Too Easy

by J. M. Green

‘Let’s just say “drugs”, I think that covers most things.’ It was like talking to Brophy’s daughter, Marigold, the primary-school student with the literalism of an Evangelical pastor.

  ‘Gorman’s Asian syndicate has the connections. He wants me to buy, maybe, a couple of hundred kilos.’

  I looked up, a sky the colour of rust. Soft rain beginning to fall.

  ‘Not a word, Stella. Not Phuong or anyone.’

  ‘No cops. That’s a threat from Gorman, isn’t it? What did he say?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything, just showed photos of my parent’s house in Melbourne.’

  ‘But right now, they’re in Vietnam.’

  Cuong had closed his eyes. Subject closed.

  I felt woozy, maybe it was the passive smoke. Something passive was getting to me.

  A taxi entered the driveway and pulled up at the rank. A bloke got out with a bloody hanky wrapped around his hand. Snap, bro. I’d have high-fived him, but it would have hurt us both. I looked at the driver through the opened door. He glared at me as though I was trouble. I turned back to Cuong. ‘Where’re we going?’

  ‘Not your place. And we can’t go to mine.’

  ‘Make up your mind,’ the driver demanded. It was time he explored other employment options, for the sake of his mental health.

  In my exhaustion, I struggled to think of somewhere to go. Then I thought of a place that was safe, and quite close by. ‘St Albans,’ I said, and we climbed in the cab.

  41

  I KNOCKED. The door was unlocked, and opened the width of a fearful eye. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Stella. And my friend, Cuong.’

  ‘It’s late. What do you want?’

  ‘A bed for the night?’

  The gap widened, Afshan’s eyes darted from Cuong to me.

  Cuong bowed his head, his expression serious. ‘Please, help us.’

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘What?’ I asked, incredulous. ‘Let us in. I’ve been tortured, for heaven’s sake. There’s people who want us dead.’

  ‘Did you come by boat?’

  Cuong sniggered, but I was appalled. ‘Afshan, for God’s sake.’

  ‘I’ve been dying to use that one,’ he hooted, wiping a tear from his eye.

  ‘Look, see for yourself.’

  The porch light came on. He took in my bruised face, my bloodstained clothes, the bandages. ‘Stella, this is bad,’ Afshan said. ‘Quickly, come inside.’

  Shahid was standing in the hall wearing a towelling robe and slippers; he looked shocked. ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘Cuts and burns. I’ve had stitches. How are you?’

  ‘But what happened?

  ‘They can tell us in the morning,’ Afshan said. ‘Make them a place to sleep.’

  ‘She can have my mattress,’ Shahid said immediately. ‘And we have a spare for him.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t take your bed, the couch is fine.’

  ‘I was not sleeping. Please, take the bed.’

  ‘I don’t think I can sleep either,’ I said. ‘But I could murder a cup of tea.’

  The three men did a simultaneous inhale.

  ‘It’s a figure of speech, you guys.’

  Afshan said, ‘Of course.’ And he went to the kitchen.

  I made my way to the bathroom at the rear of the house, soft snores coming from the other bedrooms on the way. I passed the main room where Cool Hand Luke was on the TV.

  The bathroom was mildly disgusting, as any men-only household tended to be. Multiple double-adaptors piggy-backed on the one power point in the room, and several appliances were charging. There was a dangerous-looking bar-heater on the wall, an electric shaver, a tablet, and someone’s phone. What a death trap this place was. These guys would be first on my list for fire-safety training.

  The painkillers were wearing off. I closed the lid of the toilet and sat down, trembling. The burns stung and the stab wound throbbed. I took the screwdriver from my pocket. Could I jam that thing in the Turk’s neck, or maybe his eye?

  Who was I kidding? Revenge was stupid.

  One of the chargers matched my phone; I plugged it in, hoped like hell my phone was salvageable, and went to join Cuong. He was discussing the movie with Shahid, who was cross-legged on the carpet.

  ‘Do either of you have a Panadol by any chance?’

  ‘A what?’ Shahid asked.

  ‘Never mind.’

  Afshan came in with mugs of black tea, two in each hand. In his serious way, he handed them out. Then he sat on the floor, waiting, I thought, for me to say something.

  I sipped my tea, so sweet I flinched. I had nothing to say.

  ‘Have you seen this one, Stella?’ Cuong asked, pointing to the TV. ‘Great movie.’

  ‘Yeah, couple of times. He eats lots of eggs,’ I said.

  Cuong shook his head. ‘For a punishment, Luke must go in “the box”, and the guard says, “Sorry, Luke, just doing my job.” And Luke says, “Calling it your job don’t make it right, boss.”’

  ‘Spoiler alert,’ I said. ‘You going to watch this movie or just ruin it for everyone?’

  ‘You look tired. Do you want to sleep?’ Shahid asked.

  ‘Not right now. I’m going to the bathroom.’ I went to check if my phone was functional. Small merciful goddesses: it was charging. I tried Phuong’s secure number.

  ‘Stella? It’s the middle of the night. What’s happened?’

  ‘First, let me apologise.’ I cleared my throat, ready to continue with a full and frank self-analysis, exploring the extent of what I did, what I could have done, owning my faults.

  ‘Stella, none of it matters. That conversation was probably overdue.’ No one at fault, air cleared, now we could continue. At least, that’s how I interpreted it.

  I gave her the whole story, starting with the cup of tea at Enright’s flat above the mechanic’s shop in Sunshine, and the trip to Mortimer’s last known address in Norlane.

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘I wanted to check the house before I spoke to you. A waste of everyone’s time if he wasn’t there.’ I paused, reluctant to give her the rest.

  ‘So foolish. I told you not to take risks like that.’

  ‘It’s done now. Anyway, funny story, Bust Face lives up to his name.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A low-level Flower. He … um … brought me to the Turk.’

  ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘Can you shoot the bastard for me? That’s allowed, isn’t it? Cops can shoot thugs. It’s in the rules somewhere.’

  ‘The Turk’s place is all over the news. Huge fire there. Did you see that?’

  I looked at my hands. ‘Hmm. Yeah, I saw it.’ I told her that the Turk and Gorman had been burned, and I had run out.

  ‘Very lucky.’

  ‘I’m alive. Which is more than I can say for Jeff Vanderhoek. Did they find his body?’

  ‘Vanderhoek? No one’s saying that yet. Was he there?’

  ‘If it’s okay with you, I’d rather not go into detail.’

  I could hear her breathing. ‘No. Don’t.’

  ‘The Turk is convinced Mortimer killed Ricky Peck.’

  ‘Not possible.’

  ‘I’m not sure, he might be right. It’s all about the timing. That day of your dinner party, Copeland put Mortimer in the lock-up. Then he and Blyton went drinking in the Spida Bar. That’s when he got the call that Peck’s body had been found. If Peck died in the afternoon, it could have been Mortimer. There would have been time.’

  ‘Time of death for a body in a bath is complicated — temperatures matter, wide time range.’ The Phuong calculator was at full whir. She changed to a softer tone. ‘You were lucky to get out of there. Want me to come and get you?’

  ‘No, I�
��m okay now. I’m here with Cuong.’

  A long pause. ‘Who?’

  ‘Um. Cuong.’

  ‘I think the line is faulty, sounded like you said “Cuong”.’

  ‘Cuong owes Gorman money for his gambling debts. That’s how he blackmailed Cuong into helping them — he’s supposed to travel to Kengtung. Actually, he helped me get out of there. Your cousin is full of surprises.’

  ‘I don’t like surprises.’

  ‘I know,’ I said.

  ‘Give me the address. I’ll see you soon. And he’d better have some answers.’

  I rattled off the address.

  ‘I’ll be there in an hour.’

  An hour? She was with Copeland, at his father’s place in Somerville.

  ‘For now, just until I can work out what to do, can we keep this between us?’

  ‘You mean … Sure.’

  ‘Oh, and one more thing,’ Phuong said. ‘OTIOSE think they’ve traced all the dodgy passports. They’ve all been for minors, kids under fifteen.’

  My brain was a slow-motion car crash of disparate mental notes. The passport photos of Cory I found at the squat in Footscray. Mortimer warning the kids to stay away from Gorman. Cuong in debt to Gorman. Cuong meeting that woman at Crown.

  42

  ‘COME,’ SHAHID said. ‘I’ll show you where you can sleep.’

  His bedroom was a covered veranda at the back of the house. Blankets had been hung over the louvre windows, attached to the walls with tacks. An old wardrobe against one wall had a massive crack in the door. There was a single mattress on the floor and another mattress propped up on its side against the wall. He dropped it to the floor. From the wardrobe, he took out blankets and pillows. ‘Sleep well,’ he said, and left.

  Cuong reclined, not bothering with the blankets and pillow, and pulled out a cigarette.

  ‘So my hypnotism didn’t work.’

  ‘Huh?’ He lit the smoke.

  ‘Still smoking.’

  He did a half smile; it must’ve been in the DNA.

  Could the Flowers have orchestrated passport fraud for street kids? A ready supply of drug couriers with no families to agitate for them, no strings. The invisible strays of the fast food joints and train stations, those kids had no radar for exploitation. Offer them drugs, money, adventure, and they’d jump on board without a moment’s hesitation. They would be up for anything, any crime, to turn a dollar.

  On the other hand, those kids had the kind of entrepreneurial spirit that was sorely lacking in this country, I’d give them that.

  ‘So Kengtung,’ I said. ‘Quite an adventure for those kids. Beats the school bus trip to Uluru.’

  ‘No kids.’

  ‘But the passports your friend was forging, they were for teenagers.’ I watched him for signs of guilt. The man had a terrific poker face, probably had a lot of practice with all the gambling.

  ‘You spoke to Phuong?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Cuong, I had to. But not as a cop, as my friend, and your cousin. She’s on her way.’

  He frowned.

  ‘I understand you’re upset, but it’s better to have her help, don’t you think?’

  Cuong rubbed his eye with the heel of his palm.

  I stretched out my legs to ease the ache. ‘Tell her everything. The trip to Burma and about how the Corpse Flowers are grooming kids as would-be couriers.’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘Like hell you don’t.’

  He took a long drag and then stubbed the cigarette out in an overflowing saucer. ‘Alright, when Phuong gets here, I’ll tell her everything.’

  I pulled up the blanket and settled into a sideways foetal, thinking I’d have a short nap before Phuong arrived. I closed my eyes, but just saw Jeff Vanderhoek’s corpse.

  Outside the room, the sound of low voices arguing. I opened an eye. ‘Phuong?’

  ‘Visitors,’ Cuong whispered.

  I sat up gingerly. ‘Ghosts, you mean?’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ he said firmly.

  ‘Oh right, sorry. Friends. That’s some serious phobia you got there.’

  ‘It’s not a phobia, it’s my culture.’

  ‘Right. But I’m just saying, if the dudes behind the DSM-5 ever got wind of this, your whole culture would be branded bizarre.’

  ‘Shows how worthless it is.’

  ‘Ssh. Listen.’

  The voices stopped. Cuong put his ear to the door. I gripped the knife. Afshan, sounding angry, and a man, a deeper voice. Cuong and I locked eyes for a second. ‘The Turk?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘We would be dead already.’

  ‘Then —’

  ‘In the wardrobe. Quick!’

  I dived in and pulled the door shut behind me. The mechanism was dodgy and the door wanted to swing open. I held the tiny screw on the inside, holding the door in place.

  A soft tap outside the room, then Shahid’s voice, anxious, apologetic. ‘Excuse me.’

  The crack in the door offered a segment of room and I saw Shahid shoved aside.

  ‘Make yourself scarce, mate, if you know what’s good for you.’

  Shahid reluctantly withdrew.

  I exhaled silently, shallow breaths. Cuong moved to the mattress, perhaps to draw attention away from the wardrobe. But I couldn’t see him now. What I could see was the spruce dude, fifties, healthy tan, trim beard, and collar-length grey hair striding into the room. I thought he was a cop, but he was bone thin, his white t-shirt hung off him, and the jeans were pulled in with a belt. A half-full green garbage bag over his shoulder. But it was the shoulder holster and gun that caught my attention. He dropped the bag and leaned against the wall.

  ‘Where’s Stella Hardy?’

  I stood perfectly still, but my wounded leg protested.

  ‘Who are you?’ Cuong said.

  ‘Detective Senior Sergeant Blyton.’

  William Blyton? Phuong’s good cop, the one I’d left my card with? I didn’t know how he’d found me, but I was greatly relieved. At last, proper police were involved. I was all set to leap out of the wardrobe and demand he take action. That he arrange protection for Cuong until he could testify. That he round up everyone. But something about the way he was behaving held me back.

  He sniffed. ‘You the boyfriend?’

  Cuong said nothing.

  ‘Hang on, don’t I know you? You’re Peck’s flunky.’

  Static electricity buzzed in my ears. Blyton had met Cuong?

  ‘Where is she?’ Blyton demanded so aggressively I wondered if Phuong might have been wrong about him.

  ‘She left.’

  A long pause. My leg ached to move.

  ‘How’s her leg? A stab wound, the hospital tells me.’

  ‘The hospital told you?’

  He pulled my handbag from the garbage bag. ‘Found this at the fire in Tarneit. My brilliant deduction is, if she was there, then odds on she’s not healthy. Basic detective work, really, check the hospitals, taxi companies. You bozos didn’t even try to cover your tracks.’

  Phuong had been wrong — very, very wrong — about bloody William Blyton.

  He dropped my handbag in disgust. ‘Stella-fucking-Hardy. Never heard of her, then the next minute, she’s ringing me at work, coming to my place. Says she’s a social worker all upset about some dead kid. I don’t know if he was wasted or if it was natural causes, but I’ll tell you this for free, if the Flowers give two shits about some homeless kid, I’ll turn in my gun.’

  Blyton put his hands on his hips, big patch of sweat under his arms.

  ‘Detective, is there something I can help you with?’ Cuong asked.

  ‘Yes.’ He paused.

  I watched his face contort as he fought to compose himself. It seemed Blyton was straining not to weep. �
�When I didn’t hear from him …’ He broke off, took a big breath. ‘I thought they wouldn’t touch him. We both did. But they crossed that line. And that was a big fucking mistake.’

  Perhaps Blyton was unhinged. I kept my eye on the gun.

  ‘Who are we talking about?’ Cuong asked.

  He let out a breath. ‘Emergency services get called to a property in Tarneit last night. The Turk’s little set-up. For days, I had a bad feeling. Waiting to hear from him. So I go up there.’ He put his hand over his mouth, his face momentarily frozen in anguish. Deep breath through the nose, blinking back tears. ‘Ambos are carrying him out.’

  ‘Jeff Vanderhoek,’ Cuong said, softly.

  Blyton nodded; he seemed relieved that he didn’t have to say the name.

  ‘Were you there? With Hardy?’

  ‘Briefly, yes,’ Cuong said. ‘The fire had already started.’

  ‘Did you talk to him before he died?’

  ‘No,’ Cuong said. ‘He was dead when I got there.’

  Blyton let out a howl, then closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. ‘Someone talked.’

  Cuong coughed.

  Beads of sweat on Blyton’s face. ‘Now the scum’ve gone to ground. Turk’s absconded. The only possible witness is this mad social worker who’s trying to save all the little kiddies. This Hardy and her fucking handbag.’

  The Turk was on the lam?

  ‘Detective,’ Cuong said, respectfully. ‘As I said, Stella’s not here. I’m very sorry about Jeff. But there’s nothing more I can tell you.’

  I couldn’t see Cuong, but I could hear the calm in his voice. I imagined his sangfroid came in handy at poker.

  ‘Why did they snatch Hardy?’

  ‘They think she knows where Mortimer is, they think Mortimer killed Peck.’

  ‘Bastard drowned,’ Blyton snarled.

  ‘I believe you,’ Cuong said. ‘But they’re paranoid, they suspect everyone. Maybe they thought it was Jeff?’

  ‘It wasn’t Jeff. He didn’t have a violent bone in his body.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Cuong said.

  ‘Doesn’t mean he wasn’t brave. I’ve met some hard men in my time,’ Blyton was saying. ‘Lean on them and they crumble. But Jeff Vanderhoek was the bravest human being I’ve ever met. The Flowers stopped supplying me, and I had the Raw-bloody-Prawn enquiry breathing down my neck. So Jeff offers to turn against Gorman. Make it look like I’m doing my job. He did it for me. We were in love. That’s something you wouldn’t understand.’