultless calligraphy. And in biro. I was instantly reminded of an ex-boss of mine. Same glasses. Same squint. Pockets caught sight of me and began to rise, which was courteous of him. He managed to get to his feet and then sagged down. Daniel helped him to rebuild his seat and lowered him into it.

‘Lady,’ said Pockets in a cultured tone. ‘Welcome to our humble camp.’

‘Sir,’ I replied. ‘Thank you.’

Around him the revellers groaned and screamed and bickered. Pockets sat in an oasis of silence and was the most puzzling creature I had ever seen.

‘My name is Daniel,’ said my beloved. ‘I am looking for some papers which were left in a phone booth. Would you know anything about that?’

‘Oh yes, Daniel,’ agreed Pockets, smoothing out his bundle and sliding them into a pocket. ‘I am responsible for the medium of the printed word in this city.’

‘I see.’ Daniel sounded calm. ‘And where are those papers now?’

‘In their proper place. There is a proper place for all papers. They are written, see, that makes them sacred.’

‘Of course,’ Daniel assented. ‘And their destination?’

‘Filed, my dear sir, filed properly.’ Pockets seemed to think that was the end of the conversation and took a deep draught of his wine. ‘Of course, some careless person should never have left negotiable instruments in such a place. Corrupt. Careless. People are so often negligent with their certificates.’

‘And you took care of them?’ asked Daniel.

‘That is my duty as an officer of the court,’ said Pockets. He sounded so sane that I wondered what he was doing here in the drunks’ camp. Then I found out.

‘Which court?’ asked Daniel.

‘The Lemurians appointed me,’ Pockets informed us. ‘Prior to their takeover they want all the papers to be in order. The paperwork must be done, indeed it must. The takeover is imminent, my dear sir. Imminent. I expect them every day.’

‘The Lemurians?’ Daniel’s voice was free of irony.

‘Of course. You must have seen them. All of us have seen them. That’s why we’re down here. They will land on the river when they come in their great mothership and we will be here to greet them.’

‘I see. Who provided the wine?’ asked Daniel.

‘Oh, that was Mr Raban at the wine shop. He is a gener- ous man.’

‘I need to retrieve those certificates,’ said Daniel. ‘Can you tell me where you have filed them?’

‘In their proper place, as I told you. Have they sent you to spy on me? I have been faithful. I take into my custody all the printed words and find them filing places. If I have missed one it was not my fault!’

The brow wrinkled, tears were forming behind the spectacles. Daniel patted Pockets on the shoulder and the man shied away like a frightened horse.

‘No, no, they are pleased with you,’ he said. ‘You have done well. We’ll be leaving now,’ he added, and I followed him to the next camp, where we might find more information.

We didn’t. Daniel dragged a fallen drunk away from the flames and looked at me in the hot firelight.

‘We go home,’ he said, and despite heat and exhaustion, I passed him on the stairs.

The big wind caught and battered us as we fought our way home, into Insula’s air-conditioned silence. I dived into the shower, anxious to rid myself of wood smoke and filth. Daniel joined me. Gradually, as the hot water washed away the squalor, I started to relax. I unhitched my jaw, which had been clenched tight. That had been a truly hellish visit.