by Di Morrissey
Ali rose. ‘I see there’s not much point in discussing this further. I would like to take a short break before basing myself in an apartment back in New York.’ She gave a cynical half-smile. ‘As I’ll be travelling a great deal, I assume it’s immaterial where I call home.’
‘You can stay on here in the company apartment as long as you wish,’ said Nina, underscoring the point that Blaze would not be paying for a place for Ali in New York.
‘I’ll make my own arrangements. And, please, no jolly goodbye drinks.’
‘Ali, I hope you will rethink that. I believe a prestigious function to congratulate you on your promotion and for the brilliant job you’ve done in establishing Blaze here in the marketplace would be more appropriate than you quietly leaving town as if there were a problem. Which there isn’t.’ Nina smiled. ‘I thought you were enjoying being back in your homeland again?’
Ali picked up her things. ‘Nina, this place has never been home. I just happened to be born here. I might say the same to you. Why not go and settle back in Yugoslavia?’
Nina acknowledged the touché. ‘Quite. However, I am intending to go back to Croatia quite frequently. I am very keen on upgrading the existing children’s home and I plan to establish more such homes. There are so many homeless children after the Balkan conflicts.’
Ali wasn’t interested. ‘Let me know when I’m leaving. I would like to go as soon as possible.’ She left the office without another word.
Nina felt her body slump and release the tension she’d been holding inside herself. Still, she was surprised that Ali had taken it reasonably well. She knew Ali would be fighting hard to save her career. Her people skills were lamentable, but she was clever and bright. A bit too ambitious and ruthless. A short cooling-off period where she had no real power would be good for her.
That night, Nina poured it all out to Lucien on the phone. Not knowing Ali, he only half listened, making sympathetic noises. But he had one nagging fear.
‘Nina, darling, I am concerned about you staying on to run the magazine in Sydney. For how long? This isn’t what we planned at all. I thought you were easing out, not taking on more.’
‘Lucien, I want to ease off and be with you more than anything in the world. But it’s not something I can just drop. I’m in partnership with Triton. I have an obligation to myself as well. It won’t be for long, I hope.’
‘Do you have anyone in mind? There can’t be too many top people floating around that can be an editor in Sydney at a moment’s notice.’
‘When it’s Blaze calling you’d be surprised how many people would walk out of high positions. Please, be patient, my darling.’
Lucien felt helpless. He had no control over what Nina did and no right to tell her to walk away from what had been her life. But he couldn’t shake the awful knowledge that when it came to a choice between him and Blaze, the magazine would always win. ‘Nina, after so many years apart I truly believe we’ve found each other for a reason. I’ll plough on with my film idea. Perhaps I’ll come and write the script in Sydney.’
‘It’s only for a little time, my darling. If everything works out the way I hope, we’ll have the rest of our lives together.’
‘I love you, Nina.’
‘And I you. As I always have.’ She hung up and found the tension in her body had gone. Sleep came easily and quickly.
TAKE TWENTY-FOUR . . .
The picturesque Mulbring Valley, with its new homes and holiday retreats for Sydneysiders, gave way to the edge of Cessnock where a few of the original mining cottages had yet to be renovated. Following directions, Miche parked in the Advertiser’s parking lot. As she stepped out, she saw the modern, large city centre and plaza. She walked through an alley to Vincent Street, where the older style shops and offices sat next to newer neighbours selling discount electrical goods and music.
She turned into the small, single-storey building plastered with signs for the Advertiser. Jane Parsons met her with an exuberant smile.
‘You’re Jeremy’s friend. How can I help you?’
‘I’m researching a story on the Hunter area. A pretty broad canvas, but essentially linked to the wine industry.’
‘That’s a lot to write about. Come and have a coffee and tell me more. Is this going to be for Blaze?’
Miche followed Jane to her office. It was a typical small-town newspaper with a staff of ten. Some permanent, some part time. ‘How long have you worked here?’
Jane laughed. ‘Fifteen years! I started as a youngster with dreams of going to the big city. I did my time and travelled and here I am, back in my home town, married with two little kids. That’s the nice part of journalism. It’s portable and you don’t lose the skills. I work flexible hours, now the kids are in primary school. And I’m still planning to write a murder mystery. I’ll get around to it one day.’
Miche looked at Jane, who she guessed was in her thirties. She looked and sounded so different from the writers and editors on big-city magazines. Yet Miche envied her, she was so obviously content with her life, enthusiastic and friendly.
Jane began making them instant coffee.
‘Milk and one, thanks,’ said Miche before she was asked. ‘I’ve read a few terrific books about characters in the Aussie bush, but most of them were written ages ago. Is the countryside still producing and harbouring such offbeat guys?’
‘Sure, they’re around in odd places, and they still make stories for us from time to time. But the new breed of bush characters are a bit of a surprise. Many of them are high-tech, well-educated drop-outs from the city, chasing a lifestyle rather than material wealth. And the boom in a few of our rural industries has brought a lot of new management and marketing skills. So, in a way, it’s more interesting for a journo than ever before. And then there’s tourism. Big time now,’ said Jane as she handed over the coffee and a plate of biscuits. ‘Anzac biscuits from the CWA stall at the weekend.’
‘Traditional fare?’ queried Miche.
‘Very. Now, what are you looking for? How far back are you starting your research?’
‘Round the seventies, with the expansion of commercial and hobby vineyards. I want to weave in local colour, the old families, the immigrant influence, the lifestyle, tourism taking over from coalmining to become the huge, trendy business it is today.’
‘That is a big picture! I’ll introduce you to our editor, Bruce Wilson. Bit of a history buff as well as a goldmine of gossip about who has made news and who may in the future.’
‘Do you keep the back issues here?’ asked Miche, looking around the cluttered, cramped offices.
‘Not any more. They’re at the town library, as are the microfilm versions.’
Bruce Wilson, Miche learned, was a mine of information. A local boy, at twenty he’d started writing the cricket reports for the local paper, had been hired as a cadet and from there worked his way to the top. He’d been editor for the past thirty years. He was a stickler for correct grammar – no split infinitives, and no clichés. He wore a tie to work every day, except for public holidays, and on special occasions wore his Journalists’ Club version with pride.
‘Ah, we’ve been discovered at last,’ he said with a grin. ‘A big spread in the international editions?’
‘Would be nice,’ responded Miche. ‘I’m trying to write it from my perspective, a young person from abroad discovering the place, the region. But not just a puff, touristy piece.’
‘A personal slant on a story like that works best I’d say,’ said Bruce and for the next fifteen minutes talked non-stop about people, places and past events that would help her recognise the diversity of angles available for her story.
Miche made notes and thanked him for being so generous with his time and knowledge. ‘A pleasure, but there’s a price.’
‘Oh!’
‘A story for the Advertiser. About you, your assignment. And a picture. At the right time, of course. Don’t want to have you scooped by the opposition. Just stay in touch w
ith Jane. The locals will love the attention.’
‘Fair enough. Thanks for your help. Now, could you point me towards the town’s library?’
‘It’s just up the road. Any help you need Miche, give a yell.’
Miche was soon scrolling through microfilm pages of the Advertiser from the sixties, seventies and eighties. Occasionally she stopped to read a story under a headline that caught her eye. In the steady parade of pages, she caught a taste of life in the district and what made local news. While often covering parochial issues, the stories reflected national and international events. Farm and food prices, French wine subsidies, a suspected horse infection at a prominent stud, brought in from overseas.
After about twenty minutes of pleasurable scrolling and taking notes on stories that may provide background for something up to date, the steady flow of work came to an abrupt halt as one headline shattered the routine research.
Her hand froze on the scroll control and her eyes locked onto the story. She read the first few paragraphs of the front page story quickly, then stared at a blurry photograph, a head and shoulders shot of a woman.
‘My God,’ she said softly. ‘Surely not.’ She was shaking slightly as she stood up and found a librarian. ‘Can I see the original back copy of the Advertiser dated June 17 1982, please?’
‘No worries. We’ll dig it out for you. We hold them here for safekeeping.’
The librarian eventually handed over the dusty leather-bound binder labelled the Advertiser, 1982.
It didn’t take long to find the story she was looking for and, with mounting tension, she read and re-read it and looked at the photograph. ‘Has to be,’ she murmured to herself, astonished that she was staying so calm. She was making notes when the librarian passed by, paused and asked quite casually, ‘Having any luck?’
Miche almost bit her tongue, but it was too late. ‘Sure am. Astonishing,’ and then seized up.
‘Oh, really,’ said the librarian leaning forward to look over Miche’s shoulder and clicked her tongue. ‘Terrible story. I remember when that happened. Shocked us all. I wonder what happened to her?’
Miche closed the large file. ‘I wonder indeed.’ She left the library and walked slowly to her car, deep in thought.
Reg Craven lowered his voice as he spoke into the phone, even though he was alone in his office. ‘We have to talk. Meet you at the bonk hole. When can you get there?’ He listened for a minute fiddling with his bow tie.
‘Christ, is that all you do, lunch? Okay, I’ll see you at four this afternoon.’
It was an old Sydney landmark. The building stood at the edge of the city – a stone edifice with views across Elizabeth Street to Hyde Park. Musty offices of father and son accountants, solicitors and city agents for country organisations were clustered on the quiet lower floors behind frosted glass doors with gold lettering. The building’s owners were on the top floors, which used to belong to a fusty publishing company that printed comic books and niche market magazines featuring photographs of muscled men and girls wearing bikinis. In recent years the company, struggling from dying circulations, had been sold to one of the biggest advertising and media buying outlets in the country. The magazines were closed down and the offices had been redesigned in modern, high-tech style. Part of the basement was now a recreation centre, gym and squash courts.
The building was overshadowed by taller, gleaming structures, offices and hotels filled with glittering shops, salons and restaurants. So the little ‘burger building’, as it was called because of its squat, bun-shaped dome, was easily overlooked and little notice was taken of the figures who slipped in and out of its arched stone doorway.
Even so, Reg Craven still looked over his shoulder as he entered the building at 4 p.m. He need not have been nervous about being seen, as many well-known media people had business at the ad agencies at the top of the building and this was adequate cover. Reg, however, walked past the restored iron-cage lifts, turned left and went through an unmarked door to a flight of steps that went to the basement.
He walked beyond the gym and used a pass-key card to access a tiny, softly lit and sparsely furnished sitting room with two more doors. Both were closed. He lowered his bulk onto the small chaise longue, glancing at his watch. After a few minutes, one door opened and an older man dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and dark tie appeared. His face was expressionless. He spoke in reserved, polite tones that seemed subservient, but to a listener who paid attention, his voice resonated with a thinly veiled disdain.
‘Mr Cox is in the green room, sir. He asked that you join him.’
Reg winced. ‘I’m here for a business meeting, I was hoping we could go somewhere else.’
‘It may be best if you discussed that with him, sir.’
Reg knew it would be pointless sending the valet back upstairs. He stood, thinking that Tony was becoming more flaky and difficult the more time he spent with Jacques. At first, Reg had found it titillating to be included in the powerful young brat pack of Jacques, the media mogul’s son, and Tony, the heir to an Australian fortune thanks to his developer father. But Reg was canny enough to know he would always be an outsider. He may be the office sleaze after a few drinks, but he was still a married man with young kids. He was an old man by the standards of Jacques and Tony, and they included him in deals like the wine club only to do their bidding when it suited them. Reg had played along with the blokes when it was mainly about booze and girls, but now Jacques was sailing into more treacherous deals involving drugs and prostitutes. While Tony was an eager crew member, Reg could see only storms ahead.
Very few people knew of this private club’s existence, and Reg assumed the licensing authorities were being paid off. It gave him a certain satisfaction to know he held a key card to a very, very exclusive, if scary, world.
At the top of the narrow flight of stairs, Reg tapped at the door and heard Tony’s voice. ‘Come in, sport.’
Tony was lying in his underpants on the large bed beside a girl with huge breasts spilling out of a lacy corset with suspenders and black stockings. She wore red, spike stilettos and a long strand of fake pearls. She was glamorous and looked like what she was – this month’s men’s mag pin-up.
‘Hey, man, what’s up? Wanna join us?’ Tony’s voice was slurred, whether from cocaine or vodka he couldn’t tell. Tony reached for the bottle of Russian fire and waved it at Reg. ‘Have a drink, mate. Take the tie off, for God’s sake.’
Reg absently fiddled with the knot of his tie, but left it in place. ‘Tony, we have to talk.’ He looked at the girl.
‘Business stuff, about Connoisseur.’
‘Can’t it wait?’
‘No. Where’s Jacques?’
Tony grinned and inclined his head towards a small curtain on the wall. Reg stepped over to it and drew the short drapes aside, revealing a two-way mirror. It showed the bedroom on the other side in which a naked Jacques was in bed with two women wearing black leather. Reg turned away. What had once excited him now made him feel ill.
‘Listen, mate, there’s a big problem. Nina is asking questions about the wine club. She’s sharp.’ Reg hadn’t been officially told what Jacques and Tony were doing with the wine club except that it was a lucrative cover for an international deal. Reg had made a few guesses, then stopped asking questions, deciding ignorance was safer.
‘It’s Jacques’ magazine, too. He can advertise his own business in it.’
‘There are a few other problems. Ali is not going to carry the can on this one ’cause she didn’t know about it.’
‘Told ya we should’ve cut her in,’ grinned Tony.
‘Nina is back in the saddle. Jacques can’t keep stirring things up in town. Nina will close the magazine before allowing her name to be rubbed in dirt. There are rumblings about shady operations,’ said Reg pointedly. While Reg had helped set up a few deals with advertisers for holidays at a luxury resort, kickbacks of products and a car deal for a contest winner related to clients, he had
not been included in the far bigger deal being engineered by Jacques and Tony. While he hadn’t wanted to know the details, he suspected Jacques was using the wine club as a money-laundering exercise to cover the retailing of drugs and prostitution, a far more profitable operation than selling wine. Even the best wines.
‘I don’t want any part in your deals,’ said Reg, opening the door to leave. ‘I’m writing off my interest in the wine club.’
‘You mean you’re handing me your shares in Connoisseur,’ said Tony with a smirk. ‘If you want out, there’s a penalty, mate.’
Reg knew he was going to lose what they’d talked him into investing. It might be a small amount to Tony, but it was the cost of taking the wife and kids on a family skiing holiday on his budget. In a normal commercial deal, he would have sold his interest, the lack of option to do that was another indication there was nothing normal about this little operation. ‘Okay, on the understanding my name is wiped off the record. When the shit hits the fan, I know nothing.’ Reg glanced at the girl who was finishing a champagne and looking bored.
‘You’re a wimp. Take your eyes off your arse, Reggie. Hey, speaking of arses.’ Tony reached for the girl, grabbing her backside and pulling her onto the bed.
Reg turned to leave. ‘Take it easy, Tony. Your days are numbered if you get caught in sleazy deals. Watch the company you keep,’ advised Reg.
‘I am. Believe me I am, and I like it very much.’ He laughed as he rolled the girl over onto her stomach. ‘I’m riding high with the new young guns of Sydney town. The old guard is on the way out, Reggie. Check your super fund, old fellow, you may be dipping into it sooner than you think.’ Tony turned his full attention to the girl.