Good Money

by J. M. Green

  Phuong closed her folder.

  I pushed my chair back. ‘Are you saying Cesarelli never mentioned Nina Brodtmann?’

  ‘Never. I don’t know anything about any girl getting kidnapped. Sounds like bullshit to me, the whole thing.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because he was busy as. Every bit of shard west of Melbourne was his shit. Why risk all that for a dumb-arse kidnapping?’ He turned to me, for some reason. ‘Full-on security conscious, Cesar, and he gets cracked at his own fuckin fortress in sunny Keilor. How does that happen?’

  Phuong dropped me back at work, and as I walked through the waiting room a discarded newspaper caught my eye:

  ICE PRINCESS? Brodtmann daughter found dead in drug den. An anonymous source said today that Ms Brodtmann was addicted to the drug ‘ice’ and had been working as a prostitute for Gaetano Cesarelli.

  The anonymous source was the journalist’s arse — and Brodtmann would sue it. There was something else in the article about loose morals and a wardrobe full of ten-thousand-dollar handbags. Utter bullshit. She was no inheritance queen, for God’s sake, she’d once worked in a mailroom. That was menial, boring work. The kind of work where having a friend made it bearable.

  I thought about that for a moment. I had been thinking of a James, but maybe this ‘Jimmy’ was a she — a Jimmi, or a Jamie, or Ja’mie?

  I went to my desk and stared at my computer. The time was 1.15pm, which was 11.15am in Western Australia. I had the office to myself: Shaninder was out and Boss was on the phone with his door shut. I searched for the Ladies’ College in Perth and rang the number. A receptionist called Pam answered, sounding overwhelmed but polite. ‘How may I help you?’

  ‘I’m Stella Hardy, Clayton Brodtmann’s PA. You may have heard the terrible news Nina Brodtmann has passed away.’

  ‘Oh yes, Miss Hardy, we are all devastated.’

  ‘I’m contacting some of Nina’s closest school friends to arrange a memorial ceremony for immediate family and close friends. I wondered if you could provide me with some contact details.’

  ‘It’s not standard practice.’

  ‘Mr Brodtmann would appreciate your help. He is a very generous donor, you know, to the school.’

  ‘Yes. Quite. And what are the names?’

  ‘The names. Of course. Well, I am mainly trying to reach Jimmy.’

  ‘Jimmy?’ A pause.

  I had gambled and lost.

  ‘…You don’t mean Jemima Slattery? They were inseparable.’

  ‘Yes. Jemima,’ I said, calmly. ‘Do you have her parents’ number on file?’

  ‘Just a minute.’

  I listened to some piano music. I didn’t like piano. If it had to be classical, I preferred strings, sad violins, maudlin cello.

  ‘The parents are separated and I only have an address for her mother. But it hasn’t been updated since 2006.’

  ‘That’s fine, I’ll give Jemima’s mother a call.’

  ‘Eliza Slattery. Sixteen Purcell Street, Cottesloe.’

  ‘Thank you, Pam. I am most grateful.’

  I walked home via Union Road so I could buy a wine cask from the supermarket. Shopping was a necessary evil. I grabbed random items for eating and drinking and paid with a wave of plastic. As I entered my building, I met Brown Cardigan in the foyer, checking his mailbox.

  ‘Most unfortunate,’ said he of the gigantic understatement.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. He gave me a grave nod and ascended the stairs. I checked my own mail and found a single business-size envelope without a stamp. My name and address were written in a hand I did not recognise.

  Stella,

  I should have told you. I meant to. I was going to. I was stupid not to. I wish I could fix this. I’m sorry. Please let me explain.

  Peter

  I put the letter back in the envelope and shoved it in my bag. Upstairs in my flat I rang Vince McKechnie.

  ‘Jimmy is Jemima Slattery. Mother is Eliza Slattery, last known address is Purcell Street, Cottesloe.’

  ‘I’ll take it from here, Hardy. Good work. Be in touch.’

  I went downstairs and took my washing out of the dryer, and headed back upstairs. Before I reached my door, my phone was singing.

  McKechnie. ‘Jimmy’s in a palliative care hospice over here. Cancer.’

  He said it like it was nothing. ‘You’re a first-class hard-arse, McKechnie, you know that? Anyway, well done. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘How so?’

  A snap decision. ‘I’m coming to Perth. First available.’

  He gave me his address with a hint of astonishment that was highly satisfying.

  I hung up, and opened my laptop and booked a seat on the next morning’s red-eye special to Perth. Then I made a meal sourced from tins — four-bean mix, corn, tuna — and tossed it together with a dash from a bottle of ready-made French dressing. I ate standing up, and washed it down with a glass of Italian sparkling mineral water I’d just purchased in a moment of madness.

  Clacker had a point about Tania. It seemed unlikely that Gaetano, an ice-selling kingpin, would dabble in kidnapping off his own bat. He had to be working with someone. Mr Funsail. But Maurangi was a thug, not a criminal mastermind. No way was he Funsail. How to find out? Who knew Gaetano intimately and was privy to his business affairs?

  Price. Finchley Price. High-powered lawyer to the underworld. I googled his name and found his chambers on William Street. It was barrister central, handy to every type of court and half the law firms in the city. I rang the number and spoke to a secretary. ‘I would like an appointment to see Finchley Price.’

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Price is fully booked until October.’

  ‘It concerns his client Mr Cesarelli.’

  ‘And you are?’

  The bottle of mineral water was near to hand. ‘Galvanina Monte, a friend of Gaetano, a very close friend, if you take my meaning — and tell Mr Price that Gaetano gave me something to give to him.’

  ‘Just a minute.’

  I waited, but not for long.

  ‘Mr Price will see you in his chambers at three this afternoon.’

  Galvanina, as I was now, called for the exotic — and that was exactly what I wasn’t. I improvised with my best jeans, my sluttiest low-cut top, and a black blazer I’d bought years ago for a job interview but which I’d only worn to a funeral. I applied eyeliner and dark red lipstick. I tipped my head down and teased the underneath hair. Then I studied the results in the mirror: my face was now framed with big Italianate hair, foofed up yet still sleek after yesterday’s cut. The overall effect was of a high-class, if mature, vamp. I was ready, but there was one more thing; if it all went to hell, I needed backup. I made a quick call to Raewyn Ross and fed her some crap about impressing the boys. She was more than willing.

  I drew breath to keep the nausea from taking over. Thinking about my dad, for some inexplicable reason, I steadied myself against the wall. I’d done it — I killed his dog. Levelled the barrel and pulled the trigger. It was perverse of him to make me do it. I couldn’t speak to him for three weeks. And then his Cessna stalled and fell out of the sky.

  And I was thinking about Brophy; I knew the situation was settled. Despite his brainless letter, it was over. A bit sooner than even I had expected. I put on my scarf and smelled Brophy. The situation was not settled, not yet. It was decidedly unsettled. The terrible burning in my chest was proof of that.

  30

  LESS THAN an hour later, I was at the south-western end of the Melbourne CBD standing in front of the lockers at Southern Cross Station. I chose a locker and put the key in a yellow envelope I’d just bought at a newsagent along with a copy of the Herald Sun. From there, I walked north up Spencer Street. It was exactly 3 o’clock when I reached Price’s
chambers.

  The brass name plate said Mason Dickson Chambers. Here they gathered — a billable hour of barristers, a picnic of lawyers, a murder of crows. And sure enough, a bewigged gentleman barged past me, followed by a woman in a dark suit pulling a wheeled suitcase. I entered, and after a bit of hunting, found Price’s rooms. I let myself into the waiting room. It was empty; no associate to greet me. I sat on the edge of the chair and put the newspaper and the yellow envelope on my lap. From my handbag resting primly on my knees, I withdrew a tissue and proceeded to rub my nose and dab at my eyes.

  Price appeared, silent as death, tall as Lurch — and bowed his head. ‘Miss Monte, if you please,’ he said, pointing to his office. The wood-panelling was dark, the rug Persian, the bookshelves vast, and the law reports many.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

  I did; the armchair was yielding yet firm.

  He sat behind his desk, put his elbows on the blotter, and touched his fingers together. It struck me as not unusual that he would use a blotter. There was a phone and a photo frame turned away from visitors, but no computer. Perhaps he used a tablet, or had a laptop stashed in a purpose-built drawer under the desk. His eyebrows were raised in mild interest. ‘How may I be of assistance, Miss Monte?’

  ‘Gaetano and I, we had a special relationship.’

  The eyebrows came down. ‘Special in what sense?’

  ‘Private.’

  ‘Quite,’ he said. ‘He certainly never mentioned you to me.’

  ‘Well, why would he? You’re his lawyer, not his priest.’

  That sent the eyebrows up a good five centimetres.

  ‘You see, Gaetano had needs. Unusual needs. That only I could satisfy. I think it was me being from an Italian background.’

  ‘You don’t look Italian,’ Price said dryly.

  ‘My mother was Irish. From County Clannad.’

  He frowned. ‘Is that a county?’

  ‘As I was saying, sometimes he needed me to be his mother, sometimes a member of religious order specialising in harsh discipline, and sometimes,’ I lowered my voice, ‘a podiatrist.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite —’

  ‘His feet, Mr Price. I was required to —’

  ‘I know what a podiatrist is.’

  ‘— to touch them, do things on them, to put them —’

  ‘Please, get to the point.’

  ‘Well, it was strictly business at first, but after a few months we became close. Inseparable. It’s only natural if you’ve done particular activities with a person. You know what I’m saying? We’ve been exposed to each other, vulnerable. And —’

  ‘Miss Monte, I’m sure —’

  ‘Call me Galvanina.’

  ‘Yes, fine.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But my time is limited. And expensive. My associate said you had something for me, from Mr Cesarelli.’

  ‘Gaetano had evidence.’

  I held up the yellow envelope, waved it, and his eyes followed like a six-week-old kitten.

  ‘What you want to see, it’s not actually in here. There’s no money, either, because I’ve looked.’

  Appalled, the corners of his mouth came down. ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Hey, don’t judge me. I’ve got bills to pay like everyone else. Seems to me that everyone’s got their spot at the trough — politicians, union bosses. Why’s it so bad if a working girl gets her turn?’

  Price worked his jaw around, the long face stretched to one side and then the other. I could tell he was nearing the limit of his patience. ‘Miss … I mean, Galvanina, what do you have in the envelope?’

  I smiled. ‘The thing is. He didn’t exactly say who to give it to. He only said to give it to someone he trusted.’

  Price let out an incredulous snort. ‘Are you questioning my integrity?’

  ‘Someone he trusted murdered him in cold blood, so …’ I let that insinuation hang in the cool office air.

  His inhale flared his great nostrils, but his eyes never strayed from the envelope. ‘And how do you propose to assess my trustworthiness?’

  Cometh the hour, cometh the pretend prostitute. I pulled the newspaper from my bag and threw it down on his desk, with the photo of Tania face up. ‘Nina Brodtmann.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘If you can tell me all about Gaetano’s involvement with this woman then I will know he confided in you. That you are a man he trusted.’

  I thought I saw Price’s version of a smile. It was pretty sexy actually. And then the phone on his desk rang. ‘Yes,’ he spoke into the receiver. ‘Yes, that will be fine. Thank you.’ He hung up and leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head.

  A bead of sweat worked its way down my back. I sensed danger. ‘Reason being, I need to know if she was a rival. I mean, it’s bad enough to lose him, but to discover he was cheating on me with a skinny blonde bitch.’

  Price rose and went to open an oak cabinet, where a whisky bottle and glasses waited on a silver tray. He held up the bottle.

  ‘It’s a bit early for me, thank you.’

  He seemed surprised. He shrugged and poured a couple of fingers into a heavy glass.

  ‘If that’s lead crystal, you’re gonna get a mushy brain.’

  He let out a hoot and drained half the glass. ‘Nina Brodtmann had no intrinsic interest for Mr Cesarelli.’

  ‘Intrinsic? What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘He didn’t fancy her. Is that simple enough for you?’

  ‘Hell no. Why did he lock her up if he didn’t fancy her?’

  Price sipped his drink, closed his eyes, allowing the whisky to linger in his mouth. ‘Oh,’ he said airily, ‘he was helping out a friend.’

  ‘Who?’

  He smiled, amused. ‘I think that is enough, don’t you?’

  ‘Enough? Um. Sure.’ I shifted in the leather, the vibe of menace from him was disturbing. I had been slow to understand that Finchley Price was not the man I had imagined, the good and sober citizen. There was a hint of the sadistic in his cold stare. ‘Good enough for me.’ I stood and dropped the envelope on the desk. ‘Here you go.’

  He looked at it with disinterest. Why the change in attitude, I wondered.

  ‘There’s a key in there to a locker at Southern Cross Station,’ I said. ‘I haven’t opened it so don’t ask me what’s in there.’

  ‘Sit down, Galvanina.’

  ‘No thanks, I’m late as it is. I’m meeting someone. If I don’t show up, they’ll worry.’

  The door opened and in came a Maori man in shorts and thongs. He was not wearing his customary yellow hoodie but rather a black T-shirt, allowing us full view of his massive biceps and the sleeve tattoos that came down to his wrists. His long hair was tied with a sloppy elastic band.

  I sat down as cold fear washed over me. Maurangi was a murderer. Price was in this up to his square jaw. Perhaps he was Funsail. Either way, I was going to die. Today, probably.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, bro. Traffic, ay.’ Maurangi said and flopped down in the other visitor’s chair.

  ‘This fellow is my … colleague. He will go with you to the locker.’

  I assumed that Maurangi didn’t know the police were looking for him — otherwise he would not risk being seen; this part of town was crawling with cops. One cop in particular I hoped was crawling outside, and knowing that was a small advantage to me. His advantage was that he was a cold-blooded killer who seemed not to care or think too much.

  ‘Your colleague’s a big boy, he can go by himself,’ I said.

  Maurangi nodded, being of the same opinion.

  ‘He might get lost,’ Price said coldly.

  ‘I told you, I’m late for a client.’

  ‘I doubt that very much, Galvanina.’


  ‘This client is a stickler for punctuality.’

  He bared his perfect teeth. ‘That’s a big word for a woman in your line of work.’

  ‘Some women in my line of work have PhDs, you arrogant prick.’

  ‘Titch, take Miss Monte to the station and get her to open the locker.’ Price handed him the envelope. ‘Depending on what you find, you’ll know what to do.’

  Maurangi shrugged. All he knew was busting heads. He came to me, side-on, and slid two hands under my armpits. It was unnecessary — I was up out of the chair and standing on my tiptoes.

  31

  ‘THOSE ALL BLACKS,’ I said. ‘They’re pretty good at rugby.’

  ‘Best fucking team in the world,’ Maurangi said. At least, I think that’s what he said. It sounded like bustfeckintumuntheweerld.

  I was hoping like hell that Ross was waiting for me outside. I picked up my handbag and pretended to check its contents. ‘You know what I like? Sauvignon Blanc. New Zealand makes the best, don’t you reckon?’

  Maurangi shrugged, though he seemed quietly pleased. ‘Drink beer.’

  ‘Enough!’ Price said. ‘Take this sickening conversation outside.’

  Once in the hall, all I had to do was scream, half the Victorian Bar was within earshot, plus sundry tipstaffs, bailiffs, sheriffs, magistrates, and justices, not to mention sworn officers of the law. On the other hand, if I did make a fuss I’d have a lot of explaining to do. Instead, I scurried along beside Maurangi, listening to my heart pound. We went down some stairs at the back of the building and into a covered back lot, where a couple of dark, late-modelled European cars were parked. He led me to a SUV, the one I’d seen at the Diggers Rest house. The one the cops were looking for. If they pulled us over, there’d be a shootout. Maurangi struck me as the type to think it would be cool to die in a hail of bullets. If they didn’t pull us over, and he found the locker at the station empty, I’d be in a ditch by evening. ‘Why don’t we walk?’ I said. ‘It’s quicker. Besides you’ll never get a park down there.’

  I could tell from his frown that he was trying to think.