The Brush-Off (17 page)

‘And what better measure of a man's significance,' I said, ‘than the price of his work.'

Veale pursed his lips, pitying me my cynicism. I conceded him the point, sort of. ‘Ironical, though, isn't it,' I remarked. ‘So many artists never get to enjoy the fruits of their own success.'

‘True,' conceded Veale. ‘I never met Szabo myself, but I used to know his dealer, Giles Aubrey, quite well. I doubt if Karlin paid Giles more than five or six thousand when he bought the picture back in the early seventies.' A steal. Only a year's take-home pay for one of Max's employees at the time.

Much of the crowd had followed the official party into the boardroom and were tucking into the mille-feuilles and moka blend. I helped myself to a hair of the dog out of a bottle marked Bollinger, poured one for Veale, and sniffed at a tray of dainty pink-and-white sandwiches. ‘Caviar?' I wondered.

‘Strawberries,' said Veale.

Christ. Strawberry sandwiches. Now I'd seen it all. But I hadn't. Not by a long chalk.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,' Karlin began, his voice barely above conversational volume. As if by magic, the chatter of voices and scrape of forks across plates faded. It was Karlin, at least as much as his artworks, they had paid to be near. His entrepreneurship, luck and taste were legendary. Famous, at the very least. Stand close enough, listen attentively enough, and perhaps some of it might rub off.

‘Welcome to today's open-house in aid of the CMA's acquisition program.' Karlin's public voice was both smooth and gravelly, a combination of wet cement and washed silk, conveying a mixture of amenability and conviction. The expression ‘If madam would just care to try this on' sprang to mind.

Karlin pressed on. ‘And an especially warm welcome to our new Arts Minister, the Honourable Angelo Agnelli, who has made a special effort to be here, which I think speaks volumes for his commitment to the visual arts…'

Just in case anyone didn't quite know which one he was, Ange took a half-step forward, smiled bashfully, and let the gaze of the congregation fall gently upon him. There was a shuffling that might have been applause. Ange nodded, recognising in all humility that it was the office, not the man, to whom acknowledgment was due. But conveying, nonetheless, a distinctly personal pleasure at finding himself among like-minded people. A photographer circled, flash popping.

Karlin allowed Ange his moment of grace before continuing. ‘Because, thanks to the vision of the government, a great painting hitherto seen only by a fortunate few will soon hang in the Centre for Modern Art where it will be accessible to all. I refer, of course, to Victor Szabo's
Our Home
.'

As he delivered this phrase, Karlin moved slightly to one side, offering the painting on the wall behind him to the perusal of the assembly. Unfortunately, Phillip Veale was in my line of sight, obstructing my view, and all I could see of it was a bit of blue in the top right-hand corner. As Karlin continued to speak, informing us that the occasion was tinged with regret at the departure of a cherished possession, I popped the last of the strawberry sangers into my mouth, craned my neck over the bureaucrat's gelati-hued shoulder and feasted my eyes.

My jaw froze in mid-chomp. You could have knocked me down with an ermine bristle. The picture I beheld, hanging on the wall of Max Karlin's boardroom, was strikingly familiar. So much so that I thought my eyes were playing tricks with me. It depicted a cloudless Australian sky and a swathe of vivid perfectly manicured lawn. In the middle of the lawn sat a Victa Special two-stroke motor-mower. Behind it was a red-roofed double-fronted brick-veneer house, brooding with malevolent intensity.

I might not know much about art, but I've been a member of the Labor Party long enough to recognise the aroma of rodent when it wafts my way. So, when the speechifying was over, I introduced Veale to Agnelli and left them exchanging pleasantries while I examined the Szabo at closer range.

An expert might have detected subtle differences—the demeanour of the brushstrokes, the gradation of the colour, the intangible aura of genius—but on face value I was buggered if I could tell this picture from the one I had seen scarcely two hours before in Marcus Taylor's studio.

Eastlake noticed my close interest and joined me. ‘Following in the footsteps of Van Gogh?' he said. This joke was beginning to wear thin.

‘Angling accident,' I said. ‘You should see the fish.'

He inclined his head towards
Our Home
. ‘Come on,' he beamed. ‘Admit it. It does have a certain
je ne sais quoi
, doesn't it?'

‘Oh, I dunno,' I shrugged.

But Eastlake was right. And not just about there being nothing in the painting to provoke outrage. He'd been right that people would genuinely warm to it. It did for suburbia what nineteenth-century Australian painters had done for the bush—made it a worthy subject for art. And, by inference, made heroes of those who dwelt there.
Our Home
was the Parthenon of tract housing, with a bit of laconic satire chucked in for good measure. And an edge of the mysterious, so you knew it was proper art.

‘I used to build houses just like this,' Eastlake confided with a proprietary sentimentality.

And millions grew up in them. I dipped my head in acknowledgment of his superior judgment. ‘How does it get from here to the CMA?'

Administrative detail didn't interest Eastlake. ‘In a crate, I imagine.' His contrivance at being both amiable and patronising could easily have grated. But compared with the unremitting dullness of most of the business types I met, Lloyd Eastlake's candour was disarmingly refreshing. ‘Fiona handles that sort of thing.'

Fiona Lambert was across the room, thick as thieves with Becky Karlin and a helmeted honeyeater I recognised from the CMA. ‘That guy who got up on the table last night and tried to make the speech,' I started. ‘The one who fell over.' Eastlake's attention was elsewhere. Max Karlin had detached Agnelli from Phillip Veale and was leading him out onto the mezzanine, steering him towards one of the offices. The holy of holies, I took it. Eastlake made a must-rush noise and headed after them.

I should have too, I suppose. Monitoring what passed between Agnelli and Karlin had, after all, been the whole point in bringing them together. To have my suspicions confirmed, wasn't that why I was here? But now something else was exercising my mind, something that took me instead down into the melting heat of the street, to the row of upmarket cars lining the kerb, to crack open the seal on the refrigerated interior of Eastlake's big silver Merc. ‘Morning,' I said, ‘Noel.'

Spider didn't turn. He just sat there, fish-faced behind his shades, contemplating the sporting section of the
Herald
, his hat on the ledge above the dashboard. Even when I slid in beside him he didn't look around. A knob low on the instrument panel might have been the cigarette lighter. I put my thumb on it and pushed until it clicked into place. Agnelli didn't let me smoke in the Fairlane.

We sat there, me side-on, Spider gazing into the V of his paper. Profile was definitely Noel Webb's better angle. Made him look less like a plumbing fixture. ‘So,' I said. ‘Long time no see.' Long time no answer, too. More than long enough for me to get a smoke out and tap it on the side of the pack. Pop went the lighter. Spider's hand shot out. He held the glowing element short, so I had to bend across to fire up, offering the nape of my neck. A gold pinky ring glistened on his little finger, fat and square, set with a crescent of tiny rubies, a real tooth-breaker. Quite the primitive, Spider. ‘This job suits you,' I said. ‘You've got the silent menace bit down to a tee.'

Spider tossed his chin in the general direction of the Karlcraft building. ‘Won't you be missed?' he said, unimpressed. ‘Big shot.'

‘Never too busy to catch up with old friends,' I said, absently flicking a molecule of ash onto the car's pale grey carpet. ‘Funny, isn't it?' I stretched my legs out and leaned back against the headrest. ‘Twenty years since we've seen each other, now our paths cross all the time. Down at the Ballet Centre carpark this morning, for instance.'

Spider very slowly closed his newspaper, folded it neatly in half and laid it beside his hat. ‘MOAT DEATH PUZZLE,' read a column-wide headline on the front page. He turned his mirrored face towards me, at last. ‘I dunno what you're talking about.' His delivery was flat, sneering. ‘And neither do you.'

The big car's interior felt suddenly very claustrophobic. Noel Webb had been a tough kid. And if he was acting the hard man maybe it was because that's exactly what he was. Spider wasn't the sentimental type. Never had been. And any tenuous connection between us was long gone. My feet were getting colder by the second.

For nearly an hour I'd waited at the Oulton Reserve, clutching that contraband bottle of bourbon under my duffel coat, its neck sticky and warm in my hand. Footy practice ended, the oval emptied, and still I sat, half of me ashamed, the other half defiant. Ashamed for the theft, for I'd never before stolen from my father. Ashamed for my reason for doing it, to buy friendship. Defying my father to catch me out, defying Spider Webb to doubt that I could deliver. As I waited, I took little sips. The liquid was fiery and harsh, but it kept me warm. Kept me waiting.

When Spider finally arrived, he came out of nowhere, looming out of the leaden dusk. ‘Got it?' he said, sinking down beside me. I hesitated then, kept the bottle hidden beneath my coat, wanting some spoken confirmation of our pact.

‘You haven't, have you?' His scorn was wounding. ‘You didn't have the guts, did you?'

That's when the Fletchers exploded out of a clump of tea-tree edging the football oval. Georgie, the big one, had a steel fencing picket in his hand. The twins trotted at his heels. Like Attila and his horde, they swept down upon us.

Twenty years is a long time. People change. But if Noel Webb had, I couldn't see it. Maybe I'd underestimated him, though, pegging him for a car thief. Maybe he'd graduated to something more sophisticated.

‘Nice car,' I said, running an eyeball over the walnut inlay. ‘Been Mr Eastlake's chauffeur long? His status symbol, that's what he called you, didn't he?'

‘What's it to you?' Annoyance had crept into Spider's voice, evidence that communication might be possible.

‘Probably nothing at all,' I agreed. Probably nothing more than ancient adolescent resentment, octopus-induced irritability, and a suspicious mind. But if I stirred the pot a little, something more might come bubbling to the surface. ‘It's just that there are points where your employer's activities and my employer's interests overlap. And proper attention to my employer's interests requires that I keep myself broadly informed. I rather hoped you'd understand that, us both being in the service sector.'

He snorted contemptuously. ‘Haven't you got anything better to do with your time?'

As a matter of fact, I did. It was nearly 12.30. Red's plane was due in little more than two hours and, apart from picking up a pack of cigarettes, I still hadn't done any shopping. ‘I guess I can always ask Lloyd,' I shrugged. ‘Just thought I'd ask you first, not wanting to embarrass an old friend and all.'

‘I'm shitting myself, Whelan,' Spider said, brimming with schoolyard disdain. But he tilted his head a fraction and I knew his eyes had gone to the rearview mirror.

The Mercedes had power windows. Mine made a little whirring noise and let in a wilting gust of heat. I stuck my head out, looked back at the stragglers drifting out of Karlcraft and whirred it back up. ‘Have it your own way,' I said. ‘Mr Eastlake will be along soon.'

Spider puffed his cheeks and blew a long steady breath, like I was a deliberately obtuse child, trying his patience. Then, shaking his head as though reluctantly coming to a decision he already regretted, he leaned across in front of me and casually opened the glove compartment. The lid fell down to reveal a shiny, chrome-plated pistol.

This was not something I saw every day. In fact, I'd never seen one before. Not for real. It wasn't so long ago that not even cops carried guns. And now that they did, they certainly weren't guns like this. This was an automatic, chrome-plated with a cross-hatched grip. I'd seen enough movies to know that. Whether it was the current release Baretta .44 with Dolby sound and merchandising tie-in, I neither knew nor cared. Guns did not interest me. They scared the shit out of me, but they didn't interest me. Beside the gun was an unopened packet of Wrigley's Arrowmint gum. Spider let my gaze linger for a moment on the pistol, then he picked up the chewy and snapped the glove box lid shut.

I got the point. Noel Webb was no mere opener of doors, no low-grade flunkey. Nor was he just there for his good looks, his obsequious manner and his masterful grip on the steering wheel. He was there because Lloyd Eastlake's taste in fashion accessories ran to keeping a bodyguard.

If an arsehole like Noel Webb thought he could intimidate me by showing me his penis substitute, he could think again. It took more than a flash of metal to impress Murray Whelan. On the other hand, I'd just as soon not have anything to do with guns. Spider unwrapped his chewy and proffered the pack. Take it or leave it.

I was shagged out, hungover, lied to, pissed off, ear-mangled and behind schedule. It was none of my business if Brian Eastlake thought he needed an armed minder. Nor was the fact that he'd seen fit to give the job to Spider Webb. As to the matter of the vanished duplicate of
Our Home
, it suddenly seemed unimportant. The main game was being played by the big boys upstairs in Max Karlin's office, not down here in the gutter with a pistol-packing dipstick. Instead of keeping my eye on the ball, I was chasing a chimera. My duties didn't run to this kind of crap.