Too Easy

by J. M. Green

  ‘Games like what?’

  ‘Baccarat and mahjong.’

  I wasn’t familiar with baccarat, but mahjong was basically pairs, wasn’t it? ‘Really, Cuong, you gamble on mahjong?’

  He shrugged. ‘I have to get up early tomorrow. Derby Day at Flemington.’

  I’d never been to the races. ‘Who are you going with?’

  ‘Just me. You can come if you want.’

  Before I could answer, Phuong cut him off. ‘Stella is not going to the races with you.’ She started pacing again. ‘You told me you avoid Crown.’

  ‘It’s not illegal to go to Crown,’ he said.

  ‘That woman, who was she?’

  ‘Tâm kinh doanh của riêng bạn.’

  ‘This is my business. I wish it wasn’t. Detectives took her away. Everyone in the room could see she was about to approach you. Now tell me, who is she? And what were you doing?’

  ‘You can’t help me. You said so.’ He held the door open. ‘Now can you please leave? I have to get up early in the morning.’

  She didn’t move. ‘How do you know her? Who introduced you to her?’

  ‘No one.’

  This was going to take a while. I parked myself on the sofa. I moved a pile of books and magazines, put my feet up on his coffee table.

  ‘Are you in debt, Cuong?’ Phuong asked.

  He shook his head, turned away.

  Phuong picked up a book from a pile, turned it around to show me the title. The title was in both Vietnamese and English: Mastering the Art of Hypnotism: control others and get all you want.

  ‘This is yours, I suppose?’ she asked Cuong. ‘Who do you want to control?’

  ‘Nobody. It’s for fun.’

  Phuong threw it on the floor. ‘What am I going to do with you?’

  ‘Nothing. There’s nothing going on, stop worrying. Anyway, I cleaned your car. You can take it now. Go home, get an early night.’

  She let out a groan and announced that she was going to the bathroom.

  Cuong scratched the back of his head. ‘Want a beer?’

  I glanced at the bathroom door. ‘One wouldn’t hurt.’

  He went to the fridge, flipped off the caps. ‘Japanese beer. On Special.’

  ‘Canny shopper.’

  He handed me a bottle and sat on the armchair, clearly exhausted.

  I had a sip. ‘So,’ I said. ‘How’s your day been?’

  ‘Had better.’ Cuong rubbed his nose. ‘Want to give me your number?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘We can go to the races tomorrow.’

  ‘I can’t.’ My weekend was full, mainly with digging up a bikie. Possibly, literally.

  ‘Another time.’

  ‘Sure.’

  In the pause that followed, we listened to Phuong shouting on the phone in the bathroom.

  ‘Can you really hypnotise people?’ I asked Cuong.

  He peered intently into my eyes. ‘Relax, let go now, and totally relax.’

  I did as he said and tried to relax; my whole body sank into the cushions. The velvety throw was luxurious.

  ‘Look in my eyes,’ he was saying.

  I stared; they seemed to have their own light in the dim room.

  ‘You are surrendering to my voice … you are under my complete control … now you will answer my questions.’

  ‘Go ahead, ask away.’

  ‘Have you found Isaac Mortimer yet?’

  ‘No. You ask me, the man cannot be found.’

  He sat back and regarded me with curiosity. ‘And when I snap my fingers you are back and refreshed. And also, you will not want a cigarette ever again. And …’ He snapped his fingers.

  ‘Wow, thanks. I … I don’t smoke now. I didn’t smoke before, but thanks.’

  He flicked his hand, like it was nothing. Which it was.

  ‘Let me try,’ I said. ‘You are getting very relaxed.’

  Cuong eased back in the chair.

  ‘Now you will answer my questions,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I will.’

  ‘Whose ghost are you afraid of?’

  ‘What the hell are you two doing?’ Phuong stood ridged in the doorway.

  ‘And when I snap my fingers, you no longer smoke,’ I said, and snapped.

  Cuong seemed momentarily confused, then he beamed. ‘Cigarettes are bad. I don’t want to smoke.’

  ‘Well?’ She pointed her phone at Cuong.

  I hunkered down in the sofa.

  ‘Just a bit of fun.’ Cuong said, unconcerned.

  ‘If you’re quite finished, I have information. The detectives we saw at Crown are with OTIOSE.’

  I sat up. ‘Really? The public-sector corruption thingy?’

  ‘Yes. And the woman my cousin knows nothing about is a passport-office employee.’

  ‘Marcus Pugh said something about a passport scam.’ I recalled him saying so earlier that afternoon, a lifetime ago.

  Phuong raised her eyebrows. ‘That blabbermouth? Well, he’s right. She’d been certifying unauthorised passports.’

  ‘How’d they find out?’

  ‘A whistle-blower.’

  ‘Two careers burned then.’

  Cuong had been quiet.

  ‘Last chance,’ Phuong said to him. ‘What are you caught up in?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  She lowered her eyes to the floor. Nodded once. ‘Where are my keys?’

  He tossed them to her. She snatched them out of the air and went out without a word.

  ‘Bye, Cuong,’ I said.

  He took my hands in his. ‘Don’t worry. Everything is under control.’

  Cuong was exasperating. No wonder Phuong was at her wit’s end. I said good night and found Phuong in her hatchback in the car park. The graffiti had been removed.

  As we hit the street, I glanced back at Cuong’s flat. The altar lights were off.

  28

  ‘CAN YOU believe that stupid book?’ Phuong drove one-handed, glaring at me, as though I was the problem.

  ‘I don’t know what to think of it.’

  ‘This is how he solves his problems. He hypnotises his way out of trouble.’

  She swerved to avoid a dead animal on the road, oversteered, tyres squealing.

  ‘Are you sure that’s his plan, because I didn’t —’

  ‘That’s how desperate he is,’ she said. ‘No wonder Dad asked me to watch him.’

  This was high-horse Phuong. I looked out the window.

  ‘What were you up to with him?’

  ‘Me?’ Irritated now, a red mist on my vision. ‘I wasn’t up to anything.’

  ‘Whispering together.’

  I undid my seat belt. ‘Let me out.’

  ‘What? Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘Stop the car.’

  ‘I’m not leaving you here in the middle of the night.’

  ‘You will, or so help me I’ll jump out of the car.’

  ‘Stella.’

  I opened the door. She hit the brakes and we skidded to a halt. I started down Ballarat Road on foot. She caught me as I was nearing a McDonald’s. Those places were everywhere.

  ‘Stella, wait.’ She pulled on my shoulder. ‘You’d rather kill yourself than sit in a car with me for five minutes?’

  I yanked out of her grip. ‘I’m walking. It’s not far.’

  ‘But that’s stupid.’ She made another grab for me.

  ‘Don’t call me stupid.’ Like a teenager yelling at her parents. My voice was cracked.

  She paused, then used her calmest voice. ‘Come on. Let me drive you home.’

  ‘You say I whisper with your cousin, meanwhile you’re a love-struck schoolgirl over Copeland — you’re obsessed w
ith him!’

  ‘He’s my fiancé.’

  ‘He’s all you care about. Not your career, not your friends. He’s got you breaking half the laws in the state. And I can’t speak to the police, only Copeland. I mean, come on. How suss is that?’

  ‘That’s for your own protection. There’s cops in Gorman’s pocket.’

  ‘It’s for your convenience.’

  She sighed and walked away, turned back. ‘Is this about the wedding?’

  ‘What? Jesus, Phuong, have a look at yourself.’

  ‘It must be about the wedding, otherwise I don’t understand why you’re so angry.’

  ‘You played me. I thought, nah, Phuong is my friend, she wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Played you how?’

  ‘He’s guilty. You know it. But you’d do anything to protect him.’

  ‘Yes. I am terrified Bruce will go to jail. I’m frightened of everything, of being alone, of strangers, of what I might find in my letterbox. But I’m not as conniving as you obviously think. Bruce was in trouble and I turned to the only person I trust.’

  That was the story I’d been telling myself, that she turned to me because we were friends. But I didn’t know how much she was under Copeland’s sway. ‘I declined, remember? I thought he should face the inquiry.’

  ‘You were wise to say no the first time.’

  ‘And why did I change my mind? The bullet. Wow, that was a master stroke. Pure genius.’

  ‘Stella!’

  ‘You’re basically his hostage.’

  She gasped, put her hand over her mouth.

  I walked away, and this time she made no attempt to stop me. I was seething inside, barely containing my distress. Tomorrow, when the righteousness wore off, I’d be bereft. I continued on my march of offence, trying to forestall that moment. Mist rose from the road. I watched it curl. I’d gone two blocks when the regret hit.

  I waved down a taxi. Walking alone around here at night wasn’t worth the risk.

  29

  ANOTHER DAWN. I was getting sick of mornings, and existence in general. I was seedy and raw and broken-hearted. Rather than face the day, I listened to the radio in bed. An ecstatic voice announced that this was the first day of the Victorian Racing Club’s annual Spring Racing Carnival, and therefore, Derby Day. The carnival revolved around the Melbourne Cup, always scheduled for the first Tuesday in November. Derby Day kicked off the party on the Saturday, with ladies in black and white; morning suits for the men, with the traditional cornflower in the lapel. I wanted to vomit. The announcer read the weather: another warm day on the way, with higher temperatures expected in the coming days. Cup Day was predicted to be in the forties. A glass of warm spumante would console some, I imagined.

  I breakfasted on toast. Then, in need of proper coffee and some supermarket essentials, I dressed in jeans, a clean white shirt, and flats. I was going to make kaddu bharta.

  The traders in my part of town were deeply invested in the racing carnival, positioned as we were between the race tracks of Flemington and Moonee Valley. The very path beneath our feet was emblazoned with the names of former Cup winners. Being mid-carnival, the place was busier than usual, the street was as hyped as a toddler on red cordial. A lot of people were out buying last-minute party supplies, and the warm weather had stirred a vigorous trade in hair removal.

  Despite my low mood, I skipped into Buffy’s with faux élan. ‘The usual, my good man.’

  It was not Lucas beside the machine but a clear-faced new girl. A stranger. I hesitated.

  ‘What’s your usual?’ she asked pleasantly.

  I went blank.

  ‘Strong flat-white,’ said a voice behind me.

  ‘Lucas, thank Christ.’

  ‘I’ll make it, Delores,’ he said, with a wink at me.

  I picked up the paper and held it up to him. ‘And this.’

  He frowned. ‘You alright, Stella? You look wasted.’

  ‘I feel fantastic, never better.’

  ‘What’s your secret?’

  ‘Hypnotism,’ I said, without hesitation. ‘Special Vietnamese hypnotism.’

  The person he called Delores guffawed. ‘For real? Sorry, it’s a con.’

  I turned to Lucas, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘Delores lived in Hanoi for a while,’ he explained. ‘Teaching English.’

  My other eyebrow joined the first. ‘Is that so? Did you come across any hypnotism?’

  ‘You read about it in the English-language papers,’ she was saying. ‘Someone calling themselves Doctor So-and-So sets up a school of hypnotism, making outrageous claims. People pay a fortune to learn this stuff, but it doesn’t work of course, and then they’re angry so the doctor says it’s their fault and they have to take another class. Usually, people want their money back — but when the authorities get involved, the good doctor skips town.’

  ‘So it’s complete bunkum?’

  ‘Well, it is to us. But it goes back a long way there. I think it has links to kungfu. There’s reports sometimes of hypnotism-related crimes, people are completely convinced they’ve been hypnotised by a random stranger. He looks into their eyes and they give the guy their wallet or whatever. Or the robber walks right into a shop and starts hypnotising the salesperson, who then hands over the cash.’

  I thought about Cuong. I pictured him at the races, in a morning suit with a cornflower in the label, adorably gloomy. But I couldn’t help wondering, too, about the strange goings-on of last night. For instance, why the cops approached only the woman and not Cuong. I hated to admit it, but on reflection Phuong was right — Cuong and the woman clearly knew each other. They were about to speak when the cops moved in. But they left Cuong alone. Almost as if he wasn’t even there.

  But why did he refuse to speak about it? Phuong knew about his gambling; what was so bad he had to keep from her? If he was involved somehow with the passport thing, then how bizarre was that?

  Lucas was laughing. ‘No hypnotic tricks, Hardy.’

  ‘Tricks, ha ha. No.’ I placed some shrapnel on the counter, hoped it was right, and started to walk out.

  Lucas came around and placed a takeaway cup in my hand. ‘Mate, take it easy.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I lied.

  I walked up the street, drinking my coffee, and paused at the entrance to the supermarket. The entire Cuong episode was none of my business. Phuong, on the other hand, was my bestie. I needed to clear the air with her. Then I thought about how she’d discouraged me from raising the Corpse Flowers’s behaviour towards homeless children with the police. Other than her. Usually, I’d trust her judgement, but not this time. A cab ejected a gaggle of women outside a hairdresser, and I leapt in. I gave directions to the purple tower in the Docklands.

  I asked the driver to wait a few minutes while I ran into the foyer. No one answered the buzzer this time. Perhaps he was still unwell. I took out one of my WORMS business cards and scribbled a hasty note on an old receipt at the bottom of my bag:

  Dear Detective Blyton,

  Have information that Corpse Flowers are training homeless children in criminal activity. Contact me to discuss.

  Regards, Stella Hardy.

  A bank of numbered mail boxes lined one wall of the foyer. I located the numbered slot that matched Blyton’s apartment number, then folded my card in with the note and slotted it.

  The cab was waiting, metre running. In less than ten minutes, I was returned to Ascot Vale and had re-joined the masses on Union Road. All up, my detour to Blyton’s cost me thirty bucks. When the time came, I’d bill Copeland.

  Now, my attention returned to the matter at hand: pumpkin curry. I shopped for groceries like a pro. After choosing a fresh lime, I made a study of the pumpkins, knowledgeably flicking specimens with my finger, smelling the skin, shaking them next to my ear. The results were mixed, and a
lot of shaken-up pumpkins. Then I saw one with grey-blue skin, cut in sections along deep ribs, showing golden-orange flesh. The magnificent Queensland Blue it would be. I shoved half a dozen pieces in a plastic bag and grabbed a packet of unsalted butter on my way out.

  I made like a Sherpa up the Roxburgh Street incline, carrying two bags of shopping, my coffee, and an entire pumpkin, cut into pieces, in a plastic bag. Remonstrating with myself all the way home. As if Phuong would place a bullet in her own letterbox. What kind of person accused their friend of faking a death threat? Answer: the most horrible person possible, a complete monster. Was that who I was? I didn’t know who I was anymore.

  My progress was stopped by a block of granite. A chap, more refrigerator than man, obstructed my path. He wore a cut-off leather vest, over a black t-shirt. I spotted a couple of fabric badges sewn on the vest: a skull, two crossed rifles, a bent flower with ‘CF’ in gothic script. His biceps bulged out of the t-shirt, tatt-sleeve arms. His head was shaved save for a tuft of orange fluff on top, wafting in the breeze. His do put me in mind of those Troll Dolls.

  ‘Stella Hardy?’

  ‘No.’

  He sighed. ‘But she lives here, right?’

  ‘I know of no such person,’ I announced, and tried to step around him.

  He stepped in front of me, face right up to my mine. ‘You sure?’

  I reeled back, one arm cartwheeling. The pumpkin bag slipped from my hand, and sailed up into the air. We watched the pumpkin pieces fly from the bag, spin upwards, pause, and descend. Falling, falling, and hitting the ground. I stood there like a dummy, and all the emotion of recent events got the better of me. Tears spilled onto my cheeks.

  The giant troll looked horrified. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I’m a bit clumsy.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ I said idiotically. ‘It’s the bags they give you.’

  ‘I know, right? I usually take me own,’ he said. ‘Not that I’m judging you; I don’t trust their bags. Give us some sheets of that paper.’

  I put down the shopping and pulled out the real-estate section of the newspaper. At the same time, Brown Cardigan’s Shih tzu came trotting out of the foyer of my building. It approached and stopped to sniff the bikie’s bottom as he crouched near the pumpkin pieces. Following behind him was Brown, holding a red leather lead studded with diamantes. I was tempted to make a Paris Hilton joke. Then I realised that if Brown addressed me by name, the jig would be up. I made fierce eye-contact, telepathically imploring him to keep moving.