by J. M. Green
‘It’s not done until the paperwork is signed.’
‘I see. And you want to halt the sale because?’
‘We’ve been talking it over.’
‘We?’
‘Mum and I.’
The kettle boiled. I made two mugs of tea, and passed one to Kylie.
‘We think it should stay in the family.’
Our family was Kylie — who’d never shown any interest in the farm, ditto me — and our brother, Ben. ‘If you mean Ben, forget it. He’s about to do another stretch.’
Kylie nodded. ‘Going equipped to steal is a level-seven offence; based on his previous record, he’ll get the full two years. With parole, eighteen months.’
I raised my eyebrows. Ordinarily, she took no interest in the details of Ben’s legal circumstances. In fact, she would rarely admit she had a brother. A duck quacked; she ripped her phone from her pocket, frowned at the screen, and commenced thumbing.
The toast popped, and I slapped on the butter. ‘Then I hope you don’t mean me. I’d rather stick a knife in this toaster than return to Woolburn, that lifeless dustbowl.’ I looked up. ‘No offence.’
Kylie put her phone down, turned her head. ‘Pardon?’
I spread a thin layer of Vegemite over the toast. ‘Who is going to be the farmer in the family?’
‘Tyler.’
‘Your husband, Tyler?’ The man couldn’t grow a beard. He called horses ‘ponies’. Chickens scared him.
‘He did a course. Correspondence. We’re going to breed Dexters. They’re small cattle, very cute actually. From Ireland.’
‘Hmm. Miniature Irish cows. How do they get on in the desert?’
‘Woolburn isn’t the desert, it’s semi-arid. There’s a big difference.’
‘What about capital?’
‘We’ll borrow, like everyone else does. He’ll make it work.’
I formed a noncommittal smile. He’d make it work like the Betamax tape recorder. I called the boys, who ran in from my room, where they’d been suspiciously quiet. While they scoffed the toast, Kylie pursed her lips to sip her tea.
‘Did you want to stay here tonight?’ I asked.
She seemed amused by the question. ‘No. We’re staying with friends.’
Another long pause.
‘Is there something you want me to do?’ I asked.
‘Talk to Mum. Get her to wait until Tyler can put together a proper offer.’
‘You said she’d already changed her mind.’
Kylie went coy. ‘She’s wavering. I need you to clinch the deal. Can you do that much for me?’ She patted one of the boys on the head. He flinched and pulled away. ‘For the sake of their future.’
‘And what about Shane Farquhar? He’s been in negotiations with Mum for months.’
I couldn’t believe I was sticking up for that man. Especially after he’d falsely accused me of having stymied the deal. Now, by some weird twist of fate, here I was being asked to meddle for real.
‘He’s not family. Don’t you want to keep it in the family?’ Kylie asked.
‘I don’t care who owns it.’
She acted wounded. It was a good performance.
‘But I like the sound of those Dexters. Fine. I’ll speak to Delia.’
When they left, I went to the bathroom and lifted my t-shirt. A short, shallow cut throbbed faintly on my side. I dabbed at it with a tissue. Brook had pressed the blade into my skin enough to draw blood, but it wasn’t deep.
I showered and applied a Band-Aid. Then I put on a pair of shorts and an old t-shirt and stretched out on the couch. I turned on my old TV, and flicked around. There was going to be a Paul Newman movie marathon on over the weekend, starting tonight. That would be worth staying in for. I made my usual eat-in meal of cheese and crackers, washed it down with the last glass of white I could squeeze from the cask.
First up, Sweet Bird of Youth. It was good, but my eyes drooped. I closed them for a minute. Keng something. Kengtung, was that the word? Angie had said it was part of the lure Alma had dangled at them. Kengtung, drugs, and lots of money. Who was Kengtung? Or maybe Kengtung was a company?
Angie and green-toenails Brook, living in a squat once used by Ricky Peck. Brook was handy with a blade. Angie loved Cory, and kept his discarded passport photo in her wallet. They were all in the orbit of the Corpse Flowers, locked in their evil tractor beam.
Nothing you can do, miss. Why did someone push Cory Fontaine in front of a truck?
Isaac Mortimer had warned the kids to avoid them. Presumably, he meant Josie and her bikie boyfriend, Ox Gorman. Maybe the Turk, too. Even Alma. Brook said the Turk was with ‘them’ and was looking for Mortimer. If Gorman found out Mortimer was tipping off the street kids that he planned to enlist, that was reason enough for Mortimer to skip town.
Mortimer’s testimony was crucial to Copeland, to saving his reputation, his job. I’d promised Phuong I would help find him, for her. Because, for whatever silly reason, Copeland mattered to her. I liked to think that if something silly mattered to me, she would support me. I hoped so, because I’d arrived at mission creep. The state of affairs was in flux, and disturbing information had broadened the focus beyond Mortimer. The Corpse Flowers’s gambit appeared to involve a program to groom children, in the literal sense. That was suspect in the extreme. And, in my view, a much bigger problem.
I fired up my laptop and opened a browser.
Burma. Kengtung, it turned out, was a town on the Chinese border. What kind of money, I wondered, was to be made in Burma? Something legal and completely above board?
My dark thoughts were interrupted by a Shih tzu yapping inside Brown Cardigan’s adjoining flat. And a moment later, insistent pounding on my front door.
26
‘COMING.’ I slid the chain, but my hand paused on the deadbolt. There’d been a lot of talk of danger lately, some of it concerning me as the target. Odd women in suits threatening me, teens with box cutters and auxiliary sharp objects, and other general unpleasantness. I secured the chain and backed away to the kitchen.
‘Who is it?’ I said.
‘Stella?’ Phuong called.
‘Oh, thank Christ. You scared the crap out of me.’
‘Sorry to wake you.’
‘I’m awake, what’s happened?’
She strode in, her sequined top shimmering over skinny jeans and stiletto-heeled leopard-skin ankle boots. I invited her to sit, and relax. I demonstrated the technique.
‘Cuong. The bastard’s in deep shit this time.’
‘What’s he done?’
Her groan was almost violent. ‘I went to pick up my car from his place, like we arranged. He’s not there. He’s not answering his phone. Something’s going on with him. I’m sure of it. He’s going to look me in the eye and tell me exactly what he’s involved in.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
She shrugged. ‘Crown. Where else?’
‘You’re pretty upset. I better come with you.’ I tapped her bag. The Glock was ever within reach and loaded. ‘In case you shoot him.’
She moved her bag away from me. ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’
I quickly threw on some clothes more suited to Melbourne’s casino. Then we went downstairs and into the night. My street was silent. Ascot Vale people were decent, hardworking types; young families or the elderly. We kept civilised hours. The odd ice fiend from time to time, but not tonight.
I looked around. ‘Where’s your car?’
‘Still at Cuong’s. I took a cab here. Where’s yours?’
‘In the shop. I had an altercation with a power pole.’
Phuong paused, seemed about to speak, but then didn’t.
We walked down to Union Road to hail a passing cab. Ever since the Uber disruption, cabs were plentiful. One pulled up an
d soon we were speeding towards Crown. I lowered my window, let the warm wind caress my hand. The only caressing I’d had for a while. I breathed in and hit the button, watched the window slowly rise.
‘How’s the investigation going into Cory Fontaine’s death?’ I asked Phuong.
‘Who?’
I sighed. ‘The boy hit by a truck at the Footscray McDonald’s. I think he was mixed up in something the Corpse Flowers are doing. I think they’re coaching homeless kids.’
‘Coaching?’
‘I don’t know. Favours, paying for haircuts, photographs, other unusual activities. Who do I talk to at VicPol about it?’
She looked at me. ‘Bikies use kids to sell drugs to other kids. They all do it. They’ve been doing it for years. For now, Stella, please don’t go to HQ with this. Keep it under wraps until we get Mortimer? Then Bruce will smash the whole Corpse Flowers enterprise, get them out of business.’
That was straight from Copeland, he was making her act against her better judgement. I wished Phuong would stand up to him. I looked out the window. I would not keep my concerns under wraps. I’d try Blyton one more time.
‘I’m surprised at Cuong,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t seem the type. He seems very straight.’
‘The signs were there, early on,’ Phuong was saying. ‘He was trouble as a kid. My poor aunt and uncle, they didn’t know what to do with him. They used to come over and have long conversations with my parents. They suggested he go back to Vietnam. Get himself sorted out. So they sent him back to live with a relative. Boy, was that a mistake.’
‘Why?’
‘He came back full of stories. Bad magic, ghosts, curses, hauntings.’
‘Maybe the ghost thing is real,’ I said. I’d lost count of mine. I’d been haunted by people fixations, good and bad, or sometimes a spectre from the past. I’d want them gone, and later suffer pangs of regret when they went. The daily presence of my deceased father was a scaffold of affection, in the process of slow dismantling.
Phuong tossed her silky hair. ‘Who knows. Dad always said Cuong got off to a bad start because he was born in năm của dê, the Year of the Goat. Dad said that’s where the trouble started. Goat babies are calm, gentle, and honest. In the Goat year, you avoid the word ‘cường’. As in, cường độ, meaning intensity. You see the problem.’
I really didn’t. ‘You’re saying the trouble is all in Cuong’s name? Or is it because he went to Vietnam and developed a fear of ghosts?’
She shrugged. ‘Rich tapestry.’
I looked out the window, wondering at my fate. Considering how much I loathed the place, it was weird that I often found myself at Crown. A place untroubled by conscience. Gambling, my father used to say, was a tax on fools. Nowadays it was referred to as ‘gaming’, a euphemism for a legal swindle, a theft from those least able to afford it.
27
PHUONG MARCHED into the gaming room, eschewing the roulette, and making directly for the blackjack tables. I supposed she’d done this kind of thing before. She took her responsibilities to Cuong seriously, in the Phuong way. It made me feel guilty about the way I treated my brother, Ben. Perhaps if I’d taken a more involved role in his life, prying and meddling in his affairs occasionally, he may not have ended up in jail. Or perhaps so. Hard to say.
After a circuit of the floor and no Cuong, we went to a bar, and positioned ourselves with a reasonable view of the blackjack tables on one side and the roulette tables on the other. A baccarat table near the entrance to a sports bar at the other end of the room was the only table not occupied with a punter. I ordered a couple of Aperol spritzes, figuring we might as well enjoy ourselves.
‘I have news.’
Phuong moved her chin towards me, a sign she was listening, but her eyes were on the crowds moving around the tables. ‘About Mortimer?’
‘Sort of. Before he died, Ricky Peck was trying to get access to wards of the state. He’d applied to work for a child protection agency but they got him on the background checks. Can you imagine? A bikie working for a charity?’
Phuong shrugged. ‘It has happened. I heard about this drug dealer who found religion and now he runs a rehab.’
‘I doubt Ricky Peck found religion,’ I said, tartly. ‘And the thing is, there’s a pattern here. You know that Ox Gorman’s girlfriend is a convicted drug dealer called Philomena Josephine Enright, right? Well now she’s calling herself Josie and she’s acting like she has a saviour complex, making friends with all the kids who deal drugs in Footscray. Then there’s her client, Alma. She’s a damaged, vulnerable child with a massive IQ and an equally massive chip on her shoulder. Some street kids told me Enright recruited Alma to co-opt them into some scheme. She told them that everyone stood to make lots of money.’
Phuong stopped scanning the crowds and stared at me. ‘Doing what exactly?’
‘I don’t know, but it involves a place in Burma. Kengtung. Drug smuggling is my best guess.’
‘Probably,’ she said, and turned back to the blackjack tables.
‘They also told me that your friend, Isaac Mortimer, warned them to keep away from Alma and not be sucked in by all the cash she was throwing around.’
Phuong was nodding. ‘Did they say where he is?’
‘No.’ I took a sip of spritz. ‘They reckon Mortimer comes to Crown.’
Phuong rolled her eyes. ‘Cameras all over this place. He’s not silly.’
‘I suppose so.’ No doubt about it, I was useless at finding people. I had to wonder why she’d asked me to do it in the first place. I had no idea what I was doing. I glanced around the gaming room, wondering if I would even recognise Mortimer if he did show up. The punters were leisurely, watching tables, or waiting for a chair to become available. Except for one woman, who was making her way through the room. Late fifties, dressed like a primary-school teacher, holding a plastic shopping bag up to her chest. It was as if her efforts to avoid notice — head down, shifty glances to security — were what drew my attention to her. That and the look of raw panic on her face.
‘Look at her. What’s she up to?’ Phuong pointed out the same woman.
The woman was heading for the baccarat table, where a patron in a dark suit was now playing. ‘Isn’t that …’
‘Cuong,’ Phuong said flatly, and moved off her stool. How had we missed him?
‘Wait.’ I grabbed her by the arm. ‘Just, wait a second.’
Cuong checked his watch, then turned around, looking behind him — directly at the woman with the shopping bag. He was nodding and smiling. I turned to see her response. She smiled faintly back at him. She was about five metres away from him when, from out of the crowd, a man in a suit came and stood in front of her. He touched her arm and spoke to her, leaning into her ear.
Another man and a woman joined him.
‘Security?’ I asked.
‘Cops,’ said Phuong.
The two men took an arm each, the woman offering no resistance. From my reading, she appeared resigned, almost relieved, as if she had been expecting to be detained. The female officer took the bag from her, and with little fuss, they all walked out.
Phuong pursed her lips.
Cuong didn’t react. The only sign something had happened was a wrinkling of his nose, like he was about to sneeze. He watched the police lead the woman away. In a moment, Phuong was upon him and gave him a burst of vehement Vietnamese. From what I could tell, he wasn’t defending himself — he seemed to be agreeing with her.
She finished her harangue, took a breath, and said in English, ‘You’re leaving with us. Get going!’
He glanced around, and caught me watching. My immediate reflex was a friendly wave, but I hesitated. He put his hands in his pockets, looked down with a resigned sigh, and started to the exit, Phuong keeping close behind him.
We went down the escalators, past all that gleamin
g gold and the mirrors and water features and ominously placed yin and yang symbols. Other Feng Shui luck remedies and gambling inducements were suspended from the ceilings. And every five metres or so, an enormous poster advertised Cup Day at Crown festivities in the grand ballroom. We passed the cardboard cut-out of a racehorse in the foyer, and went out into the roar of Friday-night city traffic.
Cuong kept walking, heading to Flinders Street, but Phuong stopped him. ‘What the hell was that?’ she said in English.
‘I can’t tell you that.’
‘Like hell.’
‘Believe me, I want to tell you.’
She laughed, shook her head. ‘Can you believe him?’ she said to me.
‘This is a family matter,’ I said. ‘I’d rather not get —’
‘Right,’ she said to him. ‘I’m taking you home.’
She hailed a passing cab. ‘Sunshine.’ The driver nodded. When she was like this, even strangers instinctively knew not to question her.
The La Fonderie building was in darkness, except for two lights: the red candles on Cuong’s balcony shrine, and one flat over, where blue cathode rays flickered. There was a brief exchange in Vietnamese. I gathered we were coming up. Cuong waved a card at the panel near the door; it clicked and he pushed it open. The lift was operational, praise Jesus. We hadn’t made it inside the flat when she started on him again.
‘Tell me the truth for once,’ Phuong said. ‘What was that?’
He flinched. ‘Keep your voice down. You’ll wake the neighbours.’
What neighbours, I wondered.
He ushered us inside.
Phuong walked around, clacking her high heels on the tiles. ‘I come to your rescue in a storm. I hold your hand when you think ghosts are coming for you. I cover for you, turn a blind eye.’
Cuong shook his head, bewildered, or pretending to be. ‘I already said thank you.’
‘But with you, there’s always something worse. The betting rings in Chinatown.’
‘What?’ It was me talking now. ‘Betting rings?’
‘Private games, invitation only,’ Phuong said, exasperated that she had to stop haranguing Cuong to fill me in.