Good Money (15 page)

‘No, he left.' For some reason I was gripping the seatbelt near my shoulder. We were on the only road to Geelong and a mad wrangle had developed for an imaginary front spot ahead. Trucks boxed in the little car, threatening to send us off to Hoppers Crossing, like it or not. Phuong held her course, able to drive and fiddle with her iPod simultaneously.

A gentle bit of acoustic guitar started. She put up the volume.

‘Where is Mabor now?'

‘I don't know.' I looked over at her. Her face was tight, the eyes strained as she glanced from the car stereo to the road ahead. I had the feeling she didn't want to look me in the eye. ‘Are you going to put out the word to pick him up?'

Now she looked across at me. ‘Stella, I'm working this case, we've got wire taps on everyone's phone. If there was a Mr Funsail I would have heard about it. We know Cesarelli's KAs, we know his little code words on the phone. He sure as shit wouldn't go around calling himself Mr Funsail. It's a creepy name, sounds more like a paedophile than a drug baron.'

‘I didn't say Mr Funsail was Cesarelli, I said he might be — but he is
someone
. And Mabor is scared to death of him.'

‘He clams up with the police,' she said. ‘But I suppose it wouldn't hurt to try to talk to him again; we can bring him in, hold him for a few hours, keep him off the street.'

‘Thank you,' I said, relieved. ‘Now, can you please tell me why I'm coming with you to see Clacker?'

‘Your presence is required because I plan to mislead him.'

I waited for her to explain further but she didn't. I could only guess at the arse-about logic of her decision-making lately. Perhaps it was a Buddhist thing, one of the three grandiose objectives, or the seven crazy thoughts, the four bizarre schemes. Say what you like, Buddha was fond of enumerating. Still, I was glad to be included in her ruse. Clacker gave me the shits.

‘What is this? Cat Stevens?'

‘Saw
Harold and Maude
last night,' Phuong said.

‘Oh, I love that movie.'

‘Me too. Whatever happened to Harold?'

‘He's been in stuff.'

Out my window, the dull plains rushed by, ugly and treeless. In the distance an industrial complex of petro-chemical plants belched vapours into the atmosphere. I sang along with Yusuf, a simple ditty about letting people be who they wanted to be. I thought about how much Phuong had conformed to the will of her parents. I imagined it was because her parents had lived through a war. The only time Phuong defied them, apart from a brief goth period, was to drop out of uni and join the police. Actually, come to think of it, that was a major act of defiance. She was a complicated person.

I looked at her. ‘A gamble, isn't it?'

‘What? Interviewing Pickering? No. Good detective work. It's all about the one percenters. Bruce encourages it.'

‘One percenters? You don't know what that means.'

‘It's a football thing, isn't it?' She laughed.

‘You're tense.'

The bony shoulders came down. ‘This traffic —' She flicked a glance at me, then cranked up the volume on the iPod.

After a while I said, ‘Any news on Tania?'

‘I'm not in that loop.'

I looked at her until she looked back at me. ‘If I hear anything I'll tell you straight away, but it's being handled at the top of the upper echelons.'

I sighed and looked out the window again.

At the prison, Phuong and I waited for Clacker in an interview room. I had my Justice ID on a lanyard around my neck and I put a manila folder, containing nothing but blank paper on the table in front of me. A couple of guards brought Clacker in and he slumped down opposite us. When the guards went away he yawned and picked his nose, wiping the findings on the tabletop. I maintained silence — and what I hoped was a suitably professional mien.

‘Hello, Darren, I'm Detective Senior Constable Nguyen.'

‘A gook? No fucking way will I talk to a gook,' Darren said.

Phuong ignored that and pointed to me. ‘And this is Ms Hardy from the Justice Department. I have a few questions for you. Do you want to have your lawyer present?'

‘Price? Nah. Fucking toffee-nose pansy, never listens to me.'

‘That's your decision?'

He grinned and grabbed his groin. ‘Give us a head job?'

‘I wanted to see you today to ask you a couple of questions about some friends of yours. If you are cooperative, if your information is helpful, you may be able to negotiate with the DPP to reduce the charge.' She gestured at me. I did my best to look like I had that kind of power.

‘I'm not guilty.'

‘Right. Right.'

‘I'm no dog.'

‘Of course not. I'm not asking you to
inform
on your friends.'

He sniffed. ‘Wasting your time.' He looked up. ‘Unless youse are looking for a root. Then I might help youse out. If I had a couple of sacks to stick over your ugly heads.' He laughed and showed us his tooth decay.

‘Mabor Chol. You know him? He's Adut's brother.'

He snorted. ‘Fuck off.'

‘How about Gaetano Cesarelli. Were you working for Gaetano?'

He adopted a good blank stare.

Phuong tried a few more times and Clacker kept on deflecting her questions.

‘Don't usually root gooks but in your case I'll make an exception.'

I kept quiet. The only time I spoke was at the end when I whispered to Phuong about where we might have lunch. Phuong answered with a
shush
and a frown and then signalled for the guards to come. I shoved the folder into my bag and pulled the zip. Clacker was waiting by the door, rocking on his heels, his hands in his pockets. ‘How's Mr Funsail?' I said.

He stopped still, facing the door.

I came up beside him, got a close-up view of the orange fuzz around his ears. The white under his freckles turning steadily pinker. ‘He's your mate, isn't he? Mr Funsail
.
How is he these days?'

Clacker shook his head and clamped his mouth shut, a move toddlers used to evade an incoming spoon.

‘What about Funsail? Any news? No? Not telling?'

‘What the
fuck
?' He practically squealed at me. By now, the guards had the doors open, and he fell into their arms. ‘Me lawyer,' he said to them. ‘I demand me bloody lawyer. Get him down here pronto.'

We got back in the car and merged with the traffic heading to Melbourne.

‘The Mr Funsail business, I'll send that up to Bruce,' Phuong said.

‘You do that.' I looked out the window. My sinuses were full of concrete but my heart was trembling with fear at the prospect of being the target for a gangland hit. Clearly, Mr Funsail was one scary individual. And Phuong was right — he was not Cesarelli by another name. There was a creep out there so terrifying that the mention of his name made hard-arse felons flinch and cry for the protection of the law.

In the distance, the granite peaks of the You Yangs passed by, pale mauve and weirdly malevolent. I wondered what Brophy was doing. If he still played in a band. I wondered about his message. He said that he wasn't stalking me. Tania would say that, since the advent of Facebook, nothing was private. Everything was public. Everyone was stalking everyone. The car was warm and I leaned back in my seat, put my head against the glass and closed my eyes. ‘He swears a bit, Clacker.'

‘You think?' Phuong sounded shocked. ‘Where do you want me to drop you off?'

‘Footscray.'

‘What for?'

‘Alcohol, remember? Drugs, too, if I can get some.'

Phuong raised an eyebrow at me. ‘So any street corner will do?'

She let me out at Footscray station and I headed to the supermarket on a mission to buy whisky. I walked around the corner and was approached by a boy in a flannelette shirt. ‘You chasin'?'

‘Me? Chasing? I mean, I'm flattered you would think that a woman in her forties might wish to buy your street-grade meth cut with baking soda, but no. Thank you.'

The boy said something unpleasant and I hurried away. I was at the supermarket entrance when I saw a familiar face manoeuvring a giant centipede of shopping trolleys. His hi-vis vest and employee cap might have been acceptable on a teenager, but Ben cut a wretched figure.

‘So this is where you disappear to.'

He shrugged. ‘It's a job.'

It must have been the bugs in my system, because I felt an overwhelming desire to give him a hug. ‘Thanks for staying last night. You can stay a bit longer if you like. That boarding house must be a hellhole.'

He smiled. ‘You know where you stand in a hellhole.'

I thought for a moment. ‘
Spinal Tap?
'

He raised a hand, the two middle fingers lowered: a rock salute. I nodded in appreciation. ‘See you tonight. I might even cook.'

‘Please. God. No.'

I punched his arm and walked away laughing. Instead of buying whisky or painkillers like I had intended, I walked towards the mall. Soon I was no more than fifty metres from a certain gallery. At the foot of the Narcissistic Slacker stairs my inner voice began to scream.
Abort! Now!
Unless you want to experience humiliation on a massive scale.

The voice won. I retreated.

‘Idiot,' I said out loud, slouching away as fast as I could. Straight home was best, I thought. Who knew what stupid mistakes I might make if I was allowed out on the street any longer. I headed for the tram stop.

‘Hardy?'

Whoa, sprung
. I spun around.

Brophy caught up with me, his eyes crinkling pleasantly. ‘I was getting some food.' He held up a plastic bag filled with takeaway containers. ‘You want some? There's lots. Springees, rice paper rolls.'

‘I'd love to but I'm coming down with something.'

‘You don't look that great … I mean … You look sick.'

‘I feel like death. I'm on my way home.'

‘Where's your car?'

‘I'm taking the tram.'

‘Let me drive you.'

‘No. It's fine. Really.'

‘I'm driving you. Can't have you wandering about in the freezing cold when you've got the flu.'

A very persuasive argument, especially as my skull felt like an angry dentist was drilling small holes in it from inside. He led me down an alley to a lane, and out into a rear carpark. A battered
white van was parked by some overflowing charity bins. He opened the passenger door. I climbed in and he got in the driver's side and started opening the takeaway containers. ‘Come on, eat something. You'll feel better.' He handed me a spring roll. ‘They're veg, if you're wondering. You veg?'

‘Are you kidding, I had tofu for breakfast.' I ate one and settled back into my seat. He stuffed an entire spring roll in his mouth and swung the van out into the traffic. ‘I got your message.'

‘I found your number the old-fashioned way, an actual phone book. Not many Hardys in Ascot Vale.'

‘Country folk mostly, my branch of the Hardys.'

‘That right?' For some reason, he appeared to find that interesting. ‘I got one painting left. I'm going to hang on to it. The last one.' He stuffed another spring roll in his mouth. ‘Anyway, I was going to ask, there's this art prize announcement thing on tonight.'

‘The Veldt Prize?'

He beamed at me. ‘A hundred grand.'

‘It's a pretty exclusive do, isn't it?'

‘I got an invite. With a plus one.'

‘I'd love to but —'

‘But probably not, seeing as you're sick and all. Well, maybe we could go out for a bite one night? When you're feeling better?'

‘Sure.' I started on another spring roll as the van powered over the Maribyrnong. A crew of rowers cut silently through water the colour of tarnished copper. They disappeared into the gathering fog, leaving barely a trace. Poor brave fools.

Brophy said, ‘You left the party pretty sudden.'

‘My brother. He's got … mental issues.'

He glanced at me.

‘Left!' I said suddenly. ‘Here.'

I directed him to my street and I climbed out, brushing bits of spring roll from my coat. He came around to my side of the van. ‘I'll walk you up.'

‘No need.'

‘Come on. You're not well. I'll get you settled with a cup of tea.' By this point he was in the stairwell. I sensed that he wasn't putting it on, he was one of those rare nice guys. Even so, I wasn't going to drink herbal tea for anyone.

Once inside, I began rapidly gathering up the pyjamas, undies, and blankets that littered the floor. Peter went to the kitchen.