Washed Up

by Berry, Tony

  He pushed the wrapped focaccia across the counter, set a Styrofoam cup of coffee alongside and gave Bromo change from a $10 bill.

  ‘Enjoy.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  Out in the street, large spots of rain were tapping out an overture to worse weather to come. Pessimists who’d had the foresight to take umbrellas with them when they left home under blue skies were raising them in protection. The less prepared, and those who’d trusted the weather bureau’s prediction of no downpour until evening, quickened their pace and sought the shelter of the overhanging verandas. Customers lounging at the footpath tables of cafés and bars quickly called for their bills or scurried back inside, cups, plates and glasses in hand.

  Bromo clambered up the stairs to his office, head down, concentrating, avoiding the loose tread three steps up while trying to unravel the strands entwining the events of the past few days.

  ‘Thought you’d never come.’

  Her dark brown voice startled him. Liz Shapcott was sitting on the top step, arms bunched around her knees, huddled into herself.

  ‘I saw you leaving the Plaza while I was looking for somewhere to park,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d be here by now.’

  She stood up.

  ‘We need to talk’

  His surprise at her presence quickly faded. He was just glad to see her. Real glad.

  ‘Stopped off for a coffee and a sanger,’ he said, holding the cup of coffee towards her.

  ‘Here, take this while I find my keys.’

  Liz took the cup and the sudden movement sent a splash of liquid over his hand. He wiped the runnel of liquid off against his trouser leg and stepped around her, clutching the sandwich in one hand and fumbling in his trouser pocket with the other for the office key.

  ‘Messy devil,’ she said.

  ‘Practical,’ he snapped back. ‘What am I supposed to do – carry a box of Kleenex around with me?’

  He led the way into the office and indicated a chair for her to sit. She placed the coffee on the desk. Bromo slumped into an old high-back swivel chair bought second hand years ago and long past its chuck-out date. He unwrapped the sandwich and chomped into it.

  ‘Excuse me. This can’t wait.’

  He gestured to the other half: ‘Want a bite?’

  Liz shook her head: ‘No thanks. I had a snack before I came.’

  She pursed her lips and sipped briefly at the coffee.

  ‘This’ll do fine.’

  She noted his frown.

  ‘Don’t worry; it’s only a sip. There’s plenty left.’

  ‘It’s the lipstick, not the coffee.’

  He wiped the deep red stain off the edge of the cup and brushed a dusting of crumbs off the desk.

  ‘So, what’s the problem?’

  ‘No problem. At least, not right now.’

  He caught on: ‘But later perhaps.’

  ‘Depends what you make of the information I’ve got.’

  ‘From?’

  ‘Council records. Remember you asked me to see what I could squeeze out of my contacts? Well—’

  ‘Who did you squeeze?’

  ‘Delgado.’

  He sat back in his chair.

  ‘Shit, Liz, not that sleaze. You’ve got more class than that.’

  ‘I was only squeezing him figuratively. Anyway, what’s it to you?’

  There was a teasing smile to her mouth, an almost coquettish batting of her eyelids. Tempting, but not the time or place, Bromo decided. He swivelled his chair from side to side. He rubbed one hand across his brow, gripped the coffee cup with the other.

  ‘You’re surely not trusting Delgado after what happened last time.’

  She hunched forward, forearms resting on the desk, a slight lifting of her shoulders.

  ‘Trust me, it’ll be okay. He’s not the man he was. He knows he’s on notice and mustn’t put a foot wrong.’

  ‘Once a crim, always a crim,’ replied Bromo.

  He sipped the coffee and pushed the uneaten half of his lunch to one side.

  ‘Beats me how he’s still on council after last year’s run-in with the cops.’

  There was no need to remind her of Steve Delgado’s role in pushing through planning permissions for a couple of the city’s more shady developers. The scam had been stopped, but not before a couple of people had been killed and several bribes had passed between Delgado and some of his fellow councillors. Liz had been lucky to escape with her reputation intact after Bromo had helped unmask Delgado’s extortion and found she was among those who yielded to him and had paid to have the council retain her services. Liz shrugged.

  ‘Water under the bridge, Bromo. This time I’m using him. You asked questions; I have the answers. And you can thank Delgado for making it possible. Take it or leave it. This is no time for taking the high moral ground.’

  She was right. They needed all the help they could get. If there were a few short cuts opening up along the way, so be it. If Delgado did start causing problems, that was something for another day. Especially if her information was good. She drew a sheet of paper from her big leather handbag. She laid it on the desk, smoothed it out and turned it to face Bromo. It was the list of addresses left behind by Melissa O’Grady. His eyebrows went up.

  ‘So, what’s new Liz? You’ve already shown me this.’

  ‘But now it makes sense,’ she said. ‘I tried a couple of searches on title deeds but struck the usual problem – people buying in the name of nominees or companies and those companies being shields for other companies. No individuals mentioned apart from compliant lawyers and company secretaries. It’s like one of those Russian dolls. Keep peeling away the layers. The babushka syndrome. We could spend days, weeks and never dig up the true owners.’

  Liz paused. Her lips crinkled up in a half-smile. Rueful.

  ‘Sorry, I’m rambling. Getting off the point.’

  Bromo eased back into his chair, resisting an urge to get her to cut to the chase. She was the one who’d said “We need to talk” yet so far she’d given him nothing. He curbed his impatience and sipped his coffee. Lukewarm, but the caffeine was still there. So was the taste of lipstick. Liz’s lipstick. He savoured it as she launched into the next chapter.

  ‘I took another tack, thanks to Delgado. It’s all there in the rate notices.’

  She tapped a forefinger on the sheet of paper.

  ‘The rate demands are all sent to one address.’

  Bromo stayed silent, letting her have her moment in the limelight as she worked towards the denouement. Bit like an Agatha Christie movie, really, with everyone gathered in the vicarage as the villain is unmasked. He fingered the sheet of paper, waiting.

  ‘Well?’

  He looked up. Slowly it dawned – it wasn’t a question, but a prompt. He still had a role to play in her drama. He complied.

  ‘Whose address?’

  She smiled, pleased at the way he was taking part in their little ritual. She drew a sheaf of photocopies from her handbag, fanning them out on the desk in front of him.

  ‘Con Theopoulos and his seedy little estate agency. Every one of those rate demands goes direct to him. And the cheques that come back are all drawn on one of his agency’s accounts.’

  It was another detour into the bleeding obvious and one he’d walked past with his eyes shut. Bromo sniffed. He toyed with the papers, flicking at the edges. There was a clear link between Melissa’s list and the unlikeable lump of humanity who had oozed his way into the café where Liz had first revealed her concern over Melissa’s death. A full circle; the gap had been closed.

  ‘It proves everything yet explains nothing,’ he said. ‘It could be Melissa was looking to rent and this was a list of places on the agency’s books.’

  ‘People looking to rent don’t usually end up dead in the river,’ said Liz. ‘Besides, she was happy where she was, and it was free.’

  ‘Okay. So we dismiss that idea. This leaves us with a clear link to Theopoulos but no expl
anation for Melissa’s list.’

  He tapped his fingertips on the desk. The drumming of frustration. Liz reached forward. She put her hand on top of his, stilling his fingers.

  ‘Please Bromo. Stop it. You’re giving me the irrits.’

  ‘So help me, Liz.’

  He stood up and took two slow steps to the window, looking down into the rain-swept street, forever watchful for hit-squads in darkened limousines. Few people were about, most of them hurrying towards shelter. A lean cyclist in Lycra streaks of yellow and green, wraparound glasses hiding his face, huddled in a doorway across the road. Bromo’s twitching fingers were stilled. His hands were plunged deep into his trouser pockets, his back to her.

  ‘Tell me what you really know.’

  He heard her quick intake of breath. It was no less than he expected. Gradually he’d become aware of gaps and omissions that went beyond Liz’s normal guarded manner. Her silences and exclusions had revealed more than she realised.

  ‘Why is it I feel I’m getting only half the story?’ asked Bromo.

  He turned to face her. She was looking down at the table, hands arranging the papers into a neat stack, tops and sides precisely aligned, the chunky gemstone ring drawing his eyes, making him aware of how long and slender were her fingers.

  ‘Theopoulos is no stranger to you,’ he said. ‘That was clear when he broke in on us at Flounce. And just now you called him a seedy little estate agent. So, how much more do you know?’

  Her shoulders rose and fell, a short forlorn movement of surrender. She looked at him, rueful and unsmiling, her lips pressed tightly together.

  ‘Too much for my own good,’ she said. ‘I’ve actually come here to confess. You would have found out sooner or later.’

  She pushed the papers towards him.

  ‘Those addresses are all brothels masquerading as massage centres, even health retreats. It’s a murky business.’

  ‘So? What’s new?’

  She shrugged, resigned.

  ‘I got involved. Too involved.’

  ‘And so did Melissa and her mates, it seems.’

  ‘Right.’

  Bromo let the silence hang between them, blocking the noise from the street where two fire trucks roared past, klaxons blaring. A tram clanged its bell against a motorist blocking its tracks. A hoon in a hotted-up sedan burnt rubber taking off from the traffic lights, skidding through the intersection. The daily musak of the city’s inner suburbs. Bromo assumed a stern gaze.

  ‘Involved? How involved? Money?’

  She nodded. Bromo held back, waiting for her to continue. Letting her do it in her own time. Patience often worked better than pressure.

  ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’

  ‘It always does.’

  ‘The idea was a partnership.’

  ‘Beauty and the beast,’ offered Bromo.

  ‘More like chalk and cheese,’ she responded. ‘Theopoulos professed some noble scheme for preserving the past. He would pick out rundown properties. I’d draw up the plans for a makeover, keeping the façade but upgrading the insides. Keep it simple, he said. Do nothing to change the existing streetscape.’

  To Bromo, it sounded a reasonable deal. Quite normal, in fact, among those with money to spare and an eye to making even more as property prices soared. Rewire, re-block, install some modern plumbing, bring the backyard dunny indoors, replace the old stove and cupboards with an off-the-peg kitchen and slap some paint around. Maybe even squeeze a shower and toilet into a corner of the main bedroom and call it an en-suite. All expense spared and plenty of corners cut. In less than a year you had covered your costs and scored a hefty profit. Wonderful for developers’ bank balances but far from good for the many couples forever running three steps behind the market as they struggled to scrape together enough for a deposit.

  The makeover people said they were improving the suburb, rescuing it from its rundown look. Old Richmond with all mod cons behind the original façades. Social services, however, accused them of putting profit before community, of turning the suburb over to investors who cranked up rents, squeezing out the low-paid and disadvantaged.

  Bromo pondered Liz’s confession. She’d completely thrown him. The idea of quick profits didn’t fit in with what he knew of her.

  ‘This doesn’t sound like you, Liz.’

  She brushed a stray strand of hair off her forehead. She looked chastened, almost apologetic.

  ‘It’s not,’ she said, her voice almost a whisper. ‘I was duped.’

  ‘But you’re still involved.’

  He intended it as a question but it emerged as a statement that bordered on an accusation. She responded with a nod. Yes. Very contrite.

  ‘I’m not only involved but I can’t get out,’ she confirmed.

  Bromo exploded.

  ‘Bullshit! I don’t believe I’m hearing this. Not from the Liz Shapcott I know. Of course you can get out. Tell Con the Greek to take a running jump!’

  ‘Easier said than done. It’s a partnership. I bought in. My signature’s on too many deeds and documents. There’s too much money involved. I can’t afford to walk away.’

  ‘If you’re partners, you’ve got a right to your share. The courts would surely back you.’

  She gave a laugh that lacked any cheer, almost manic, seeming to mock his naivety.

  ‘The lovely Mr Theopoulos has made it quite clear that if any hint of his involvement gets out, he’ll make more than sure I’m tarred with the same brush. Imagine what that would do for my reputation. These are not homes; they’re brothels. Imagine, me, the part owner of a string of whorehouses.’

  ‘So it’s Con who’s behind all these threats and graffiti,’ suggested Bromo.

  ‘It’s beginning to look like it.’

  ‘And Melissa’s death?’

  Liz clamped her lips tight together. She folded her arms across her chest. Her head gave a few short nods up and down. Confirmation.

  ‘Why do you think I’m so bloody scared? And those two girls. And Luke—’

  Her voice trailed off. Nothing needed to be spelt out. The implications were clear.

  ‘So how long’s this been going on?’

  ‘Too long. It’s not a quick process. Buying, lodging plans, renovating and putting it back on the market all takes time.’

  Liz shuddered, clutched the open edges of her coat and drew it tighter around her. Bromo pushed his cup of coffee in her direction. She rejected the offer with a short staccato shake of her head.

  ‘I only began to suspect things after a couple of places had been done up and I asked when he thought we should sell. “Not to worry”, he said. “The money’s coming in.” And so it was, even though he wasn’t selling them.’

  Bromo drew back the coffee cup and took a sip. He resisted the urge to offer a prompt, as if an actress had forgotten her lines. Mark it down as a reflective pause. She was doing it hard and pushing the pace wasn’t going to make things any easier. Liz raised her head and compressed her lips into the merest of half smiles. Not of pleasure, but shame, remorseful.

  ‘I found out he was transferring titles into shelf companies and leasing them out at huge rents to grubby little men on the fringes of people-smuggling.’

  ‘And prostitution.’ interjected Bromo.

  ‘I didn’t catch on to that until Melissa got involved. Even then, it wasn’t definite. She was only beginning to discover that side of things when she disappeared. And she hadn’t confided in me at that stage. It’s only now that it’s all making sense.’

  She shook her head and wiped away the hint of a tear at the corner of one eye.

  ‘I’ve been bloody stupid.’

  Bromo saw no point in disagreeing. Soothing words weren’t going to help. He picked up the list of addresses and scanned through it. It seemed the houses were not only brothels but also holding pens for desperate refugee women conned into thinking there were jobs waiting for them here. They were dealing with a merry-go-round of crooked
money and Liz was one of those helping to spin the ride. Bromo doodled with a pen on a piece of scrap paper, drawing boxes, linking lines – a sketch of the money trail. So-called immigration fees were ripped off the refugee women. Big profits came from prostitution as the women worked for little more than bed and board. It was topped off by huge rents from the leases charged to the brothel operators. A honey jar of illicit money – and most of it tax-free. A nice little earner as the spivs in the back alleys of Soho used to say when he enlisted their help by slipping them a wad of the department’s cash.

  He tapped the point of his pen on the doodled drawing. It was beginning to look like a computer technician’s plan for cabling a scattering of office work stations, links and lines wandering all over the place, connections being made. Melissa, Adriana and Lottie, Luke, the mysterious Maurice, Con Theopoulos, the threatening Vern Rosen. Each with ties to at least one other. And Liz entwined in the middle.

  Bromo rubbed at his ear lobe, soothing the irritation. He gave a final, signing-off tap with the pen; a hard downward thrust that gouged a hole in the paper.

  ‘Well, that’s it then,’ he said.

  She looked at him, puzzled.

  ‘Let’s get you out of this.’

  She still didn’t seem to understand. She frowned. Crow’s feet furrowed the skin at the corners of her eyes.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  Bromo stood up and walked around the desk, pausing for another glance outside. The rain had stopped. The footpaths were busy again. The cyclist was still sheltering in the doorway. Again Bromo sat, this time on the desk, close to her, his legs dangling.

  ‘I’m suggesting that we take no more nonsense from Mr Theopoulos,’ he said. ‘That we tell him he’s to unravel your little partnership and that he’s to pay you all the money you’re owed.’

  It was a surreal moment, a brief out-of-body experience. Bromo could see and hear the person saying these words. But it wasn’t him. It was some unknown look-alike, a decision-maker, resolute and determined – an action man clone from his former life had stepped back into his shoes. Apparently, Liz didn’t recognise this stranger either. This was not the switched-off frequenter of the suburb’s coffee shops she had come to know. She laughed without mirth.