Good Money

by J. M. Green

  We were a sombre bunch. With the cheesecake and the champagne still on the table, the gathering had the atmosphere of a baby shower full of guests who disliked each other. Brodtmann sensed it too, suddenly ordering us to move to the dining table.

  Broad sat at one end and pulled out a notebook. Brodtmann was at the other end, and Pukus and the cop sat down opposite me. I had that uncomfortable job-interview feeling. Brodtmann did the introductions. Dead Eyes was introduced as Conway, the deputy chief commissioner, with loads of experience with kidnapping cases. She received a nod from Brodtmann and leaned in: ‘Stella, what can you tell us?’

  ‘I was with her last night at her flat. I left around midnight —’

  ‘I mean, about her whereabouts?’

  I was confused. ‘I have no idea where she is.’

  Brodtmann and Conway exchanged glances. ‘You see,’ Brodtmann said, ‘she has done this kind of thing before. Run off.’ His face creased at the edges. ‘The name change, the move to Melbourne. She’s always testing me.’

  I almost felt sorry for him. He held his torment in check with sudden jerking movements, the squaring of his shoulders, the forward thrust of his chin. What a fucked up family. And I thought the Hardys were defective.

  Conroy pulled out her notebook and started jotting. ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘Last night, about midnight. We had plans to meet this morning but when I went to her apartment she wasn’t home.’

  ‘Did you go inside her apartment?’ Conway said. ‘Do you have a key?’

  I coughed. ‘No.’

  ‘And her mobile, do you have the number?’

  ‘Yes.’ I looked in my bag for my phone. ‘Oh shit, sorry. It’s on the charger.’

  ‘Do you know if she had more than one mobile?’ Conway asked.

  ‘Has,’ said Brodtmann quietly.

  Conway flushed to her grey roots.

  ‘She might,’ I said. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can think of — anything at all? Any friends she mentioned?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Pukus gave Brodtmann a look of regret, as though apologising for my inadequacies. Hateful man. Only I was allowed to do that. So I did. ‘Look, I’m sorry but I really don’t know her that well —’

  Brodtmann mulled over that information by jutting his chin out further. ‘I see.’

  ‘She’ll turn up,’ Pukus said suddenly.

  From the look of disgust on Brodtmann’s face, I gathered he didn’t appreciate such glib assurance.

  Crystal went to Brodtmann and took his hands. ‘She is getting attention.’ He did a slow nod, apparently unconvinced.

  Conway ripped a page from her notebook and passed it to me. ‘If you think of anything or hear from Nina, this is my direct number.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Crystal stood. ‘I regret you must all please excuse us. We get ready for tonight.’

  Brodtmann walked me to the door. ‘Minerals Council dinner,’ he said. ‘I’m giving a speech. Under the circumstances, I’d cancel, but I’m told it’s better to carry on as normal.’

  He came with me into the corridor. ‘I am very grateful to you. If you hear from my daughter, I would appreciate you contacting me immediately, day or night. The number is on here.’ He put a card in my hand. ‘You don’t need a pass to get to the foyer. The chauffeur is waiting for you. Goodbye, Miss Hardy.’

  While I waited for the lift, I inspected Brodtmann’s business card, which had a mobile number hand-written on the back.

  I made my way back to the foyer and found the chauffeur leaning against a pillar reading a newspaper. ‘All set?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The limo’s round the back.’

  We walked through a mall of high-priced shops and restaurants. I paused at a chic bar and considered an alternative evening to one spent with Ben eating reheated Vietnamese leftovers, like reclining in one of those swanky lounges with a glass of something strong. My eye was drawn to a tall gentleman sitting by himself at a table in the corner. Uh oh, Finchley Price. I had not seen him outside court before and my brain was slow to make the connection. He seemed flustered, not the chill dude I’d seen during the trial. He sat on a low stool, his knees up near his chest, fidgeting with a napkin.

  What was it about Price that fascinated me so much? He was a creepy butler of a man, with his permanent look of doom. Not ugly exactly, but funny-looking. Something to do with the rarefied air he breathed. Here was a man at the top of his game, respected, earning more than the prime minister, and yet who was at ease within the criminal milieu — and able to communicate with the likes of Clacker Pickering. Client confidentiality aside, Price was friendly with Melbourne gangland criminals, and he might know if they had learned which usually righteous social worker had deprived them of drug money six years ago.

  Broad checked his watch and gave me a beseeching look.

  I held up a hand. Could I just stroll up and say, ‘What’s up, Finchley’?

  ‘Traffic’s dire,’ he said. ‘Make up your mind.’

  I brushed down the sleeves of my jacket and squared my shoulders, trying to think of a clever opening line. But before I could act, someone crossed the bar, hand extended, to greet Finchley Price. It was Gaetano Cesarelli, still in the purple velvet jacket and mirrored sunglasses. The barrister stood on his praying mantis legs and they shook hands, then they sat together and began a furtive tête-à-tête. I was tempted to saunter over and eavesdrop. Instead I tore myself away and told Broad to drop me on Union Road so I could pick up a box of refreshment on my way home.

  The roads were clogged. As the car crawled north, the streetlights came on. Don’t ask me why, but the change from day to night had always put me on edge. It was the feeling that time had run out, and I was forced to admit to failure somehow.

  It had been, without a doubt, a horrible day. It was only once the wine cask was under my arm and I was walking home, that I started to feel better. It was pleasant to unwind, and be outside in the evening air. I passed the local wine bar and saw Amber and Jack, my neighbours from number 11, inside having a drink. Jack took a cracker, added some cheese, and showed it to Amber. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth. I averted my eyes and hurried home.

  11

  MY FLAT was Ben-less. Though the man-child was elsewhere, his presence was felt in the order and hygiene of the place. The flat was as clean as a hospital and as cold as a morgue. I turned on the heater, put the cask on the bench, and worked the tap out of the cardboard by feel, like a blindfolded SAS soldier assembling a rifle. In a matter of seconds I had a full glass in my hand and was contemplating recent developments. Cesarelli had morning coffee with Mabor Chol and late-afternoon drinks with Finchley Price. That didn’t make sense — if Cesarelli was planning to have Clacker bumped off in prison, why would he partake of mojitos with the man who was representing Clacker?

  You could also say it didn’t make sense for a girl with a billionaire father to leave town, change her name, and work as a beautician. It was clear to me from our meeting that there was much that Brodtmann wasn’t saying — but that I had sensed he wanted to.

  I tipped the contents of my handbag on the kitchen counter. Wallet, keys, Adut’s exercise book, the article about the opening of the Crouching Tiger, and Brodtmann’s business card. The CC Prospecting Director wanted me to call him direct. I decided I would, but first I required a little more information about Mr Brodtmann, and the whole CC Prospecting situation.

  As unlikely as it seemed, I already knew a few things about his mining business. I knew, for instance, that they were bidding for the Shine Point refinery. Also, the sketchy details from the article I’d read in The Age this morning were coming back to me. Tax avoidance, something about ASIC not enforcing the Corporations Act to the letter of
the law, billionaires receiving special treatment. I searched The Age website and found it: CC PROSPECTING FILED ACCOUNTS LATE by Vince McKechnie.

  That name was familiar, but I couldn’t recall where I’d heard it before. Probably from reading The Age.

  Vince McKechnie. Wait. The business card I found in Tania’s apartment. It now seemed likely, not to mention fishy, that Tania had had contact with a journalist — and one that was concerned mainly with business and finance.

  There was a link to an email address at the bottom of the article; I dashed off the following:

  Dear Mr McKechnie,

  I have information regarding CC Prospecting. Please reply to arrange a meeting at your earliest convenience.

  Stella Hardy

  I had no actual new information on CC Prospecting, but I wanted to know what Tania had discussed with him and it seemed a good way to get his attention. Besides, it felt good lying to a journalist, selective truth was their lingua franca.

  I closed the laptop and my eyes were confronted with the mess on the bench. Once, I could ignore mess, but with Ben now making things clean, it stood out as a chaotic slight on an otherwise ordered world. If he saw it he would have a conniption. Not that I cared — but I started picking up my stuff and putting it all back into the bag. I was sorting through it all when I came across the invitation to the exhibition opening at the Narcissistic Slacker gallery in Footscray. The room seemed mildly warmer, at least I certainly was, and when I thought of the paintings, and the grey-eyed artist, my pulse quickened. An idea took hold of me — why not go? Then an even more absurd idea hit me — why not dress up? — and I found myself in my room with my wardrobe flung open, and me, wanting to impress the arty crowd, grabbing at an assortment of tops and bottoms. A moment later I returned to the kitchen. Clothes were hell. Drinking made it better. I refilled my glass and flopped on my sofa. Only then did I see the red light blink on my answering machine.

  ‘It’s me, love. Thought I’d let you know that Shane’s not going to be here Sunday night. Reckons he’s got an allergy. So you can relax about that side of things.’

  I hit erase and went back to look in my wardrobe. Deep in the back, I found an item I had bought in the throes of my Jacob insanity, that I had worn only once, on what had turned out to be our last date. I spread it out on the bed. Made from a floaty silky fabric in various hues of rose, it was bias-cut for a smooth fit. But even if the dress still fitted, there remained a serious problem: a lack of suitable shoes. My taste in footwear leaned towards the practical: chunky elastic-sided boots, sensible flats, and sandals you could run a marathon in. Then I remembered the ones Tania had given me. I opened the David Jones bag. They were things of beauty — high-heeled, with ivory straps, silver buckles. Very Tania.

  I stopped dead in my tracks. Tania. I couldn’t in good conscience wear these now, not with her missing, possibly abducted. What had happened to her? Whenever I thought about it I felt sick. Fear was taking root within me. Since this morning I had steadily become more anxious, but there was nothing I could do. It was up to the police now.

  I needed to calm down, I needed numbness, I needed to stare mindlessly at a screen. I went looking for my glass of wine and found it in the bathroom. From my shelves, I picked one of the pirated DVDs Tania had given me: The Blue Lagoon. I took my laptop to the bedroom and took off my boots and jacket and got under the covers. I slotted the DVD and waited for the movie to start. There was a lot of computer noise but no movie. Then a folder appeared: dcREPORTS_PRELIM_2008. I clicked, it opened. Inside was a single PDF entitled BLUE LAGOON. I clicked again.

  Report on the quality of alluvial samples in Mount Percy Sutton tenement area for Blue Lagoon Corp and Bailey Range Metals. August 2008.

  Someone had erased the movie and used it to store their documents. I had no idea if this thing was important or confidential, or just the boring geological paperwork that it appeared to be. The parts I read were intractable guff. I scrolled speedily down a hundred and thirty-one pages — scientific waffle, with some graphs and tables and maps. I skipped to the conclusion.

  … first assays, from deep drilling, were not encouraging … shoots of zinc and iron rich sulphides … limited trace amounts of gold … GOLD MINING NOT RECOMMENDED.

  It ended with contact details — email, phone, and fax — for an independent geological consultant.

  Now the fear within me began to bloom like algae on a stagnant pond. This was not some mix up — it was the deliberate attempt to conceal a document on a DVD that had been disguised as a movie, bundled as it was with two other decoy DVDs.

  Stella, please take them. As a favour to me.

  Tania’s request that I take the DVDs now appeared less than innocent. In fact, I was starting to believe it was calculated. Disguise the document and give it to your neighbour for safekeeping. From whom was I keeping it safe? A mining report might be of interest to a competitor. Perhaps CC Prospecting, Tania’s father’s company, had wanted to know what these Blue Lagoon Corp people were up to. One thing was certain, I had misjudged the young beautician.

  I was deciding if I should go to the police with this when I heard footsteps on the landing outside. I closed the laptop and went into the kitchen. A key turned in the lock and Ben shuffled in, arms burdened with shopping bags, panting after the three flights.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, more sigh than greeting. ‘You took a while.’

  ‘I had to see a bloke,’ he said, and dumped the spoils on the table.

  ‘What’s all this?’

  ‘This lot is cleaning products. That bag is basic necessities: toilet paper, soap, air freshener. And that one is tonight’s dinner, tea, whatever. Rice, tofu, broccoli, pickled ginger, a packet of Japanese curry.’

  I opened one of the bags. ‘Air freshener?’

  ‘Believe me. A basic necessity. Put this in the fridge.’ He handed me a bottle of wine and started putting away the groceries. In the last bag was a large cardboard box.

  ‘What the flipping heck is this?’ I demanded.

  ‘An espresso maker. I like to have coffee in the morning. Drinkable coffee.’

  ‘That’s what Buffy’s is for.’

  ‘Waste of money.’

  I put the wine away and saw the leftovers in the fridge. ‘You don’t have to cook,’ I said. ‘There’s plenty of takeaway here.’

  He snorted in disgust.

  ‘Yes, but tofu? Really?’

  ‘I happen to like the taste of tofu.’

  I watched him move about the kitchen, enjoying the confidence he had with simple acts of peeling or chopping.

  The image of Dad came to mind, and the memory of the coppery odour after the sheep bled out — and I stood there waiting, blood all over me. Dad had whistled but the dog was suspicious; he stayed where he was, tail wagging uncertainly. ‘It’s in the ute,’ Dad called. I hesitated. ‘Under the seat,’ he added. ‘Go on.’

  ‘You had the shotgun with you the whole time? Why the hell didn’t you do it — just bloody shoot her?’ My voice sounded strained, the words strangled.

  He frowned, serious but not angry. ‘Stella, love …’

  But I didn’t want to hear what he had to say. For a long time afterward, I regretted not simply walking the five kilometres back home. It would have been my first act of real defiance against him.

  ‘Hey Ben, did Dad ever make you kill anything?’

  He looked at me like I was an inmate with a shiv. ‘What? No! Never. Why?’

  ‘No reason.’

  He had all four burners on the stove going, saucepans on each; I could have sworn I only owned one pot. Agreeable cooking aromas gathered in my nostrils. Chopped vegetables waited on the board.

  ‘Where’s your compost?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Don’t have one.’

  He made a noise of derision and poured
me a glass of wine. Everyone I knew, it seemed, had better taste in fermented grapes than I did. It was a delight in my mouth and mellow in my throat.

  ‘Have you been in prison or competing on MasterChef?’

  ‘There’s so much you don’t know about me.’ Ben stirred one of the pots, his back to me, though I sensed his satisfaction.

  ‘Does the name Gaetano Cesarelli mean anything to you?’

  ‘What is this, a test?’

  ‘Yes. Your special subject is Melbourne’s underworld criminals and your time starts now.’

  He blew on some goo on the end of his wooden spoon, then tasted it. ‘Yeah. I know him. Know of him. Bit of a poseur. Mafiosi wannabe. Plates or bowls?’

  ‘Plates.’ I took two plates from the cupboard and put them on the bench.

  ‘He calls himself the Caesar of Sunbury. They reckon when he collects debts he says “render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s” then he breaks your fingers. Why do you ask?’

  ‘My client’s son is —’

  ‘Client’s son is not a client.’

  I nodded. ‘Okay. Not officially a client. But she’s already lost one boy to murder — and I’m pretty sure her other son works for Cesarelli.’

  ‘Then he’s probably a lost cause.’

  I didn’t think Mabor was irredeemable. People changed. Like Ben. The brother I used to know was always in fights, or drunk or stoned or worse, and now look at him: a more responsible human being you could never hope to meet. Perhaps he had had a revelation in jail, though that was not usually where people turned their lives around. He’d reformed all by himself. Magnanimity stirred within me. ‘Doing anything tonight?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m having cocktails with the Queen.’

  ‘Can you cancel? I’ve got an invitation to an art thing.’