Too Easy

by J. M. Green

  ‘Let me check,’ Phuong said, and bent down. I watched her scoop her hand under the bags. In one deft move, she lifted her gun as she picked up the dumpling bags.

  Josie’s face hardened to a grim stare. ‘I want to hear what she has to say.’

  I pointed at Gorman. ‘He let you languish in Thailand. He sent you there to set up a base. But the police were sniffing around, so he shut it down. And to shore up his position with the cops, he chucked you under a bus.’ I was adding some colour, and a lot of shade.

  ‘She’s lying, honey,’ he said, lightly. Gorman seemed desperate to avoid upsetting her. I could understand that.

  ‘Pork and mushroom,’ Phuong said, handing one bag to me. The grenade. ‘And mackerel or —’ she was holding the other bag in a way that concealed her Glock behind it, and took a big sniff inside, ‘— maybe squid?’

  Way in the distance, a siren wailed.

  ‘Hand ’em over, dumpling girl,’ Gorman said.

  ‘Ox, shut up,’ she hissed at him, her face flushed. ‘Let the fucking social worker speak.’

  ‘Sweetheart, she’s deluded.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ she asked me.

  ‘From the cops. Blyton knew. All the cops know about Gorman.’

  She looked down at Blyton’s dead body. I kept my gaze pointed up at her face. If I looked at that horror, I’d freak out.

  ‘Now let me ask you something, Philomena Josephine Enright. Are you happy with the trade in body parts?’ I asked. ‘Trafficking young kids. Are you happy about that?’

  ‘Happy? I’m fucking rapt.’ She was laughing. ‘The money is huge. Per child, we’re looking at over a million. Rich sick people, they fucking care a lot where their organs come from. No stunted political prisoners for those guys. We offer the whole package. Anyway, no one gives a shit about homeless kids. I mean, who is the real criminal?’

  ‘It’s you, Josie. You just blasted Blyton into pieces right in front of me. You sent Jeff Vanderhoek to the Turk to be tortured and murdered. You lure children to their death. You murdered Cory.’

  She shook her head at me, like I was stupid. ‘That’s business. You assess the risks and you eliminate them.’

  ‘Josie, we need to go. Shoot her, shoot them all, and let’s go,’ Gorman said.

  She looked at him. ‘Nine years. Nine fucking years, Ox. Did you do that to me?’

  ‘Yes, he did. But he’s too much of a coward to admit it,’ I said.

  Josie’s eyes filled with tears.

  Shouts inside the house, boots stomping. Gorman and Josie turned to look, Josie pointing the AK at the door.

  Phuong raised her hand with the Glock now in it. I snatched the grenade from the bag.

  Someone kicked the back door open. It swung hard, nearly came off its hinges, and the Turk stepped out.

  ‘Is this where the party is? What’s everyone doing out here?’ he demanded.

  Phuong swiftly reassessed the situation, and, changing her mind, hid her gun behind her back. I followed her example, concealing the grenade against my leg.

  He clocked me and broke into a vile grin. ‘Holy shit, the rumours are true, you made it out of there alive.’ He turned to Gorman. ‘Why are all these people not dead?’

  Gorman looked exasperated. ‘That’s what I’ve been saying.’

  ‘What about Ricky’s money?’ The Turk asked.

  ‘Mortimer hasn’t said,’ Gorman said. ‘Yet.’

  Mortimer shrugged. ‘It’s not here.’

  ‘You.’ The Turk pointed at him. ‘You fucking traitor. I’ve been waiting to catch up with you. Why’d you kill Ricky?’ the Turk asked him.

  ‘That was Cuong.’

  ‘Yes, that was me.’ Cuong emerged from the side of the house. Walking down the driveway with him was Bunny Slipper. Her eyes were wide, and behind her two women carrying camera equipment. They all looked terrified. Cuong moved in front of them.

  ‘You killed Ricky? You bastard! Where’s our money?!’ Josie screamed.

  ‘Honey, calm down,’ Gorman said.

  She rounded on him, the AK at her shoulder. ‘Don’t tell me to calm down.’

  With her back turned, Cuong ran at Josie, shoving her from behind. She fumbled the AK and it fell to the ground.

  That’s when I held up the grenade. ‘Everyone on the ground now,’ I said. ‘Or I pull the pin.’

  Slow and reluctant, Josie, Gorman, and the Turk started to crouch down.

  ‘Stella, I can take it from here,’ Phuong said, aiming the Glock at Josie.

  Mortimer was up and aiming his handgun at Gorman.

  Sirens screamed in the street. Car tyres screeched to a halt.

  I went to the Turk. ‘Take off the watch.’

  He glared at me and grudgingly unclipped his Cartier watch, and dropped it in my hand.

  Car doors slammed, someone shouted orders through a bullhorn. The sounds of weapons locking and loading, people running through the house.

  Without warning, Gorman scrambled up, and in a flash I realised he was charging at me.

  I pulled the pin.

  Gorman stopped dead, everyone did.

  Then Gorman, Josie, and the Turk were running for the house. A logjam formed in the door, Gorman pulling bodies away to get in first. He held Josie back by the hair. She grabbed the Turk’s belt. He had hold of Gorman’s arm. Someone gave way, and they tumbled down the back steps. Mortimer, Phuong, Cuong, and Bunny all hit the ground. I tossed the thing into the pond and hit the deck, arms over my head. The grenade explosion sent shock waves out over my covered head; water, algae slime flew. Pond water rained down over everything.

  Phuong was the first to recover. She flicked a piece of slime out of her hair and raised the gun at Gorman. ‘I’m not your fucking dumpling girl.’

  People in riot gear poured around and out of the house.

  Cuong and I were ushered away to be checked over in an ambulance waiting in the street, as Special Operations officers secured the area. Bunny’s camera crew were setting up, and Ms Slipper was excitedly running around asking random cops for an interview.

  ‘Here,’ I whispered to Cuong. ‘If you have to go back to Vietnam, here’s something to take with you.’ I placed the watch in his hand. ‘Keep it, sell it. Use it to hypnotise people. It’s entirely up to you. You did a brave thing, ridding the world of Ricky Peck.’

  ‘I didn’t do that,’ he said. ‘I can’t do that. He drowned. That’s all.’

  Well, that was a relief. I couldn’t wait to tell Phuong.

  ‘But what about the ghost? I thought perhaps that was your guilt over Peck?’

  He shrugged. ‘We all have things from our past we’d rather forget, don’t we?’

  54

  LENNOX ‘OX’ GORMAN, Philomena Enright, Buster, and Luigi ‘The Turk’ Tacchini were in custody.

  Mortimer was judged to be a credible source, and given protection. True to his word, he filled in the blank spaces. A pretty row of Flowers were named. That particular gang would stink no more.

  Copeland was a slippery eel and immediately had his lawyer release a statement that claimed there was no evidence to convict him of any wrongdoing. In fact, it said, Detective Copeland was the one who had convinced Alma to do the right thing and testify against Philomena Enright. Mrs Dunmore had driven Alma to the police station. They, too, were offered protection and with a nod from her mother, the teenager’s cynicism melted like a warm McFlurry. She told the police of Enright’s reaction to the results of Cory Fontaine’s blood test. That she had witnessed Enright confront him in the toilets at McDonald’s about Cory’s illness. Enright had then let the boy go, but had followed him outside and, when he was near the road, she’d shoved Cory into the path of the truck.

  There were some chaotic scenes at the police station and the questioning seemed to go on f
orever. I gave the best account I could of everything that had happened, culminating in my presence at Ricky Peck’s house that afternoon, but excluding any self-incriminating facts. At last, I signed my statement and they called me a taxi, on the proviso that I’d return if required. I rushed home, took a long shower, washing the pond slime and cordite from my hair.

  An hour later, dressed in black pants, a black lace top, and black jacket, I entered the buzzing rooms of This Is Not A Drill. I lifted a glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray, and took in the breathless crowd. I recognised a few faces from their publicity shots. The centre of this universe, Peter Brophy the commodity, was being interviewed by a journalist, and I took the opportunity to study his work in relative privacy. The paintings, about twenty portraits, were not the representations of erotic fantasy I had baselessly feared they would be. Painted in coloured translucent circular layers, the effect was of an x-ray, not of anatomy but of radiances within and around the body. Each figure was drawn upright, and dynamic, struck with volts of white, which lit up each composition. As if the figures were trying to dance off the canvas. This mix of abstraction and reality was a radically new concept for Brophy, with only small intimations from his earlier work. I hated to concede it, but having Felicity as a model had indeed altered his aesthetic eye.

  He’d captured her recklessness, and her sensitivity. Nonetheless, he’d retained that Brophy straightforwardness. The figures appeared slightly at a distance, a little absurd, imbued with warmth and humour. A mad world made for twirling Felicities.

  I looked among the patrons and spotted her, weaving through the crowd towards me, waving a champagne glass. A moment later, I picked up her scent, a mix of neroli, patchouli, and mendacity.

  She touched her face with the cold glass. ‘I told him,’ she said. ‘Everything.’

  I sipped my champagne.

  ‘No, really. I did. I admitted that all along I’d been lying to you about him, and that I had, er, I’d lied to him about you, too.’

  I paused mid-sip. ‘What? What lies?’

  She looked stricken. ‘That you told me you wanted him to focus exclusively on the exhibition … and to leave you alone. Partly because you wanted to support him — I said that part to make it more believable — and partly because you needed space from him. I told him you thought he was smothering you … and that … you hated it.’

  I looked across the room at Brophy, as that information sank in. He was being posed by the journalist in front of one of his paintings, frowning uneasily for the camera. ‘That is some cold-hearted shit.’

  She blinked. ‘My shrink said the same thing. It’s related to a fear of abandonment, she reckons. And an unconscious rivalry with my mother, a life and death thing apparently, in which I desire her complete and total annihilation or something. But you and Peter should know that I’m aware of my destructive behaviour patterns now, and I’m going to transform my destructive tendencies into positive ones.’

  ‘Great, Felicity.’

  She stood there, clasped hands holding the flute at her chest, bouncing on her toes. I sensed some additional need in her, signs of an imminent request.

  ‘What do you want?’ I sighed. ‘Forgiveness? Absolution?’

  ‘Sure, forgive, forget, whatever.’ She took her nail scissors from her handbag. ‘And a hair, only one, for a ritual I’m performing. A small sample of your —’

  I ducked and told her if she didn’t stop I’d get a restraining order. Then I went around the space looking for friendly faces. Phuong was at home; she’d broken off the engagement and didn’t feel like socialising. I hadn’t told her the whole truth about my conversation with Copeland. But when she said they had conflicting values, I guessed she had some idea of what kind of man he really was.

  Cuong was still at the police station. He was fully cooperating with the police and willing to testify against the Corpse Flowers. He’d been assigned a lawyer, and, well, he did have a lot of explaining to do. Whether the Immigration Department would take that into considerations on visa breaches, he would have to wait and see.

  I was surprised to see Boss among the throng, inspecting a painting at close quarters. I half expected him to say it was worthless. But before I had a chance to ask him what he thought, he was patting me on the back. ‘Hardy, how about these pictures? Don’t get them, don’t understand them, but I’m buying this one. This is the one.’

  ‘They’re not cheap. Are you sure? I mean, what’s the point¸ right?’

  He waved the question away. ‘Point is I like it.’ He straightened up to face me. ‘You’re going to stay put then?’

  ‘You mean the WORMS promotion? I can’t see myself sitting in the office all day, juggling budgets.’

  He raised his glass to me. ‘Good for you.’ And then he was gone, off to see about purchasing some art.

  Then someone was tapping on their glass and calling for a bit of shush. We all looked around to see what was about to ensue. I worked my way to the front. Brophy was standing in front of the largest portrait in the exhibit. He rocked and shifted, nervous arms folded.

  He mumbled his thanks to the This Is Not A Drill gallery, and someone yelled for him to speak up. He raised his voice. ‘I want to thank a lot of people, for their support and their belief in me, friends, my daughter, Marigold. Sorry if I’ve forgotten anyone, I hope those people know I appreciate their assistance. The process was somewhat fraught at times, but I’m proud of the results.’

  A cheer went up. Someone shouted, ‘On ya, mate!’

  I cheered too, and then I made my way to the exit. This was his moment, to share with his admirers. And I’d made it here to see it. But as I told Brophy earlier, I had one last matter to take care of. Then he and I could, at long last, be together. I turned to give him a little wave and saw that he was pointing at me.

  ‘But what I really want to say is my thanks to the woman who is my inspiration, not just in my art but in my life, a woman who is … the love of my life, and I wouldn’t be here without her. Stella Hardy.’

  We shared a lingering look across the room, which rapidly seemed to have become warmer — perhaps it was the champagne — and I blew him a kiss.

  55

  FUNKY TOWN was in party mode: Cup Day night was a good time for ten-pin bowling. The doors parted. I walked through into the foyer, and into the hubbub of the bowling alley. To the right was the cafe. Afshan and Shahid were waiting for me.

  ‘Come on,’ I said.

  Afshan parked the van in the next street from the house. We approached on foot, and as we reached the corner, we could hear Conti’s party was in full swing. Cars were parked all the way down the street. I took up position in the neighbour’s front garden. Afshan and Shahid stood in the middle of the road, outside the house.

  ‘Hey, Joe,’ Afshan called. ‘Come out, Joe!’

  ‘Joe Conti! Come out and talk to us,’ Shahid was yelling.

  A few moments later, a heavy-set bloke came thundering out, wearing a kiss the cook apron, still holding a stubbie. Behind him, an older bloke, fit-looking and ready for a fight.

  The men moved, somewhat sloppily, out onto the street.

  I stayed in a crouch and moved closer.

  One of them pointed at Shahid. ‘Don’t remember inviting any ragheads, do you, mate?’

  His mate roared, laughing, then stepped to the side, bent forward and hurled up a cascade of undigested matter. He stood, unsteady but triumphant, wiped his mouth, and took a sip of beer.

  The first one patted his pockets, pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

  I moved silently out from the neighbour’s garden and behind the parked cars.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, we don’t want to interrupt your party. But you have money that belongs to us,’ Afshan said.

  ‘Fuck off, why don’t you?’

  The other drew himself up, swayed slightly. ‘We’re the pol
ice, sonny. Run along.’

  My phone was charged and ready.

  ‘That money is ours,’ Shahid said. ‘We earned it, it belongs to us.’

  The vomiter grabbed Shahid around the neck. ‘You don’t get it, do you, shithead. No one cares what happens to you. No one wants you here.’ He released Shahid with a shove.

  The other cop joined in. ‘That’s right. What’s yours is ours. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. If you don’t like it, you can fuck off back to the Stone Age shithole you crawled out of.’

  Afshan started undoing the button on his jacket. The two cops couldn’t believe it. One went forward, swung a wild roundhouse. Afshan danced out of his way.

  The older man rushed Shahid, who put two hands out and pushed back hard, knocking the cop sideways. The cop, angry now, turned around to run at Shahid again. Then he saw me crouched on the ground and stopped.

  I stood up, and addressed the man I assumed was Joe Conti. ‘You need to leave these men alone.’

  ‘The fuck are you?’

  ‘I’m the one with the incriminating video footage.’ I showed him my phone. ‘Stop bothering my friends, or we’ll see you in court.’

  The next day, I checked on the cash. There was four hundred and fifty thousand dollars under my bed and another ninety in the freezer. Sure, part of me was worried sick, and another part was exhausted from constructing elaborate rationalisations. But the largest part of me felt justified. This time, I deserved it ...

  Kylie’s phone went through to voicemail; I left a message offering to meet her and her husband and discuss a financial windfall in the family that had miraculously transpired. Then I took ten grand to work, wrapped up in a bag, and rang Afshan, telling him the good news: a small parcel with his name on it had been handed in anonymously at WORMS.

  On the news a few nights later, Bunny Slipper delivered a long piece to camera, intercut with B-roll footage of Asian hospital exteriors, street scenes from the Burmese capital, the old Corpse Flowers clubhouse, the Australian embassy in China. It would take time, she said, for Interpol to fully piece together the extent of the organ harvesting racket across three, possibly more, countries. At the Australian end, the scam included the fake passport scandal, and the luring of displaced teenagers with promises of money and drugs. Those responsible were facing multiple charges, including for the murder of homeless teenager Cory Fontaine.