Too Easy

by J. M. Green

  He shrugged. ‘Used to. When we were kids. It was good then. Then the old man bought a bigger place out at Ardeer.’

  ‘Anyone up there now?’

  He frowned like he didn’t want to say.

  ‘You could rent it out,’ I prompted him.

  ‘Me mate’s in it, he don’t pay.’

  ‘Wow. That’s a sweet deal.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘What’s it like inside?’

  He waved a piece of steaming flake at me. ‘Wouldn’t go near the place I was you, ’less you wanna get shot at.’ He bit the shark.

  ‘Ah, not really. No.’

  I hurried away, walking down Anderson Road. What had I achieved? I’d seen Gorman’s place. What had I learned? Bikies terrified folks.

  Karen Carpenter’s deep vocal heartbreak crooned from inside my bag. That was more like it. I checked the caller. Shanninder: ‘Got some info about those kids.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Alma Dunmore, fifteen. She’s her own worst enemy, like a lot of them.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘The attitude. Mensa-smart, but she hangs out on the streets. Risk taker, caught riding the back of a train.’

  ‘Tough at home,’ I said, guessing.

  ‘Not really. Upper-middle class, expelled from her private school. When she’s not causing trouble, she lives in Williamstown with her mum and two sisters. Big house, apparently, amazing spot opposite the Pavilion.’

  ‘Just a brat then?’

  ‘Her father died in a car accident about four years ago,’ she said. ‘Since then, Alma’s been a handful.’

  There was a lot more going on with Alma than anyone knew. Her drug dealing, and her familiarity with Isaac Mortimer, for starters.

  ‘Great. Thanks. And anything on Cory?’

  ‘Not as much. Full name, Cory Felix Fontaine. DOB, May 2001.’

  ‘Makes him, what, sixteen?’

  ‘Near enough. Became a ward of the state when his mother was incarcerated. Ran away from his foster family, managed to stay on the streets, avoided Human Services, slipped through the system. But I did get one snippet of intel, not sure if it’s of any use to you. He’s got hep C. The department made a couple of attempts to get him on the new antivirals, but he never showed up for appointments.’

  ‘How did he get it?’

  ‘Don’t know. I’ve got to get on. I’m busy,’ Shanninder said.

  ‘One last thing. Where do kids like Alma hang out?’

  ‘Come on, Stella, you know the hang-outs as well as me. Anywhere in central Footscray, like the kebab place on Nicholson. Or McDonald’s. And there’s always Funky Town, your favourite amusement parlour. I’ve seen actual teenagers there.’

  No, not Funky Town, where bacteria thrived in the finger holes of bowling balls.

  ‘Also, Flinders Street Station’s popular, for some reason.’

  ‘Of course, Flinders Street,’ I said. Bacteria in a wind tunnel.

  ‘By the way, you’re supposed to meet Boss in the city for the Pukus meeting.’

  If it wasn’t for Shanninder keeping me on the ball, I would’ve been sacked years ago. ‘What time?’

  ‘Four. He’s already left. He read your fire-safety report. He wants you to pitch a program to the minister, use your sway with him.’

  ‘I don’t have sway. I’ve never had sway. I don’t know why he thinks that.’

  ‘Maybe because you were the one who secured our funding for the next five years.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. That. Where do I go?’

  ‘Parliament. Can you make it?’

  I checked the time on my phone. ‘Just.’

  ‘By the way, a man came into the office asking for you.’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘All muscles and tatts. Funny haircut. Orange on top. He asked for your address. We told him that’s against policy and he left.’

  He knows you’re looking for him. What if Alma wasn’t bluffing. ‘Thanks, Shanninder, see you Monday.’

  ‘Not me, honey. I’m taking Monday off for a long weekend. See you Wednesday.’

  I ended the call and looked around. Spotting a man with orange hair should be an easy matter. The city train arrived, plastered in stupid tags, its interior strewn with sheets of newspapers, the floor a river of cola and other fluids, and I jumped aboard.

  22

  FROM THE underground station of Parliament, I ascended on a soaring, almost-vertical escalator. At ground level, I crossed Spring Street to Victoria’s Parliament House, where a melange of bored journalists gathered on the steps. Boss was leaning against a pillar on the terrace. He appeared unwell, eyes set in dark hollows, a middle-distance stare.

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘You made it. Good. I brought your report.’ He waved a bundle of papers around.

  ‘What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be in some briefing room?’

  ‘Marcus isn’t here yet.’

  ‘Who?’ I feigned confusion.

  ‘The minister.’

  ‘Not sure …’

  ‘Mucous Pukus.’

  ‘Oh him. Yes, Boss.’ I smiled.

  ‘And don’t call me Boss.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Brendan Ogg-Simons.’

  He grimaced. ‘Stick with Boss.’

  ‘Where is Pukus?’

  ‘Held up at some urgent meeting or other. Expected any tick of the clock.’ He leaned in and lowered his voice. ‘Don’t forget to mention that mining magnate you were friends with a while back, and go from there.’

  I was never friends with any magnate. I met one once when his daughter, who was my neighbour, was murdered. My brief meeting with Clayton Brodtmann had been fraught, short-lived. Brodtmann owed me no favours. I had zero influence. I had imagined influence. I told Boss that for the umpteenth time, but he didn’t believe me, or didn’t want to.

  A limousine entered the driveway and the journos jumped to their feet.

  ‘As soon as he finishes his presser,’ Boss was saying ‘we’re to wait for him in the library. He wants us to join him for drinks in his office.’

  ‘Drinks? How did you manage that?’

  He smirked. ‘Connections.’

  I assumed he meant my imaginary connection to the mining magnate.

  A chauffeur got out and opened a rear door.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, everyone,’ The Right Honourable Marcus Pugh was saying. ‘Held up.’ He was glad-handing and back-slapping his way through the throng. A be-suited woman with a brutal expression began to corral the media. ‘This way, the presser’s in K room. Please be ready to go in a minute or two.’ The journalists appeared to have expected a brisk and breezy doorstop interview, and began hurriedly gathering up their equipment. If their tweets were anything to go by, they mostly despised Pugh.

  Boss and I followed the pack to what I assumed was K room. While the cameras were set up and the smart phones placed on the lectern, we took our seats at the back of the room.

  At last, Pukus opened a side door and strode in. ‘All set? Yes? Well, ladies and gentlemen, I wish to announce that this government is serious about homelessness. We have done more than our predecessors, more than any other government, to address this terrible issue, this blight on our beautiful city. We are announcing today a special task force to address this issue. We will be removing from the CBD anyone without a valid reason for being there. Those people will be transferred to a faculty where they will be, um, cared for by professionals from the Homeless Assembly Removal Militia, or HARM. Any questions?’

  The journalists were silent. Perhaps, like me, they were stunned.

  ‘No? Well, thank you and good day. Oh, and one more thing. The proposal to close the land-tax loopholes for multinationals has been shelved.’

  Hands shot up.

 
‘Bunny Slipper, ABC News, Minister. What changed the government’s mind? Is it because large corporations making donations to your party were against the proposal?’

  ‘No, um. I. Next question.’

  ‘Why are you making this announcement so late on a Friday afternoon? On one of the busiest weekends in this city’s calendar?’

  ‘What? Is it Friday? I’ve lost track of time.’

  All the journalists began firing questions at once.

  ‘Well, if there are no further questions, I’ll be off then,’ Pukus declared. ‘See my press secretary for our statement. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.’

  Pukus evaporated and the media packed up. Boss and I walked downstairs and into the quiet calm of the library. I picked up a newspaper and reclined in a leather Davenport. When I glanced up at Boss, he was rubbing his eye sockets with the heel of both palms.

  ‘Boss? You okay? How’s things?’

  ‘Awful.’ He took his hands away.

  I was surprised at the disclosure. I went on, carefully. ‘Trouble at home?’

  ‘Michelle? No, she’s not happy, but who is? She’s sticking with me for now.’

  Someone must’ve slipped a truth serum in his morning coffee, an admission of this sort was wildly out-of-character. ‘Is it work?’

  ‘This wonderful vocation? The daily shoving of shit uphill? No. We do valuable work. Truth is — this surely goes for you, too — we wouldn’t do anything else.’

  Did that go for me, too? Hell, no. ‘Money worries then.’ I was running out of causes.

  ‘Just paid for a house at Kennett River. Weekender, three floors, all European appliances, fridge plumbed in. Delivers ice and water from the outside of the door — marvellous thing. Necessity, really, as I said to Michelle.’

  That shut me up. I had no idea he had that kind of money. I assumed Boss was only one pay-level above me, but maybe not. Perhaps he was on an executive-style package of perks and incentives. Plus, his household had two incomes. Michelle was an accountant.

  He went on. ‘No, Hardy, it’s an existential crisis that ails me. I find I stare daily into the black hole of despair.’

  This crisis of his mattered less to me now that I had found out how much he earned. Money cancelled-out sympathy, in my book. Phuong had tried to point out the hypocrisy of my psychological bias, to no avail. And now my class-privilege radar was telling me to send this rich white male on his way. Especially because there was no direct threat to his safety or that of his family. It was an indulgence, a mere whimsy, this sense of dread.

  He was still going on about it. ‘There is no joy in my life, and what’s worse, I’ve come to the conclusion that even art is pointless.’

  ‘Now wait a damn minute, Ingmar Bergman. Art has a purpose. And even if it doesn’t, it doesn’t need one. It is a self-important thing.’ I was making it worse. ‘I mean it has intrinsic value, and needs no other —’

  ‘That’s one of Marcus’s people in the pinstripes, he’s waving us in.’

  23

  MARCUS PUGH’S office was furnished with worn, beige carpet and corporate-style chairs around a conference table. His large desk held a keyboard and two screens, and three telephones. On a long, half-empty bookshelf was an assortment of wood carvings, a bent figure with a long beard, possibly Confucius, a tiger with a paw raised, and a swan with wings spread. The framed photos on the wall were of Pukus with Joko ‘Jokowi’ Widodo, and Aung San Suu Kyi. The window had a view of a brick wall. As we entered, Pukus was sending his under-aged underlings home.

  ‘That will do for the day, Tristan.’

  Tristan nodded. He wore a brown suit with a bowtie, and his hair was parted in the middle and slicked down with goo. ‘Good night, minister.’ He regarded us with suspicion, and withdrew.

  ‘Thank you, Portia.’ Pugh said to another minion. ‘Good night, goodbye.’

  I will say this: Portia rocked a dark pantsuit. But hers was possibly the worst case of acne in recorded history, and I felt bad for her. She shook her head. ‘The Prisoner Advocacy Alliance are at it again, minister. I’m preparing a statement discrediting them,’ she said, then, registering our presence, darted a rueful glance at me.

  ‘That sounds specious,’ I muttered.

  She was dumbfounded at something — my nerve at having an alternate opinion perhaps? My lack of political understanding? Her only reply was a haughty sniff.

  ‘I have a brother in the system,’ I explained. ‘I see prisoners’ rights a bit differently.’

  She snorted. ‘Don’t be so naïve. It’s not personal. Polling in key outer-metro electorates indicates that voters there like it when certain sections of the community are punished or harassed or at the very least humiliated.’

  Pukus held up a pudgy hand. ‘Portia is our most enthusiastic interpreter of polls. And we love her dearly.’

  She blushed so violently I was worried the acne might rupture.

  ‘We’ve done enough for today, Portia dear. Tomorrow, we will slay that dragon.’

  She acquiesced with a nod, juggling a Miu Miu handbag and a briefcase as she left.

  When we were alone, Pukus loosened his tie. ‘Sorry to keep you.’ He held a decanter of whiskey and wiggled it at us. ‘Afternoon refreshment?’

  ‘Not for me, Marcus,’ Boss said.

  ‘Got anything else?’ I asked. My preference was to stay sober in this company, but it was warm and I could be persuaded by an Aperol spritz.

  Pukus regarded me warily. ‘No.’

  My power and influence were indeed imaginary, it seemed.

  Pukus poured himself a double. It was unclear whether Boss or I were invited to sit. I pulled out a chair, and Boss sat in it. I pulled out another.

  ‘I was held up in a meeting with the OTIOSE people.’ He flopped in a Chesterfield armchair. ‘It’s all very hush-hush at this stage, highly confidential, but they’ve actually caught someone doing the wrong thing.’

  Boss scratched his chin, distracted; the stubble on his chin was mostly silver.

  ‘Whistle-blower, apparently,’ Pugh said.

  ‘Sorry Marcus, back up,’ Boss said. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Marcus and Brendan, was it? How had I not noticed their cosy relationship? These two went way back.

  Pukus said, ‘An unfortunate public servant is, they have reason to think, being blackmailed. They have her under surveillance. All I can say.’ He drank the contents of the glass and went to pour another. ‘And something about passports.’

  ‘Why passports?’ Boss asked.

  ‘That was what I was going to ask you, Brendan. What’s the angle here?’

  Boss opened his eyes fully, his attention shifting at last from whatever inner torment he was attuned to, to Pukus and I. ‘The angle? No idea. It’s a good thing someone had the guts to report it.’

  ‘Very brave,’ Pukus said. ‘The identity of the whistle-blower is under wraps for now.’

  ‘Have any of the passports been used?’ I asked.

  ‘They don’t know, they tell me,’ Pukus said with irritation. ‘They’re going over her work for the last three months, crosschecking. Taping her calls, all sorts of subterfuge.’

  I looked out the window at the brick wall. I turned back to find Pukus had turned the discussion to the concerns of his portfolio. ‘Tough times, Brendan. Every cost gets a line through it. Coffers are dry and the old boy won’t hear a word.’

  I groaned inwardly, assuming ‘the old boy’ was the treasurer. Coffers so dry the legislation to cut land-tax breaks for multinationals had just been quietly dumped. That’ll create jobs, they say. Jobs for the builders of enormous private yachts.

  Boss was nodding. ‘The old boy reminds me of Brother Michael, remember? Saliva flying from his mouth, one eye looked the wrong way.’

  Pukus cackled. ‘Don’t stand in the f
ront row when Brother Michael’s conducting choir, face full of spit for your trouble.’

  They were school friends. How had I missed that? There’d been a whisper that Boss had gone to a top private school. We reconciled this information with his work in community services by assuming it was an act of rebellion. Or redemption. He was a complicated man.

  ‘Enough of the nostalgia,’ I said. ‘Can we focus, gentlemen, please?’

  Pukus was affronted, and coughed with disapproval. ‘State your business, then. What’s this hare-brained program?’ He addressed me. ‘You know, you’re wasting your time; I can’t get funding for diddly, let alone some socialist outfit that’s beyond my ministerial scope.’

  I’d encountered this pre-emptive belittling tactic before. I wondered if it was taught in management courses. ‘Preventable house fires, poor immigrant families burnt to death, public liability, yadda yadda yadda, give us fifteen grand for a fire-safety education program.’ An ambit bid — we’d walk away with five thousand if we were lucky.

  Pukus roared laughter, turned scarlet, slapped his knee. ‘I see what you mean,’ he said to Boss. ‘Out of touch with reality.’

  ‘Ten grand, and we’ll throw in English classes.’

  ‘Exceeds my bailiwick.’

  ‘Eight, and we’ll assist with administering any community-based orders for anyone holding a temporary protection visa.’

  ‘Sorry, lovey. They’d never get the visa in that case.’

  I stood up, put both hands on the table and eyeballed Pukus. ‘All right. How about this? The passports scandal, whatever it is, becomes public, which it will. The opposition says it smacks of government mismanagement. There’s a great deal of hand-wringing in the press about our security. You immediately announce a fifty-thousand-dollar funding increase to public-employee background checks. Then, as a distraction, because you are so concerned with keeping the homeless off the streets, you include increased funding to get street kids into improved accommodation. And have better assessments on youth workers.’

  I threw the youth worker checks in for the hell of it, thinking of Enright, and kept speaking. ‘Say it like you mean it, as though it were your idea. We use our resources, working with other agencies, to identify at-risk youth and find accommodation for kids sleeping rough. That’s in your purview, surely? There happens to be extra funds available, and we use it to create a fire-safety education program for recent arrivals.’