Good Money (22 page)

‘That's him.'

‘Mr Brodtmann, can I ask you something? Why don't you pay the right amount of tax?'

He frowned.

‘I mean why don't you just pay up? I pay tax, the woman serving drinks over there pays tax.'

He raised his eyes to mine. ‘Anybody in this country who doesn't minimise their tax, wants their heads read … Kerry Packer said that, or something like it.'

‘Yes, but leaving the Goanna out of this for now — you don't even pay what you are obliged to. It seems to me that you're sponging and you're proud of it.'

He coughed. ‘I invest millions in this country. Create thousands of jobs.'

‘But the minerals belong to everyone and the tax goes back into —'

‘You
have
been speaking to McKechnie, haven't you?'

I shrugged. ‘That's not the point.'

The woman brought our drinks, served in highball glasses and garnished with a thin slice of raw capsicum.

‘He interviewed me once.' He held the glass in both hands but didn't drink. ‘I had no idea he was, well … It's the whole profession; they can't be trusted.'

I drank half my gin in one swallow. ‘What happened?'

He looked up. ‘My wife had died. He asked me all about that. I thought we would discuss the jobs I've created, the wealth I've brought to the state, the entire nation.' He took a big drink and put the glass down. ‘More of a gossip columnist than a financial reporter. Only interested in my relationship with my second wife, the family dynamic. All very tawdry stuff.'

As he spoke, I glanced about the room. The man sitting at the bar — something looked familiar. I turned back to Brodtmann. ‘Is that why Nina came to Melbourne?'

He stroked the corners of his opened mouth. ‘Frankly, I don't know.'

I chewed my capsicum, thinking he must have known. Everyone I spoke to knew Crystal and Tania hated each other.

‘How would I know? I tried to talk to her …' He put down the glass. ‘Miss Hardy, if anything happens to Nina I'll never forgive myself —'

I held up my hand and he stopped speaking. I could see the man at the bar in profile now, as he spoke to the barmaid. He picked up his backpack, rifled through it — then he lifted out a laptop and showed it to her.

‘Excuse me a moment,' I said to Brodtmann. I stood up and walked to the bar. I made a fist and, pulling my arm back and as hard as I could, punched the man on the side of the head. He howled in pain and nearly fell off the stool. The hipsters all looked up. I could see Brodtmann was on his feet. The inked barmaid came tearing over the bar to restrain me. But Ben did nothing to stop me. ‘Stella, how'd you find me?'

‘Relax,' I said to the barmaid. ‘The laptop's mine.'

She'd worked this out for herself. ‘Get out, both of you.'

‘I don't want any trouble, I just want my damn laptop and I'll be on my way.'

‘Guess I can't stay at your place tonight then?'

For an answer, I hissed at him. When I went back to the table, Brodtmann was gone. I put the laptop in my bag and both arms in the sleeves of my coat, and headed outside. I walked home, surprised by the pity I felt for Brodtmann.

With the DVD now back in my possession, I decided it would be prudent to make a copy — maybe several copies — of the report, in case I ever lost it again. Besides, I didn't want to be the only one who had access to the report, given the startlingly real possibility that I might die or something. I set up my laptop on the table and opened
The Blue Lagoon
. I attempted a simple drag and drop onto my desktop but the file bounced back to its original folder, as if held off by an invisible, repellent force. The document file would not attach to the email. I tried again. Each time, the icon skittered back to the DVD folder.

Out on the third floor landing of
PineView
, music was playing at a volume that could peel the skin from your face. If I had to guess, I'd say it was Slayer. I was pretty sure Brown Cardigan did not favour thrash metal. It was coming from Jack and Amber's. I put the DVD in the case, and went and pounded on their door. Jack opened the door in a highly stroppy state, bespectacled, bearded, and beanied. ‘What?'

I entered and turned the music down.

‘Wait. Stella. You can't do that.'

‘Need to use your printer.'

‘Get your own fucking printer.'

‘I
really
need to use your printer.' Perhaps it was the emotion in my voice. He jumped up and turned the music off completely.

‘What for?'

‘This.'

He shook his head. ‘A movie?'

‘Not movie.'

‘I don't have a disc drive.'

I held out my laptop. He took it from me and started to fiddle at the back with the cables. ‘Amber doesn't like metal. I can only listen when she goes to her sister's,' he said, not looking at me.

‘No need to explain.'

‘This thing's ancient. Gotta install print drivers off the internet.'

‘Install away, Jack.'

He tapped the keys and the printer began a frenzied mechanical response. I watched as he opened the file, the disc whirring in the drive. He hit the
print
command and a message box appeared.
Password.
He tried to save it in a different format.
Function not available.
He ejected it and handed it back to me.

‘I tried to email it but it won't attach. Something blocks it.'

‘It's set up with a layer of security, password protection. All copying or printing functions, stuff like that, you need the password.'

I thanked him and left. Immediately, the Slayer volume went back up.

Back in my flat, I checked my phone: no message; my landline: no message. I was looking longingly out the window when I saw a white van drive down Roxburgh Street and park opposite my building. I inspected it from a distance — flecks of paint all over it. I dared to hope. The driver's door opened and out he stepped, in a clean shirt and jeans, the face stubble a sheen of silver. His hair was combed into an extravagant rockabilly arrangement. It was a sight of unutterable magnificence. I ran downstairs and he clocked me as I sprang across the road. He held his arms out and I let him wrap them around me.

‘You eaten?'

‘Not since last century,' I said.

23

VYVY'S WAS
on Racecourse Road. Brophy and I both spotted the one empty table, second from the back, simultaneously, and we ran for it. As if there was a chance it might be taken from us, we started placing bags, jackets, and scarves over the chairs to stake our claim. A waiter brought menus, jasmine tea in a thermos, and two small cups. Brophy ordered vegetarian laksa. Extra tofu.

I said, ‘Two.'

Brophy said, ‘There are Laksa King enthusiasts out there, poor misguided fools. Right here, best laksa in Melbourne.'

I looked at him, amused. ‘What am I, a blow-in?'

He lifted his chin in query.

‘I practically
live
in this establishment. I work down the road.'

Brophy acted chastened. ‘Forgive me. It's a bloke thing. We like to appear knowledgeable.'

The remark had charm. ‘This once.'

He nodded, keeping steady eye contact. He looked away. ‘Your brother —'

‘Jesus, look at this. The soy sauce and the chilli sauce are in the same kind of bottle.' I made a careful study of them. ‘Those two you do
not
want to mix up.'

He smiled. ‘Right.' But the crease in his brow deepened.

‘Just saying.'

He rested his hands on the laminex and pushed back in the chair. Possibly preparing for departure. I had blown it.

‘I spoke to your daughter on the phone,' I said. ‘Very bright. Socially aware.'

‘Marigold? I suppose so. Sometimes.' He pulled at his ear.

‘She was interested in my welfare. At her age, I didn't know other people existed.'

‘Oh yeah.' Relief in his voice. ‘She can be caring.'

‘And the language, the way she speaks.'

‘Ah. That's her mother's influence. Well, the boyfriend. He's into rap.'

I nodded. A tangle of discordant family relations. Yay!

He did an imitation of a rap artist, with a hand-flicking gesture. ‘Keepin' it real.'

‘Yo.' I countered. There was silence. I tried to think of something to say; came up blank.

He leaned forward, sipped some tea. ‘So, you like Peter Jackson.'

‘I do?'

‘
The Lord of the Rings
. The director.'

‘Oh,
that
Peter Jackson.'

He leaned over the table. ‘I like the movies but I prefer the books.'

‘You say that like it was heresy. I like the books but prefer the movies. That
is
heresy.'

He laughed. ‘Go on then, what do you like about them?'

Tell him? I wanted to. I had quite a lot to say on the subject actually. But how could I answer without revealing something of me? The haunted, lonely individual who found solace and meaning in the actions of characters in a movie, and who was brought to tears by the bravery of imaginary people. Admissions like that hinted at too much secret suffering; made me appear emotional, weird — more red flags than a May Day parade.

‘The final scene in Moria,' I said, keeping my tone cool. ‘Gandalf falling. Those battles, when they're outnumbered. The humans versus Sauron thing. The odds are so small. Impossible really.'

‘Yes. And the sword, of course; layers of symbolic meaning there.' His blue-grey eyes had a pleasant intensity.

The arrival of bucket-sized bowls of soup put an end to that wistful moment. Scary slices of red chilli floated in it. The lemony aromas made me want to close my eyes and swoon. Brophy launched in, spoon digging up noodles, vegies, and broth. I watched him: loud slurping, unreserved — a good eater. I raised the china spoon to my lips and the world became quiet. There was only tang and heat.

Halfway through, he wiped his mouth. ‘Arwen. When she chooses a mortal life.'

‘Yes?' Perspiration on my face; I could feel it. I put down the spoon, patted my chin with the napkin.

He looked at me, serious. ‘Why become mortal?' A rhetorical question.

I answered anyway. ‘Love?'

‘You can love in the Undying Lands.'

‘Right.'

‘Immortals can love.'

‘Right.' I liked this Peter Brophy.

‘Mortals die, don't they?'

‘Yep.' I was drinking in the arch of his eyebrows. ‘Pretty much what the word means.'

‘And facing death. That's the ultimate fear. We all have to do it.'

I posed, philosophical, hands together, fingers steepled. ‘Go on.'

‘Immortals can never know what that's like.'

I considered that idea. ‘They can't die, so they can't experience fear. They exist in a fear-free zone.'

He lowered his eyes. I gazed at his mouth — a crooked smile. ‘They're missing out.'

I guffawed. ‘On what? The joys of terror?'

‘A test of courage.'

I had to wonder if he had been reading my mail, going through my rubbish.

He drank the last of his soup straight from the bowl. He lowered it. ‘Or something like that.'

‘You are familiar with
Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
?'

‘I've seen it.'

‘At the end, when Mu Bai is dying from Jade Fox's poison dart and he finally tells Shu Lien with his dying breath —'

‘She says he must use it to meditate, so that his soul rises to eternity.'

‘Yes! But he doesn't,' I said, breathlessly. ‘He tells her he's wasted his whole life!'

His eyes shone. ‘He lived on the mountain, in peace and tranquillity.'

‘Yes, but it was a form of cowardice. He never admitted his love for Shu Lien. Only at the very end he tells her that he loves her and has always loved her and that he would rather give up enlightenment and drift as a ghost by her side as a condemned soul.'

‘Because of her love, his spirit would never be lonely.'

‘And Shu Lien kisses him, and then he dies.'

On the walk back to his van, Brophy's hand slipped into mine. It had rained. The wet footpath reflected the city lights. I said, ‘If Arwen really wanted to test her bravery she could always become a St Kilda supporter.'

We were at the van now and he unlocked the door. When he turned, I stood on my toes and he bent his head, and my mouth was on his, and I was pushing him against the van. I pressed my hips against him and put my arms around him, breathing in the warmth of him rising up through his clothes.