by J. M. Green
‘Art?’ He eyed me suspiciously. ‘Where?’
‘What difference does it make? Footscray.’
‘Not my thing, art,’ he said and started to set the table.
‘A favour to me.’
‘No.’
‘Fine.’ I mooched to the sofa and flopped down on it. ‘Ingrate.’ I continued to mutter and drink wine in this passive-aggressive fashion for some time. I put the TV on for the seven o’clock news. After a few overseas stories there was a piece to camera from a court reporter:
There were sensational scenes in court today as Darren Pickering, 29, of Deer Park, had charges of murder against him dropped. Instead, Mr Pickering has pleaded guilty to one count of manslaughter. Mr Pickering was also charged with two counts of aggravated robbery, to which he pleaded guilty.
Asked by counsel why he attacked the victim, Mr Pickering replied, ‘I had his phone and I was going home but he rushed me and I had to defend myself.’
After security footage of the incident was discovered to have been damaged, lawyer for Mr Pickering, Mr Finchley Price SC, successfully argued that there was no evidence that Mr Pickering had planned the attack on Mr Chol behind the Kensington restaurant.
Security was increased for the second committal hearing, with additional police and an additional metal detector placed outside the court.
Mr Pickering was charged after an alleged robbery that left Adut Chol, 16, dead. Mr Chol was stabbed through the heart with a knife.
Bail for the defendant was again refused.
The image cut to a shot of journalists firing questions at Finchley Price.
‘Darren Pickering has cooperated fully …’ he was saying. ‘My client protests his innocence and is not a flight risk. In light of the change to the charges against my client, we will therefore be appealing the decision to refuse bail. I will not be commenting further at this stage.’
I unplugged my phone from the charger and called Mrs Chol.
‘Stella, hello, how are you?’
‘I just heard.’
She sighed. ‘The murder charge is dropped.’
‘What happened?’
‘The police told me they can’t use the CCTV images from that restaurant. Now the case is not strong enough for the murder charge.’
‘At least Clacker will go to jail for the crime.’
‘Manslaughter. What is that? It is the same thing, murder.’
‘In a way, yes,’ I said. Those fine legal distinctions were not easily understood, especially not by me. I agreed the situation was rotten. ‘And you?’ I asked. ‘Are you alright?’
‘I don’t know. I’m strong for the girls. I have my brothers to help me.’
‘That’s good.’ Then I turned into the world’s shittiest person and turned the conversation around. ‘And Mabor? How’s he?’
‘He is not happy.’
‘Because of the manslaughter charge? Or did you tell him about the book?’
‘What? Your book? No, it is yours. Why would I do that?’
‘No reason. Why is he not happy? I mean, is there another reason?’
‘He is unhappy at school. He doesn’t want to go anymore. I have tried to change his mind.’
‘Is Mabor there at the moment? Is he at home?’
‘No. What is wrong, Stella?’
‘Nothing. Nothing. Not a thing. At all. Goodbye.’
There was food on the table. Ben had plated up with a swirl of sauce, a sprig of coriander placed just so, and the rice turned out in a perfect teacup shape. I mushed it all up together and the result tasted pretty good.
‘Do you know Gaetano Cesarelli? Personally, I mean,’ I asked.
‘Stella, I barely know the guy.’
‘What about Darren Pickering — know him?’
‘Clacker? Yeah, I know him. A bit.’
‘He murdered a boy called Adut Chol, for a mobile phone.’
I waited for a reaction. He coughed and stared at me. ‘I saw Mabor Chol, the boy’s brother, with Gaetano,’ I continued.
Ben looked bewildered. ‘So?’
‘Mabor thought Gaetano was protecting Adut.’
‘The boys were probably selling for him.’
‘Yes. Clacker is involved with Cesarelli, isn’t he?’
‘Yeah. Clacker’s in with the Flemington crew,’ he said quietly.
I didn’t like how serious he’d become. ‘Why do they call him Clacker?’
‘Don’t ask.’ Ben said, straightening up. ‘They think he stabbed some African kid for a phone?’
‘Yes.’
Ben shook his head. ‘Clacker probably has three iPhones. He isn’t some delinquent, he’s a dealer with an organised set of connections.’
‘Dealing in what?’
‘Shakalak.’
‘Just tell me, Ben, I’m not in the mood.’
‘Crank, get go, shaboo, shard.’
‘Shard? So you mean ice, why didn’t you say so?’
Dealing ice was a dangerous occupation, and associating with vicious criminals like Clacker and Cesarelli was risky. What, I wondered, had Adut done to cross them?
Ben stood to gather the plates. I stopped him and took them to the sink myself. I turned on the taps and rinsed the plates, left them to dry. ‘Dinner was excellent.’
He shrugged and poured more wine in my glass.
I sat down and took a big sip. ‘Wine too. First class.’
‘Fine. I’ll see the art with you. But we’re not staying long.’
12
I WANTED to leap over the table and give him a grateful squeeze. I went to my room to change, when my phone buzzed. It was Phuong. ‘How’d it go with the billionaires?’
‘Got a lift there and back home in a limo.’
‘Good for you.’
‘It’s another planet — Planet Money.’
‘Hungry ghosts.’
‘Who?’
‘Billionaires. When they die, they’re too attached to their money. They come back as hungry ghosts. It’s very low on the reincarnation scale.’
‘Lower than a slug?’
‘Yeah. Pretty much. So who was with them?’
‘Oh, they had Marcus Pugh there.’
‘The donor says “jump”, the party says “how high?”’
‘Pretty much. And that commissioner, Conrad.’
‘Conway. She’s very qualified, Harvard MBA or something.’
Here was the moment to tell Phuong about the mining report I found concealed on the DVD. It would be germane to the case, possibly send the police in a new direction, one potentially involving industrial espionage. My only hesitation was that I might inadvertently incriminate Tania. She’d asked me to keep the DVDs safe. I had to honour that commitment. Instead, I focused on the matter of Adut. ‘What can you tell me about Gaetano Cesarelli?’
‘He’s a great big poonce.’ Phuong laughed. ‘No. Actually, he’s a violent thug. Acts legit, coffee importer for a cover, but his KA’s deal in ice, smack, ecstasy. Why?’
‘It was Gaetano I saw Mabor Chol with today.’ Phuong was quiet. I thought I heard tapping. ‘Did you see Clacker’s lawyer on TV tonight?’
‘In up to his neck,’ said Phuong.
‘Who?’
‘Finchley Price. And that’s according to Ashwood.’
‘Ah yes, he who likes to sit on people’s desks. He’d know who was bent and who wasn’t, I suppose.’ I thought for a moment. ‘Did I tell you I saw Price with Gaetano Cesarelli? They were having a drink together at some bar in Crown.’
‘Figures. Ashwood says Price is way too close to the crooks he represents.’
‘Yeah, but coming from Ashwood. I mean, the guy’s a mindless thug. How c
an you stand to work with him?’
‘Ashwood’s not that bad. In a way, I feel sorry for him. Every time he gets a promotion, he does something stupid and gets busted back to constable,’ she said, giggling.
‘Stupid like what?’
‘Bruce reckons he was reprimanded for an incident involving a prostitute.’
I feigned astonishment. ‘Really?’
‘Drug squad busted her unit but the evidence went missing. Charges dropped.’
‘Ashwood stole the drugs?’
‘Technically, he failed to secure the evidence. But everyone knew he was involved with her.’
‘When was this?’
‘Late nineties.’
‘Wait. How old is he? He looks about twenty.’
‘Baby face. He’s in his thirties.’
A baby face, I thought, would be a nice problem to have. ‘I wouldn’t be feeling sorry for him, sounds like a total dick. I’d stay right away from him.’
‘If I stayed away from every racist idiot in a police uniform, I’d never come to work.’
‘That bad?’
‘Some are. They’re all friendly and welcoming, all the right anti-discrimination policies, meanwhile behind your back they say things to make a porn star blush.’
‘Not Copeland.’
‘Bruce? No. Got to go, Stella. I’ll look into that African boy’s information and get back to you.’
In all the years since I’d known Phuong, since we both dropped out of Arts at Melbourne University and I went into social work and she became a cop, she had never once offered to use her cop powers to help me with a client. Now, without me even asking, she looks into Mabor for me. What, I wondered, had come over her? And what was with the giggling and the silly joke? Maybe she was on drugs.
I put on the rose-coloured frock and, after some agonising, I put on Tania’s shoes, after all, she had insisted I take them. I put my hair up in a twist, as I had seen Tania often do, and skewered it with a large bobby pin. Ben was sitting at the kitchen table. He’d done the dishes and changed into a clean pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Only a couple of neck tatts showed.
‘You look awesome —’
‘Shut up,’ I said, pleased. I put on my coat. ‘Looks like rain. You got a jacket?’
‘No drama. We can go in my car,’ he said, with a haughty sniff.
‘What car?’
I followed him to the carpark under the flats. In my parking spot was a 1980 red two-door Mazda Rotary that smelled of stale motor oil and Fisherman’s Friends. He gunned it and I nodded appreciatively. I jumped in, belted up, and the Mazda roared down Roxburgh Street. At the T-intersection, it backfired and then stalled. Without a word, he restarted it and we motored away down Union Road. As the Mazda conveyed us through the night, a light shower fell. We crossed the Maribyrnong and Ben flicked a lever — one wiper went flat-out and the other made a pitiable attempt to keep up. We made it to the Narcissistic Slacker gallery at the fashionably late hour of 10.15pm.
Ben drove by a couple of times to check the place out, and then parked a few blocks away. He made a great show of putting on the steering lock and checking that the doors were locked. I wanted to leap over the car and beat him to death with my handbag. ‘Any chance of getting to this thing before Christmas?’
‘Can’t be too careful.’
‘Yes, Ben. You can. You can be a complete tool for being too careful. Now come on before we die of old age.’
The Footscray streets were wet and empty, except for an elderly citizen inspecting the rubbish bins for treasure. We walked on until I stopped at the gallery entrance.
‘Here?’ Ben asked, apprehensive.
The door flew open; a girl rushed past us to vomit in the gutter.
‘Yes,’ I said, and moved my sandal away in the nick of time, avoiding a spray of carrot.
13
IT WAS not so much an elegant gathering of art-lovers as an old-fashioned punk party. The music was crazy loud. People lined the stairs and the corridors, and yelled in each other’s ears. The main gallery space itself was packed with punters of all ages, dancing, drinking, and in some cases, pashing on. It was a bit early in the night for all this carry-on, I thought. And I was feeling way over-dressed. Most people were wearing clothes suitable for, say, mowing the lawn. But at least there was cheese — or there had been. An empty tray with vacant toothpicks was on a small table by the door.
I found a kitchen in which two people could comfortably stand; about fifteen people were in there. I squeezed past and added my beers to the ice in the sink. Grabbing two bottles, I squeezed out again. I found Ben in the hall and gave him a stubby. The heat was stifling and I reluctantly took off my coat; in my party dress and French twist I couldn’t have been more overdressed if I was wearing a tiara.
‘Where’s the artist?’ he asked.
‘Don’t know.’ I’d been scanning every room we passed but so far had not located him.
Someone called out, ‘Hey, Brophy!’ Ben’s eyes flicked behind me. I tried to pivot but a heel stuck in the carpet and I stumbled back, slamming into the wall. I looked up, dazed, into Peter’s smiling face.
‘Sold anything?’ I asked.
‘A few.’
‘The seagull one?’
‘Not sure. Let’s go and see.’
I followed him into the exhibition space. Most of the works had red dots beside them. Labels put each one at $1500. The seagull one was sold. I could have cried. It felt personal. It was lost to me.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ he slurred. ‘I can do another one. Just for you.’
A charmer. My suspicion response kicked in.
‘Hey, you want to see something?’ he breathed into my ear. He ushered me out, along the corridor, in the direction of a ladder.
High-heels and ladders don’t mix. ‘You first,’ I said.
I followed him as best I could, up through a manhole and into the roof. We crawled along a small cavity and out onto an open, junk-strewn rooftop. The rain had stopped, mist drifted in batches across the sky. I was freezing. I didn’t care.
He attempted to erect a deckchair.
‘Stella,’ I said.
‘What? Where?’
‘Me. I’m Stella. Stella Hardy.’
‘Stella Hardy.’ He patted the wobbly chair. ‘Here you go.’
The torn canvas was uninviting, and instead I took an Austen-esque turn about the rooftop. Brightly lit cranes were working on the docks. Further to the west, the curvature of the long bridge was bustling with white light flowing one way and a river of red going the other. A wind gust brought numbing cold, and the smell of rotting fruit from the street. A graceful tabby was picking its way along the wall. ‘Whose cat?’
Peter was cross-legged on the floor beside the deckchair. He retrieved a beer from his pocket and waved it at the cat. ‘That’s Aragorn.’
‘Aragorn? As in …’ my heart rate changed tempo, ‘… Return of the King?’
‘Yeah.’ He seemed slightly embarrassed.
I looked at him anew. Yes, that was a handsome profile. I watched the cat slinking, sleek paws and languid movements, to press its head against Peter’s leg. ‘He’s not mine. He’s Marigold’s.’ He stroked the cat’s chin. ‘Arn’cha, Aragorn?’
So. There was a Marigold. Of course there was a Marigold. She was probably my exact opposite. Beautiful. Creative. Her parents were probably gifted artists who’d never eaten meat or uttered a racist slur in their lives. I exhaled a sigh of white fog and wandered to the other side of the roof. ‘Be nice up here in summer. Hot nights.’
‘Yeah.’ He looked around. ‘Where are you? Come back.’
I walked around back to him. Everywhere was wet. No choice but to risk the deckchair. It held, just. He inched closer to me. �
��Where’re you from?’
‘Ascot Vale.’
‘Dangerous place. Bloke got shot.’
His hand was on my arm, nothing creepy in it. At that moment, my bobby pin pinged, the centre could not hold, and the hairdo fell apart. There was nothing to be done, and so I pretended not to care. At the same time, raised voices reached us from inside the building. A woman’s hoarse accusation, and a male voice shouting a string of curses. I recognised Ben’s unique turn of phrase.
‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I better see to this.’
I trotted down the ladder, slipped and fell for the last four rungs. A crowd had gathered around the kitchen. I couldn’t see what was happening until I squeezed through. Ben stood with his back to the wall, cornered. A woman was pointing at him. ‘Bullshit!’ she screamed. The music stopped. I made my way to Ben. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Tell your friend,’ the woman growled, ‘to keep his fucking hands off my phone.’
Before he could issue more abuse and denials, I took his arm. ‘Time to go.’ We drove home in silence. By now, Brophy would know that I was associated with a petty criminal, one who was unable to refrain from thievery for one evening. The weight of my despondency thrust me lower into the Mazda’s bucket seat.
Ben pulled up outside my building.
I wasn’t angry, I was numb. ‘Ben —’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Back to the boarding house.’
It was pathetic, like he’d sent himself to the naughty corner. I had known many boarding houses over the years I worked with housing agencies. As a place to call home they were one step up from prison or rehab, which was where most of your fellow tenants there came from. A bunch of barely functional people forced to live in close proximity, with alcohol or drugs and the strain of poverty. It was not a recipe for happiness. I couldn’t let him go back there, not in the middle of the night at any rate.
‘Come on up. We’ll see about getting you sorted in the morning.’
He parked the Mazda in my spot under my building and we trudged up the stairs.
On the second floor landing, a man in trackpants, a hood pulled up over his head, came bounding down the stairs. He ran too fast to take the turn and slammed into the wall before sprinting down the next flight. His stupid thongs going slap-slap-slap as he cantered down the steps. When I reached my front door, I saw some of the paint on the doorjamb had been scraped off, focusing around the lock, where chisel marks dented the woodwork.