Too Easy

by J. M. Green

  ‘He’s a bit better. We had a couple of cognacs.’

  I looked at the sticks in my tea, wondering what I had to do to get an upgrade. ‘What was his problem?’

  ‘The power went off. Gets him every time. My parents usually deal with him, but they’re away at the moment. I don’t understand it. I mean, I understand the ghosts, the ancestors. This is different — he believes there’s one ghost that wishes him harm.’

  It was comforting to know I was not the only suspicious person on the planet. I sipped the twig infusion. A robust flavour, concentrated like the Queensland sun. A brew tailor-made for me, I had no doubt, and I assumed it contained herbs of restraint. This witch would have me spayed. ‘Now,’ I said, putting the mug down. ‘How can I be of service?’ If I could do Phuong a solid favour, it might defuse some of the ill feeling between us since my botched handling of the news of her engagement.

  She didn’t meet my eye. ‘It’s Bruce.’

  Bugger. We were on dangerous territory again. I’d say the wrong thing again for sure. I decided to try to keep things light. ‘I see. Well, I’m no relationship counsellor —’ based on that day’s activities, I’d say I was downright unqualified ‘— but you guys seem … okay together.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No? Alright. Let’s see. He’s into werewolves, you’re more of a zombie fan? I’ve been through that, and don’t worry, it can still work.’

  ‘He’s under investigation.’

  Her words took a moment to settle. ‘What investigation? You mean the one he initiated?’

  ‘It expanded beyond his control. The task force had been tapping phones.’ She sighed. ‘They recorded some pretty damning conversations, evidently. And now the investigation is in the hands of the new integrity commission. They’re calling it Operation Raw-Prawn.’

  The seriousness of this development was out of my comfort zone. It seemed more feasible to me to suggest that Bruce Copeland was a wizard, or a Greens voter, or a model-plane enthusiast. ‘What’s he done?’

  She sniffed, and I realised she was teary, or had been. Now she was glaring at me. ‘Jesus, how can you even ask that? He’s not involved.’

  ‘Of course not.’ I sipped the tea. I had to admit, it was calming. I could use some respite on the emotional front. ‘What do they have?’

  ‘The OTIOSE commission people are very reticent, but the rumours are there’s a recording of an unidentified cop, most probably a Guns and Gangs detective, making deals, demanding cash and heroin.’

  ‘Wait, an officer of the law was behaving like a thug?’ I clapped a hand to my cheek.

  Phuong squinted, a sign she was displeased. ‘Your relentless sarcasm, it’s food colouring for the soul.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, and meant it. ‘I want to help — any way I can. Please go on. Who is the detective?’

  ‘No one knows for sure. Everyone is paranoid. There’s a few likely candidates, but Bruce doesn’t have anything to do with the idiots in the unit.’ She coughed. ‘His problems started with Jeff Vanderhoek, the Corpse Flower informer. Vanderhoek gave Bruce the name of a dealer.’

  ‘The Corpse Flowers.’ I smirked. ‘I mean, seriously.’

  ‘Stella, can you please focus. This is important. This dealer lives in Norlane — that’s in Geelong.’

  ‘I know where Norlane is.’ Just because I was easily distracted didn’t mean I was dumb.

  She sniffed again. ‘Bruce arrested the guy — drugs and weapons charges. He put the evidence in the unit’s safe, and the dealer spent the night in the lock-up. All by the book.’

  ‘Okay, so he followed the new procedures.’

  ‘Yes. Except that, today, someone checked, and it’s gone. All of it.’

  ‘What kind of evidence are we talking about?’

  ‘A couple of hand guns, a shotgun, a grenade, and about a hundred grams of heroin.’

  ‘A grenade?’ I put down the mug. A grenade. It was so bizarre it was almost funny.

  ‘That was sent off to the bomb squad for disposal, but the other weapons and the heroin had been in the safe, or he thought they were, for the last week. Now they’re gone. Without the evidence, they had to release the dealer.’

  I tried to be reassuring — with any luck, it actually came across that way. ‘I’m sure Bruce is thoroughly law-abiding.’

  In the flickering candlelight, her face seemed to float in stark chiaroscuro. ‘He needs the dealer to testify. Tell the truth. That Bruce bagged it all, and took him to the lock-up. And have the stupid lie blown out of the water.’

  ‘He expects a criminal to testify for him, a cop, while incriminating themselves?’

  Phuong shifted, folding her legs under her. ‘I understand why you would say that, but the situation is complicated. There are rumours this guy wants to get out of the Corpse Flowers. And he knows a lot. If Bruce could just talk to him, a deal might be on the table. The truth about Bruce, as well as other information he has, in exchange for immunity.’

  ‘Then call the investigators and tell them to talk to this guy.’

  She bowed her head. ‘He’s skipped town.’

  ‘Of course he has.’ My head dropped back in exasperation.

  She stood up, walked to the sideboard, and spoke to the shrine. ‘Why do you hate Bruce?’

  ‘I don’t hate Bruce,’ I said.

  ‘Intensely dislike.’

  ‘Not even close. How can I dislike him? I don’t even know him, not that well.’ As a general rule, I preferred to be honest in my dealings with people. Most of the time I was. This was not one of those times.

  ‘We’re going to get married.’

  ‘I know. And I’m happy for you.’

  She turned away from the shrine and gathered the magazines on the coffee table into a neat pile. Then she picked up a cushion and started plumping it. ‘The dealer’s name is Mortimer — Isaac Mortimer — and he knows Bruce is innocent.’

  ‘Jeez, woman. Don’t be so bloody dramatic. Last I checked, the system works the other way around. They need hard evidence to convict Bruce, and there isn’t any.’

  She didn’t respond.

  ‘There isn’t any evidence, right? Is there?’

  ‘What if a cop under suspicion decides to save themselves by making false accusations against Bruce? And the testimony of a colleague would be considered evidence, Stella. If no one knew that cop was corrupt. That’s why we need Isaac Mortimer.’

  We? We need Isaac Mortimer? I took off the robe. My jumper was still damp and steaming on the towel rail in the bathroom. I put it on anyway.

  ‘When have I ever asked you for a favour?’ Phuong said.

  I stopped. Answer: never. I owed her — how many favours? I wanted to make it right with her.

  ‘This is your forte,’ she went on. ‘You’ve worked with street kids. You know the squats, the addicts. You know your way around.’

  Child services for a while, then public housing: my career spanned many fronts of the community sector. Phuong had heard me talk about the slog, the cases of hopeless addiction, child neglect, of family dysfunction. I was happier now in migrant services.

  ‘Isaac Mortimer,’ Phuong said, slow and clear. ‘All we need is an address.’

  I faced her. Her pleading eyes skewered me. ‘You are my dearest friend. I would do just about anything to help you. But you can’t flatter me into combing junkie squats for an ice dealer.’ Certainly not for Copeland.

  I took my mug to the sink, turned on the taps, as mist rose from my wet sleeves.

  ‘He has fuck yeah tattooed on his forehead.’

  I rinsed the mug.

  ‘If you won’t do it for Bruce, do it for me.’

  Cuong lounged on his bed. I caught his eye and waved. He seemed startled — possibly because I was surrounded by white puffs of jumper fog. I gestured for
him to take out the earbuds.

  ‘Cuong, do you know what tomorrow is?’

  He shook his head, shrugged.

  I turned to Phuong. ‘You better word him up. He sees little vampires and zombies on the street tomorrow, he’ll have a meltdown.’

  She waved a dismissive hand. ‘He knows. Kids in dress-ups don’t concern him.’

  I wanted to know what did concern him. I was curious about the ghosts, with their fondness for wet clothes on a balcony.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Phuong. I hope it works out,’ I said, and left, shutting the door behind me.

  In the darkened hall, I paused. In some respects, Cuong was on the money. Ghosts were everywhere. I felt them hanging around in the residue of lost romances, and hovering in the memory cringes of insomnia. Or, haunting me on those mornings when I felt like boiled shite, I could hear them in my remorse.

  Here, under the green exit lights, a ghost whispered to me of failure. Of relationships gone awry. Of Brophy gradually fading into my past.

  6

  THE NEXT day, work was hell. I was in the gutter again. Afshan, my bowling buddy, was worried about me. ‘Let’s use the baby rail,’ he said.

  Calling it the ‘baby rail’ had been my stupid idea, back when I thought bowling might be fun and should be played properly. Before I discovered I sucked.

  ‘I’m not five years old,’ I said, with my hand over the air vent, waiting for the mechanism to regurgitate my ball. WORMS had booked Sunshine’s Funky Town, an amusement centre for go-karting, laser tag, and ten-pin bowling, as part of our new ‘Have a Go’ program. My colleagues were keen on these events, as we all got to get out of the office on the pretext of assimilating our newest residents into the Australian way of life. So far, we’d been to a football match at the MCG, chartered a fishing trip on Port Phillip Bay, and had a picnic at Hanging Rock. Some suggestions for Have a Go that were deemed unsuitable by management included a trip to a TAB, driving around in a hired truck on hard-rubbish day, and ferreting.

  ‘But I will be glad of it.’

  That was a lie; Afshan was taking pity on me. His ball had entered the gutter only once. With his thick, square hands and low centre of gravity, he’d mastered the game after only a brief rundown of the rules. He racked up a commendable beginner’s run of sevens and eights that had him in high double digits, and he’d completed an excellent spare.

  ‘I think not.’ When my ball bobbed up, I plugged the icky holes with my fingers and hoicked the thing, more in disgust than hope. It bounced and rolled inexorably to the gutter. I turned to Afshan and laughed as though carefree and amused.

  He laughed along, rather guardedly. Now he took aim, the seven kilos of polyurethane pressed to his lips. He gave a self-deprecating little shrug, stepped forward, genuflecting on his right knee and swinging his arm. The ball kissed the wood and raced in a curving roll that roamed from one side of the alley to the other until it hit the front pin side on. Strike. In his first ever game of ten-pin bowling.

  ‘Nice,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. It was very nice. Now, Stella, for your turn we will set up the ramp?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’m done with this fool’s diversion. Let’s see if the food in the cafe is safe for human consumption.’

  We left the game unfinished and went to a dining area with the ambience of a needle exchange. A twenty-four-hour news channel blathered away from a television on the wall. It crossed to the weather forecast, delivered by a woman wearing a black cape and a pointy witch’s hat. Last night’s storm had caused major disruption in Melbourne, she said. The power was still out in some places in the western quarter of the city. A tree had fallen on a house. Scenes of residents cleaning up, one collecting a stray trampoline from their neighbour’s yard. A montage followed of children dressed as ghosts, pirates, mermaids, and a voice said, ‘Children taking food from strangers: five reasons parents should be worried.’

  Afshan and I bought coffee and a couple of slices of apple cake. We were taking the plastic wrap from the cake, and our chances, when the drum intro to ‘Prove My Love’ started up in my bag. Caller ID: Beloved. I excused myself and dashed to a private corner.

  ‘Brophy? At last.’

  ‘Hey, you. I’ve missed you.’

  Oh, the relief. ‘I’ve missed you, too.’

  ‘I heard you were hanging around the studio last night.’

  Hanging around? That sounded like Felicity’s twisted version, making me seem creepy. Well, it was sort of accurate. But still, I was confused. I mean, normally I would have just come up and said hi. And why didn’t I? Because Felicity told me not to. Brophy’s request. I closed my eyes, resisting the urge to argue. Besides, my pride wouldn’t let me admit I’d been impeded by that poseur. So, I obfuscated. ‘Not me. You heard wrong.’

  ‘Really? Felicity said she saw you.’

  ‘Yeah, but she’s got the IQ of an eggplant so …’

  He let that go.

  I moved things along. ‘You free tonight?’ The odds were against it, but I asked.

  At his end, a long pause. Considering the possibilities, perhaps. ‘Damn, can’t tonight. I’m flat out. Worked all last night and I’m worried I still won’t be ready for next week.’

  ‘You’ll get it done. They’ll be amazing.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said, sounding brighter. ‘As soon as the exhibition’s over, we’ll go out. Or better yet, we’ll go away somewhere, a dirty weekend. Daylesford or something.’

  I sensed a flicker of hope. Were we going to make it? ‘Love to,’ I said.

  ‘Great. Gotta go, Felicity’s here,’ he said, and hung up.

  Ugh. Her timing was horrible. Or uncanny. I resolved to change my ring tone — ‘Prove My Love’ was now categorically tainted.

  ‘How is your boyfriend?’ Afshan asked, when I returned to the table. ‘He is an artist, yes?’

  ‘I’ll tell you how he is: he’s holed up in his garret with a woman who poses naked for him seven days a week.’

  Afshan looked away and sipped his coffee. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘I don’t buy it. No one can work all the time.’

  ‘Stella, perhaps you should give him the time to do his work.’

  ‘How would you feel if your girlfriend was alone with a naked man?’

  ‘My wife and daughter live in a camp in Pakistan. I haven’t held them for four years.’

  ‘I see. Sorry. Bad example.’ I really needed to stop complaining to refugees.

  Afshan pointed to the TV. ‘There is a breaking news.’

  Pink-cheeked, I looked at the screen. Police detective questioned. The picture cut to a serious-looking woman in the studio. ‘Welcome. I’m Yolanda Gilling, and joining me now to discuss this development …’ Cut to an old, familiar face. ‘The Minister for Police, Marcus Pugh.’ Well, well, well, the right honourable Mucous Pukus, as I and my colleagues at WORMS thought of him. What a tosser. WORMS had had the misfortune of having much to do with the minister — and was all too aware of his love of ribbon cutting and credit taking.

  ‘Mr Pugh, isn’t it time your government called for a Royal Commission into the Victoria Police?’

  ‘Yolanda, we don’t need a royal commission. Incidences of police corruption are rare in this state.’

  ‘Why have you disbanded the Police Honesty Investigation Branch, or PHIB, and IBAC, the Independent Broad-based Anti-corruption Commission, and replaced it with one body, responsible for investigating all public-agency corruption, the …’ She checked her notes. ‘The “Official Tribunal Investigating Offenders Suspected of Egregiousness”, or OTIOSE, which has fewer powers, and is essentially a toothless tiger?’

  ‘The government took the view that IBAC was too expensive and was under-performing.’

  ‘But that’s because it was under-resourced — and now you’ve replaced it with a
n even less effective organisation.’

  ‘I disagree with that notion, Yolanda.’

  Yolanda moved on. ‘Operation Raw-Prawn has only just been instituted, and already crucial evidence has reportedly gone missing. And we know there are current serving officers under investigation. It’s not a good look.’

  ‘That’s my point. A royal commission won’t achieve that sort of result. The only sector of our society to benefit from such an expensive exercise is barristers.’

  Yolanda Gilling looked unconvinced. ‘A lawyers’ picnic?’

  ‘Exactly. A royal commission can lead to people being granted immunity from prosecution, suspected criminals. We’ve done a lot to address the problems that go back to the bad old days of the drug squad, the chemical-distribution days.’

  ‘But you can understand some people think that you have something to hide. Does your government have something to hide?’

  ‘We have nothing to hide. We have a properly constituted corruption investigation body that is accountable to the parliament with sufficient powers the police need to deal with organised crime. I don’t know what more they might need that they don’t currently have.’

  Afshan gnawed on his cake. ‘He is saying the police are not corrupt? I think so, they are corrupt.’

  My thoughts returned to last night, to the image of Phuong’s strained face. ‘I can’t believe I’m saying this, Afshan, but I agree with Pukus.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The minister. There are some greedy idiots in police uniform, for sure. But there’s no widespread corruption. Your typical cop is honest and hardworking. Like my friend Phuong, faithfully doing her duty.’ What I didn’t tell Afshan was that for her outstanding arrest record and her scrupulous honesty she’d found herself sidelined to a cybercrime unit.

  He stopped chewing. ‘Not all the police are corrupt,’ he said, ‘but some are … What is the word? Dodgy.’

  I considered this. ‘Have you had firsthand experience?’

  He looked down at his coffee.

  ‘If you need to speak to a cop you can trust, call Detective Senior Constable Nguyen.’

  ‘Perhaps.’