Too Easy

by J. M. Green

  We ordered some beers, and within minutes, the soup arrived. Phuong blew on a green vegetable suspended in her chopsticks and slipped it into her mouth.

  Then she dropped the chopsticks and shoved the bowl away. I, on the other hand, had a healthy appetite, and drank my soup with gusto. A consolation, soup was. I took my consolations where I found them — in a bowl, in television binging, in nursing a private hatred. Phuong started hunting in her bag and muttering to herself.

  I noticed she was a little pink in the cheeks, and her gaze was slightly unfocused. I looked over at Cuong. He was staring like a zombie at the races on TV.

  ‘Stella.’

  I turned back to Phuong. Her hand was on the table, closed tight. She opened it and revealed two bullets. She lifted one from her palm and turned it around in the light. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Look. I found them in my letter box this morning.’

  I rolled the bullet between my fingers. The casing was engraved: Nguyễn Phương. I noted the precise diacritics.

  ‘Are these any old bullets, or the same calibre as police-issue semi-automatics?’

  ‘Police issue. To get at Bruce,’ she said, and held out her hand.

  I dropped it back in her palm. ‘If Copeland’s the target, why not send them to him?’

  ‘They know he’d be more worried about me, than for himself,’ Phuong said, slurring the last word. She pressed her fist to her lips, white knuckles.

  ‘I paid. Let’s go,’ Cuong said, putting the wallet in his back pocket. He said something in Vietnamese to Phuong, and we went outside.

  The streets were hushed, it was getting late. We passed under the glare of the shopping-centre security lights and out again, into the shadows. Ahead, La Fonderie was in darkness.

  As we approached, hissing sounds came from somewhere near Phuong’s blue hatchback, parked out the front. I squinted and saw a silhouette bending over it. Cuong shouted. The figure cursed and sprinted across Hampshire Road — an effortless spring over the fence, and gone.

  Cuong pointed at Phuong’s car. Silver spray-painted squiggles on the driver’s door: u r dead; and on the back window, fat capitals: DOGS DIE.

  11

  ‘I THINK we should call the —’

  ‘Don’t you call anyone,’ she said, pointing her keys at me.

  I turned to Cuong. ‘I’ll take her to my place.’

  ‘I’ll get it out of sight.’ Cuong took her keys and got into her car. ‘See you later, Stella,’ he said, and drove it into the La Fonderie underground car park.

  I led Phuong away, towards my car. She stumbled along obediently.

  ‘I was thinking, maybe, I might help you. A bit.’

  She blinked. ‘Help how?’

  I gazed up, seeking a star to wish on, or swear at, but the city haze offered none. ‘I’ll try to find Isaac Mortimer.’

  ‘Stella.’ Phuong seized my hand with the force of a handcuff. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘He’s probably half way to Kununurra by now, or Fitzroy-bloody-Crossing.’

  ‘No, he isn’t.’

  I faced her. ‘Care to enlighten me?’

  ‘Bruce still has friends who support him within the unit. They’ve checked. Mortimer’s phone’s inactive and he hasn’t used his credit cards.’

  ‘Maybe Copeland should ask them to find the guy,’ I muttered.

  She looked stricken. ‘But they can’t be seen to —’

  ‘Right, right. But why do you think he’s still in Melbourne?’

  ‘He came up on security vision at a 7-Eleven. Norlane. Day after he walked out of remand. A week ago.’

  ‘That last known address was Norlane, too, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but he’d spent most of the last few months in Melbourne. He had a strong network in Footscray,’ Phuong said. ‘You’ll have better luck here, with the local kids.’

  I put her in my car, and then we headed down Ballarat Road; if I kept going, we’d be home in ten minutes. Instead I turned right, towards Footscray.

  Phuong bent forward to peer at the side of my head. ‘What’s the plan?’

  ‘Might as well make a start tonight,’ I said.

  I parked across the street from the Narcissistic Slacker. The studio lights were still on. I left Phuong in the car and ran up the stairs. Instead of knocking, I tried the door. It shot across, sliding off its tracks, and slammed against the wall. Two square metres of metal door started to fall forwards. I ran around and caught it just before it toppled. I was trapped there, bracing it with both hands on a precarious slant.

  I turned my head to see a stunned Brophy sitting on an upturned milk crate, the end of a paintbrush in his mouth. His eyes were wide with, I think, surprise, but it could also have been fear.

  ‘Um. Sorry. Someone must have oiled the wheels.’

  He leapt up. ‘Stella? What are you doing?’

  My heart hurdled the top rib. It had been too long since I’d seen those bare forearms.

  Together we manoeuvred the door back onto its tracks. My face brushed his arm, I closed my eyes and inhaled. When I opened them, Brophy was watching me, amusement in his eyes.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, and stepped closer. ‘This is a nice surprise.’

  I spun away. Phuong was waiting in the car; if Brophy and I started something, I might be here all night. Also, as of now, I was committed to assisting her with this matter. Phuong, I was helping. No one else. I started to pace. ‘Isaac Mortimer, know him? He’s a dealer, sells around here — mainly to kids, I understand.’

  He looked tired and, worse, disappointed. He let out a heavy sigh. ‘I’ve told you, that’s all in the past. Yes, at one time, I had a problem.’

  ‘What? No, I’m not accusing you. I simply want to know where this bloke deals.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ Bewildered, pretending not to be. ‘Did you … want to score?’

  ‘No! I’m asking you because you hear things. You’re still friends with that informer, Jeff Vanderhoek.’

  That startled him. ‘I saw him on one occasion, first time in years. We said maybe five words to each other.’

  ‘Right. So maybe you know the places where kids are chasing?’

  ‘Is this for work?’

  ‘For Phuong. It’s a favour.’

  He scratched his chin. ‘Try the car park on Droop Street, near the funeral parlour.’

  An open space, dark at night, a choice of backstreets and alleyways leading in all directions to run down if the narcs showed. I should have guessed. ‘Brilliant, thanks.’

  I’d begun, and it felt good. I galloped down the stairs, then paused to regret my haste and the missed chance to kiss him goodbye. I wondered if he cared. Perhaps not, if he was as absorbed in his art as Felicity had claimed.

  Phuong was texting when I got back to the car.

  ‘News?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, sounding almost sober. ‘I’m calling in sick for work tomorrow.’

  I drove west on Barkly, to Droop Street. Instead of turning, I continued west and stopped at the next set of lights. Drizzle had built up and I hit the wipers. No one on the streets — Halloween action dispensed with for another year.

  A couple of boys rounded the corner on foot, ideal ruckmen at over two metres apiece. They hunched inside their puffy jackets, hoods up, in no hurry. The boys ambled into a bottle shop that was still trading, bars on the windows and the door. The traffic light changed, and I turned right into Donald Street and arced back to Droop.

  The car park was lit in places, but there were dark areas in which to hide. I backed into a spot at the rear of the funeral parlour. The headlights captured light rain. I switched them off and cut the engine.

  12

  PHUONG CHECKED her watch. ‘Ten to three,’ she said.

  ‘You say that like I should write it down. We are off-pis
te now, Phuong. This is the unauthorised missing-persons patrol.’

  She resettled herself in the seat. ‘Silver spray-paint — how d’you get that off a car? Soap and water?’

  ‘More chemicals,’ I said. ‘WD-40?’

  ‘That’s a lubricant. I’ll probably need a solvent. Acetone, maybe.’ She opened her handbag, took out a folded A4 sheet. ‘Take this. The VicPol media release on the arrest of Isaac Mortimer. There’s some handy details.’

  Handy details? I shoved it in my back pocket. ‘The real mystery is why Leo didn’t win an Oscar for Blood Diamond.’

  She rubbed the window, creating a smeary circle. ‘Why should he?’

  ‘The Afrikaans accent, it’s unbelievable. And his Krio is fantastic.’

  She looked at me.

  ‘Krio — the language of Sierra Leone. I looked it up.’

  ‘Why are we here again?’

  ‘Popular transaction point. We wait for a while, inconspicuous as possible, and see who shows, get a feel for the place. I might know some of them.’

  She nodded. ‘And offer some inducement, cash for info?’

  ‘Probably. I haven’t thought that far ahead. That’s usually how these things work. There’s an exchange. Like Danny Archer — he’s trading weapons and he has to negotiate with the rebel leader, Commander Zero. Diamonds for grenade launchers.’

  She observed me for a short time. ‘Are we talking movies or are you making a point?’

  ‘Commander Zero gives him bad diamonds.’

  ‘Stella, I’m not giving you bad diamonds.’

  ‘But you are being … economical with the truth.’

  She looked out the window and sighed.

  ‘Shit, it must be bad,’ I said.

  ‘Shut up, it’s not bad. Okay. It is. Bruce was on a stakeout, a few weeks ago. I joined him for a few hours. Brought him something to eat.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘Whose idea was that?’

  ‘We’d never see each other otherwise. Anyway, we were watching this house.’

  ‘Whose house?’

  ‘Peck’s. I’m helping with the recording set up. Bruce wants audio — informant’s wired.’

  ‘This Jeff Vanderhoek guy that Brophy knew?’

  She nodded.

  ‘That’s brave,’ I said. I wondered if Jeff had had a choice.

  ‘He goes in, the audio’s good. There’s some mindless talking. Then they mentioned Bruce. Just once. It didn’t seem significant to me, it was such an oblique reference — someone saw him at a sports bar. They were badmouthing him. “Oh, Copeland, that bloke’s a prick,” like that.’ She pulled her hair back and took a hair-tie from her wrist and then looped it around into a ponytail. ‘So much for him being in conspiracy with them.’

  ‘Exactly. Nothing illegal about going to the pub. And?’

  ‘And then Bruce goes, “By the way, can you erase that?”’

  I blinked, not sure I’d heard her correctly.

  ‘I know,’ Phuong said quietly.

  ‘That’s —’

  ‘I know. I was shocked. Bruce is by the book.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘All we had was innocuous gossip. There was nothing useful in it.’ She shrugged. ‘I deleted the whole thing. We got back to St Kilda Road and he said the equipment was faulty.’

  ‘You deleted the recording?’

  ‘It’s not that bad.’

  I held the bridge of my nose. ‘They’ll be able to recover it.’

  ‘No, I wiped it, it’s gone.’ She paused. ‘Well, not gone. First, I made a copy, then I deleted everything.’ She looked at me.

  ‘To cover your arse?’

  ‘For my own … interest.’ Phuong’s cryptic expression gave nothing away. I wished I could do that, suppress all outward signs of thought and feeling. Instead, I was cursed with a face like an open book — and not a normal book, one of those kid’s pop-up books with moving parts. Since I could read nothing from her face, I’d have to come right out and ask her if — in her heart of hearts — she believed Bruce was squeaky. But not now. ‘Can I hear it?’

  ‘No way,’ she said, and turned her gaze towards the dark car park.

  She’d changed since she started seeing Copeland. The old Phuong would never have gatecrashed a stakeout, or deleted a recording. Were personalities really that plastic? If so, I could do with a change. Not a minor adjustment either — I’d have a full reconstruction, my whole personality.

  ‘We’ve known each other for a long time.’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘You can trust me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Phuong. You know who left the bullet, don’t you? And who vandalised your car.’

  ‘Hello,’ she said, pointing to the street in front of us. I looked into the gloom. Out of the mist emerged a group of kids: a girl and two boys. The boys — one tall, one short, both thin — were trying to kick each other, sideways, kung fu–style. They appeared to be without a care, none of that jumpy, desperate vibe addicts have. They weren’t junkies yet.

  They dressed alike in many layers of shabby windcheaters, loose jeans, runners that looked expensive. They entered the car park, and I lowered my window.

  The girl was singing ‘Turning Tables’. Adele did it better, though I admired the attempt. There were some tough notes in that song. But the boys were apparently against it.

  ‘What’s that shit?’ the short one demanded. He turned, and his face caught the light. My boy Cory. ‘Hey Razz, check it. Yo!’

  He made some beatbox beats and rapper-style hand moves, singing some song about wiping the blood off his Nikes. Australian hip-hop style.

  The taller boy — Razz, evidently — laughed. He pointed to the alleyway that ran behind the funeral parlour. ‘Look out.’

  Phuong and I followed the finger. A girl with long hair walked under the street light, about fifteen, give or take. She pulled the zip of her jacket up and down.

  Razz waved his hand. ‘Yo, Alma.’

  The girl beside Cory giggled.

  Razz readjusted his pants down to his hips. ‘S’up,’ he shouted again to Alma.

  ‘Over here.’ Alma moved near a tree in the shadows. Razz ambled across the car park.

  I lowered the window all the way, but we had no chance of hearing them from here. I turned my attention back to Cory. The other girl was circling him, grinning.

  ‘I like your shoelaces. They have dogs on them.’

  ‘Mighty Bulldogs,’ he said.

  She came up close.

  He held a foot up for her to see. She peered at it. He stepped closer to her.

  ‘Eww.’ She screamed and backed away.

  Phuong sat up. ‘Oh, no.’

  I scanned the foggy surrounds and spotted a man, walking along Donald Street. Copeland. He crossed the road and entered the car park. I looked to see if the boy, Razz, had seen him. A deal was in progress with Alma, the girl with the long hair. She was holding her bag open for him to see the contents. Razz was leaning over it.

  ‘Cop!’ Cory yelled.

  Razz grabbed the bag. Alma snatched it back, and ran down the alley. Razz, Cory, and the girl scattered in all directions.

  Phuong jumped out of the car and ran towards Bruce. I got out and zipped up my jacket. I gave them time for a long embrace then dawdled over to join them. He looked unkempt and had let his beard grow. If he’d been holding a cup, I might have thrown in some change.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Phuong said.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.

  He glared at me. ‘I’m twiddling my thumbs in that cabin, while Isaac Mortimer is enjoying the free air, and cunts are bullshitting to the commission.’

  ‘I understand you’re frustrated, but you can’t —’

  �
��But if I get Mortimer to come in —’

  ‘You can’t. You’re under suspicion. You have to live like a choir boy.’

  ‘I know what I’m doing. And I’m careful. Anyway, I can’t sit around while —’

  ‘I’ll find Mortimer.’

  ‘You told me she didn’t want to get involved,’ he said to Phuong.

  ‘She changed her mind,’ Phuong said, with a grateful nod in my direction. ‘Earlier tonight.’

  ‘Why?’ He glared at me as if trying to fathom my motives. I glared back at him, and then he caught on. He turned suddenly to Phuong. ‘What happened?’

  She didn’t answer, so I replied, ‘She’s received threats. And they spray-painted her car.’

  ‘Who? Did you see them?’

  ‘Looked like a big bloke to me. Could be a cop.’

  He took Phuong by the shoulders. ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘Of course.’ She played unconcerned. ‘Probably just kids.’

  ‘Would kids write DOG?’ I asked Copeland. ‘Or is that more the kind of thing cops say?’

  He folded his arms. I got another look-over for my trouble.

  ‘This is getting out of hand. When you blokes turn, you really go nuts, don’t you? Seems like every cop in the department is either crooked or being silenced.’

  ‘I’m handling it.’ His lip curled. ‘I know these people, and I’ll handle it.’

  ‘Doing a great job so far. Meanwhile, coming to Footscray tonight shows spectacular judgement on your part. Why would you come to a known drug-dealing area?’

  ‘These kids’ll know Mortimer.’

  ‘Maybe.’ I looked around. ‘But they’re gone now.’

  ‘Without Mortimer’s testimony, I’m finished.’

  ‘Cops don’t do well in jail,’ Phuong added quietly.

  There she was again, defending him. Phuong sniffed. I wasn’t moved. ‘Gotta say, I’m starting to regret this already.’

  ‘But Stella —’

  ‘When you locate him,’ Bruce was saying. ‘Don’t do anything. Don’t talk to him. Don’t call your local police. All you do is tell me where he is. Right? You let me handle it. I’ll take it from there.’