Facing the Music

by Brian Smith

  Vern nodded and a smile came on to his face. He hadn’t expected things to move so fast.

  ‘I suggest you ring my secretary and she’ll fix a time for you. As you’d expect, I’m pretty busy.’

  ‘Tonight at five. Take a cab to the Crown Towers Hotel. You will be met there and brought to where we can have a discreet conversation.’

  ‘Why should I play these games with you?’

  ‘These are not games. You have much to gain. You also have much to lose.’

  ‘Five’s no good. Can’t make it until around six.’

  It was a small, probably silly gesture, but he’d done it now.

  ‘Best, of course, you keep our appointment to yourself.’

  Ivan was gone. Vern immediately made another call. ‘George, it’s Vern McKenzie.’

  ‘How are you, Vern?’ the state secretary of the BIU asked.

  ‘Fair. Only fair, George. Remember we were chatting about our neighbours across the road. You told me your new boy, Reardon, was spending quite a bit of time at the Riverside site’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Heard any more recently?’

  ‘Nah, I haven’t. To tell the truth, Vern, Reardon’s holding out on me. Don’t know why. When I chased him for an update yesterday, he said he’d stopped most of the scams they’ve been trying on but was now on to something bigger. Said he couldn’t tell me more yet but he would as soon as he was sure what he had.’

  ‘Is a bloke called Ivan involved?’

  ‘You’re a ripper, Vern. There is a guy called Ivan Sarac who was behind the problems at Riverside. He has a few enforcers who were the ones Reardon was trying to nail to start with. I just asked him if it was Sarac he was after now.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing. Just gave me a blank stare and said he didn’t think the problem was just on the Riverside site. Buggered if I know what he meant and I couldn’t get him to open up to me.’

  ‘Thanks, George.’

  ‘Hey, not so fast. What’ve you got for me?’

  ‘Like your boy Reardon, nothing yet. If I get anything I think might interest you I’ll be in touch.’

  Having closed off the call, Vern used his forefinger to push his glasses up his nose. Sarac already knew he was MD when very few others had been told. Had Mike tipped him off?

  3

  Whenever Mike entered the foyer of a hospital he became dispirited, but this afternoon was worse – the first time he had been back to the Royal Melbourne since his mother died. He well remembered the long walk along the concrete floored tunnel from the car park with the thick blue strip painted down its centre. The arcade of shops surrounding the foyer made it look more like a down-at-heel shopping mall than a hospital. The woman at the enquiry desk scrolled through the list on her computer before telling him Mr O’Donohue could be found in Ward 4 South, and pointed to the nearby set of lifts. He knew where they were; the intensive care ward was at 2 South. He had been the one to instruct the doctors to remove his mother’s life support. The stroke she suffered had been severe and the doctors were surprised she clung on through the ten days the family had searched for a sign of recovery from the small figure embedded in tubes, electrical cables and softly beeping instruments. His father knew it was time to let her go but could not bring himself to say the word and implored Mike to do it for him.

  When Mike entered Paddy O’Donohue’s ward, the world changed. Several helium-filled balloons on multicoloured streamers formed a jigging canopy above his bed. Below them, his back to Mike and his bare shoulder swathed in bandages, lay Paddy, deep in conversation with a woman who sat on a narrow metal chair beside the bed. Her blonde hair was long and bouffant, her lips a bright red which matched the colour of the miniskirt drawn tightly around her, revealing all but the uppermost reaches of her plump thighs. Above the skirt she wore a white singlet that was hard pressed to contain the fullness of her breasts. As Mike came closer to the bed she looked up and gave him the full examination he had just given her.

  Paddy turned his head and exclaimed with a laugh, ‘Well, the saints be praised, it’s the boss ’imself come to visit poor Paddy.’ When the woman gave Mike a welcoming smile, Paddy added, ‘Now, Sheena, stop flutterin’ those lashes at the man. This is Mike Georgiou, the project manager at CityView.’

  He turned further so that he could face Mike directly.

  ‘Boss, this is Sheena, the best barmaid ever to grace Pugg Mahone’s pub.’ He waved his good arm in the direction of the bed across the ward. ‘Grab the chair from Jimmy’s bed. The poor bugger won’t mind – too drugged up to notice.’

  After Mike had brought the chair across and sat down he asked, ‘And how are you, Paddy? Are they looking after you?’

  ‘Just fine. They wanna keep me cooped up in ’ere for a bit ’cos of the bang on me head. I keep tellin’ them I never had any brains to start with, so there can’t be any damage, but they pay no mind to me.’

  ‘What about the shoulder?’

  ‘Had far worse in me time. Need an op when they can spare me the time – not now. I just want to get out. I was just tellin’ Sheena they’re a bit short on the beer round ’ere and the nurses aren’t a patch on ’er.’

  Sheena gave a giggle that travelled down her body.

  ‘I ’spect you want to chat about what happened,’ Paddy said, his face serious for the first time since Mike had arrived.

  ‘Not really, but WorkSafe will want to interview you sometime, I guess.’

  ‘Still, p’raps we’d better have a word,’ Paddy insisted. ‘Sheena, me dear. D’ya mind? The boss and me need a private chat.’

  ‘Right,’ Sheena said cheerfully and jumped to her high-heeled feet. She leant over to kiss Paddy and turned to smile at Mike. ‘Remember, now. Any time you’re in Carlton you’ll be welcome at Pugg’s – I’ll see to that.’ Turning back to Paddy she said, ‘See you tomorrow. About the same time OK?’

  Paddy nodded and both men watched Sheena sway her way from the ward. When she had departed Paddy said, ‘She’s a good lass, Sheena, and she meant what she said about makin’ you welcome at Pugg’s. But don’t get me wrong, it’s not every boyo she says that to.’

  ‘Sorry to barge in like I have.’

  ‘No. No. Good timin’. Maureen’s due in shortly. She’s only lately moved in with me and, while the colleen is an understandin’ type, I don’t know she’d ’it it off all that well with Sheena.’ He winked at Mike. ‘That’s why I put on the palaver about needin’ to talk.’ He paused and gave Mike a quick glance. ‘Still, I guess you were wonderin’ how I came to be where those poles came down on me?’

  ‘Not your usual spot.’

  Paddy sighed. ‘I guess I could blame it on the gee gees.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Joe Frederico’s often good for a tip, livin’ near the track and spendin’ ’is time there. Hadn’t seen ’im for a bit and thought I’d have a chat on me way back from a break. Coulda picked a better time. First he was arguin’ with Ted Horton and after ’e’d seen Ted off he was in such a stew he wouldn’t give me the time o’day – a moody bugger, Joe. I was jist walkin’ away when he started the lift and then it ’appened: poles rainin’ down like God was throwin’ javelins at us. Won’t go down well with the boys from WorkSafe, will it?’

  Mike left the hospital in a far better mood than the one he had carried in with him. It would be fun to see how Paddy conducted himself when Maureen and Sheena met up, as seemed sure to happen at some stage, though it wouldn’t surprise him if Paddy had dealt with such situations before. Some of Mike’s cheerfulness evaporated as he crawled towards Flemington in the sunbaked peak hour traffic. He had trouble finding Hope Street where, contradicting their address, few of the old houses showed the optimism of similar homes in South Melbourne. Several boys reluctantly halted their game of cricket on the roadway to allow him to pass and were not pleased when he parked at square leg, just outside number twenty-four, the home of Joe Frederico. It had a rickety front f
ence, a parched and straggly strip of garden and drab, brown weatherboards from which some of the paint was peeling.

  He knocked and waited, listening to the sound of Coldplay coming from the back of the house. When no one came to the door, he tried again more loudly. This time he heard Joe’s voice through the window of the front room. ‘Carol. Someone at the door.’

  ‘Orright. Orright,’ came from within and Mike heard footsteps on bare boards. The door was thrown open and a spare woman in torn jeans and a tie-dyed T-shirt confronted him. ‘Yeah?’ she said in a challenging voice.

  ‘My name is Mike Georgiou. I’ve come to see Joe.’

  ‘You from Findlay’s?’ She made no attempt to invite him in, standing with legs apart in the doorway.

  ‘That’s right. I’m the project manager at the CityView site.’

  ‘Just the man. What you goin’ to do for Joe now he’s laid up?’

  ‘He’ll be on full compo for the time he’s off work, of course.’ Mike tried a diplomatic smile. ‘How’s he getting on?’

  Still his way was blocked. ‘That ain’t good enough. What about ’is job at the track? He can’t do that. And who’s goin’ to look after the kids while I’m at work? I’m waitin’ on ’im hand and foot in the day, but I’ve got me cleanin’ job at night. I gotta get out to that. We need all the dough we can get just to survive. Even more, now he’s on his backside all bloody day.’

  Mike looked more closely at the woman. It was hard to see why a three-income family should live so poorly and be so stretched. Her chalky skin, the dark rings under her eyes, her unkempt and straggly hair suggested an illness or perhaps a habit they could not afford.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Carol, let the man in. I need to talk to ’im.’

  At last Joe had reacted. Carol turned and, without another word, clomped down the corridor to the back of the house, leaving Mike to find his own way into the front room where Joe lay on a threadbare couch with his legs along its length, the right leg sheathed in plaster below the knee. Beside him was a small table, which carried a pack of cigarettes, a full ashtray and four stubbies, three of which had already been emptied. When he saw Mike he switched off the television set he had been watching.

  ‘Don’t mind ’er,’ he said. ‘She worries a lot.’

  ‘I didn’t know you worked at the track.’

  ‘Yeah, well, Flemington’s just down the road and I go there a bit, sellin’ tickets, a bit of security, cleanin’ sometimes. Pay’s nothin’ special but I like the ’orses.’

  ‘Paddy says you give him tips.’

  ‘Always after easy money is Paddy,’ Joe observed dismissively. ‘You won’t find easy money backin’ ’orses, though.’

  ‘How’s the leg?’

  Joe shrugged. ‘Gives me a bit of pain. They say the itchiness will be worse when it starts. They say the break’s a pretty clean one but will still take a fair time to get fixed.’

  ‘You’ll be covered for all the time you need, and the medical expenses too, of course,’ Mike said, thinking again of the woman who had met him.

  Joe waved a hand as though dismissing the subject. ‘Y’know it wasn’t my fault?’

  ‘The sling was faulty,’ Mike replied noncommittally.

  ‘Yeah, they’ll want to say I shouda seen that, but I checked it. No problem I could see.’

  ‘I hear Ted Horton was hassling you over the size of the no-go area under the lift.’

  ‘Bloody rubbish,’ Joe exploded. ‘It was Mick Reilly who’s to blame.’

  ‘Why the crane operator?’

  Joe leant forward as if taking Mike into his confidence.

  ‘That’s it, you see. As soon as he began the lift I could see the sling was skew-whiff and I called Mick to stop, but the silly bugger must’ve been dreamin’ an’ just went haulin’ away. Then, when I sang out, he stopped it so sharp the line swung around, bashed into the buildin’ and the pipes went all over the place. If Mick’d stopped proper when I told ’im, even if the sling dropped the load, they all would’ve fallen from much less height, well within the zone and no one woulda got hurt.’

  Joe frowned and gazed gloomily at Mike. ‘Much easier for the WorkSafe blokes to tell me I shoulda checked the sling. They don’t like complicated answers. I’m not takin the blame for this, though. There’s a tip you can back in.’

  The cab pulled under the portico of the Crown Towers Hotel at five past six. As soon as Vern stepped out, a tall, fair-headed man left his position at the side of the entrance and came directly towards him. He was dressed in dark jeans and a deep green T-shirt which displayed his muscular arms and strong torso.

  ‘Vern McKenzie?’ he asked.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Follow me.’

  The man entered the lush coolness of the marbled foyer and led Vern across it to a side door which brought them on to the crowded concourse beside the Yarra. Some of the crowd were still dressed for work, but the majority wore the casual clothes and the expectant expressions of people on their way to dining at one of the restaurants or trying their luck at the casino. Vern’s guide navigated his way through them towards the King Street Bridge until they reached two men in similar T-shirts and jeans, each with his back against the building. One, strongly built, with a shaven head and prominent tattoos on his arms, was looking past them, as if searching for others who might be following. The other man, taller, with a faded baseball cap on his head, was watching those who came towards him from the direction of the bridge. Vern’s guide turned sharply between these sentries into a narrow alleyway which was concealed by a box hedge and led to what appeared to be an electrical services cabinet with two head-high, grey doors. He opened the left hand door and gestured Vern through. The door closed behind him as he mounted a short, narrow staircase and entered a softly lit room suitable for board meetings or private dinners. A man rose from his seat at the head of the mahogany table dominating the room and held out his hand.

  ‘I’m glad you could join me, Vern,’ he said. He was taller than Vern had imagined but his neatly tailored, pinstripe suit, precisely knotted tie, slicked down dark hair and mottled complexion matched Vern’s other preconceptions.

  ‘Hullo, Mr Sarac,’ Vern replied without enthusiasm.

  Sarac nodded as though Vern had told him a not very amusing joke and gestured for him to take a seat at the corner of the table. Vern glanced around the room. Apart from the table and its accompanying dozen chairs, the only other item of furniture was a sideboard which ran along most of one wall and carried a vase of red roses. Original abstract oil paintings hung above the sideboard and along the opposite wall. There were two doors, the one through which Vern had entered and another at the other end of the room – both of them now closed.

  ‘I trust you will join with me in a dram? Dram – that is how you Scots describe it, I believe.’ Without waiting for a reply, Sarac opened the bottle beside his elbow and filled two tumblers. ‘You take it neat, I understand.’ He raised his glass as if making a toast. Vern ignored the invitation to clink glasses and took a sip.

  When he could not restrain himself from nodding his approval of the whisky, Ivan said, ‘I thought you’d enjoy it. Glenkinchie.’

  Vern responded in a bored tone. ‘At least you didn’t arrange to blindfold me before leading me here. You said you were not playing games. Can we stop whatever it is you call this pantomime and get to the point?’

  Sarac took his time over enjoying another sip of his drink before saying, ‘I know that, regardless of the support you have given him over many years, Jim Findlay has turned his back on you and your advice is ignored by that Johny-come-lately, Ben Findlay. You have every reason to feel bitter. I also know the company is suffering a number of difficulties, none of which is down to you, but you’re the one they expect to sort out the mess. I have an alternative you will find financially rewarding, and satisfying in other ways as well.’

  Vern regarded Sarac over the top of his glass. ‘Are you offering me a job?’
/>
  ‘What I have in mind …’

  Vern did not let him finish. ‘Wait,’ he ordered. ‘I want to talk with the man running Rubicon, not his messenger. Anything further you might want to say I want to hear from him.’

  Again Sarac appeared to find Vern amusing. ‘Ah, yes, you know of my interest in the Riverside project so you want to speak with the boss of Rubicon. I can arrange for you to speak with him if you wish. I hope you are free on Sunday. Angelo would be happy to entertain us at his Flinders property – a very handsome place where we can enjoy his hospitality and talk without any concerns we will be interrupted. I’ll arrange transport for you.’

  ‘No. I’m happy to make my own way there. As you have my number you can text me with directions. That way no one else in the office will know.’

  Mike glanced at his watch. There was just enough light for him to see that it was a quarter past ten. Earlier he had picked up Bob, driven to the site and parked on the far side behind a couple of company vehicles which were left there overnight. It was on this spare land they hoped eventually to build stage two of the project.

  ‘Car approachin’,’ sounded in the earplug of the crane intercom unit he was wearing.

  The alert came from Bob who was positioned on the second floor with a good view of the entry to the site, while Mike remained at ground level covering the back and side fences. Headlights swept the fence and a small van stopped in front of the gate. A man in uniform peered into the dimly lit building, inspected the padlock on the gate and pushed a card into the mesh, before getting back into his van and departing. Until the vandalism, Mike had not given much thought to site security – there hadn’t been a need. He must tell Vern that whatever he was paying for the service was not money well spent. ‘Sorry,’ Bob said.

  Silence returned. There was very little traffic down here at night – the occasional transport and the odd car. Mike went back to replaying the conversation he had with Lissa just before he came here. She had given him a twisted smile and said, ‘You’re not having an affair are you?’