by Jon Cleary
Then he went looking for a car; or rather, a pair of number-plates. In Pentridge a professional car thief had given him a course in car-stealing—“Think of it as a rehabilitation course, mate. Don’t leave here without learning nothing.” He found a street lined with cars and in five minutes, after opening his tool-box, he had removed the front and rear plates from a Subaru. He put them in his tool-box and moved off, glancing right and left out of the corners of his eyes to make sure he had not been observed.
He went back to Rockdale station, caught a train to Sutherland and found the sort of car he was looking for—“Never pick one with a distinctive colour, mate, not unless you got an order for it.” It was a light grey Datsun, a commuter’s car parked in a street across from the station. Again unobserved, he changed the plates, opened the driver’s door as he had been taught, hot-wired the car and drove away, heading south but with no particular place in mind.
At seven o’clock he pulled into a motel in Narooma, two hundred miles down the coast, registering as J.W. Milo, the initials on the shirt he wore. There, on Channel 15’s late news, delivered by a woman newsreader whose claypan make-up rendered her expressionless, he saw the encounter between Lynne and the young bitch who, in the sign-off, identified herself as Maureen Malone.
He went to bed seething with anger at what they were doing to Lynne. In the middle of the night he woke determined on revenge.
III
“I’ve resigned,” said Maureen. “I leave on Friday.”
“You resigned or they sacked you?” Malone had arrived home, bringing his irascible temper with him like an office workload.
“Both.”
“Lay off her, Dad,” said Claire.
The two of them had been waiting for him, like ambushers, as he came round the side passage from the garage. He had seen Claire’s car, a Honda Civic, parked at the kerb and he had wondered why she was here this evening. They had jerked their heads at him and escorted him—like cops?—in through the pool gate and sat him down in one of the chairs beside the pool. Then they had sat opposite him.
He had looked towards the house. “Where’s Mum?”
“We told her to stay inside. This is between you and us,” said Claire.
“How did you get into the act?”
“I rang Mo this afternoon to tell her Clizbe and Balmoral were withdrawing the suit against her and Channel 15. She asked me to come home and give her moral support.”
“You’re not here as her legal adviser?”
“Pull your head in, Dad. This is no time for jokes.”
“I think I need Mum here. For moral support.”
“No, you don’t. Now shut up and listen. Tell him what happened, Mo.”
The evening air was still, a faint tinge of autumn to it. From a back yard further down the street there came the shouts of children: a happy family careless of moral support or legal advice. Malone looked towards the back of the house and saw Lisa standing at the kitchen window. She raised her hand and gave him the thumbs-up sign. At least there was moral support there. Maureen said, “I didn’t want to do that interview, Dad. Honestly. I knew what it might do to Mrs. Masson. But Justin, my producer, was sold on it or else—if I didn’t do it, I was back to being a researcher, nothing more, I’d get all the little shitty jobs. He gave me that dickhead Barney as cameraman—he knew Barney would shove the camera in her face, he’s that sort. A real blokey bloke, can’t stand women—but can’t stand poofters, either. A real pain in the butt, I hated working with him . . . I was between a rock and a hard place, Dad.”
“Basically and at the end of the day. Skip the clichés, Mo.”
Maureen looked at her sister. “He’s not going to listen—”
“I’m listening,” said Malone. “You haven’t given any evidence yet to excuse you.”
Then Tom, wheeling his bike, came round from the side passage. “Hullo, what’s going on?”
“Get lost,” said Claire.
“Sounds like you need some help, Dad—”
Malone waved a gentle hand of dismissal. “Go in and help Mum lay the table or something.”
Tom went to say something, then thought better of it. He was learning the vibrations that come earlier to girls than they do to boys; he was not insensitive but he was still struggling out of the membrane of youth. “Just yell, Dad—” he said and went in the back door.
Maureen was struggling to hold in her feelings; she was on the verge of tears. “Jesus, Dad, haven’t you had to do things you thought were wrong! I told you—I didn’t want to do it—”
“Are they running the item tonight?”
“Yes. Look, I’ll go back and tell Mrs. Masson I’ve resigned, that I didn’t want to do it—”
“The damage is done. Leave it for a while, till we see how things turn out.” He was softening, but not by much. He turned to Claire: “Why are Clizbe and Balmoral dropping the suit?”
“We don’t know—they wouldn’t tell us. Just told us to forget it and send them the bill. Which we’ll do, with pleasure.”
“Dad—” Maureen leaned forward, put her hand on his knee; he hesitated, then put his own hand over hers. “I’m really sorry. The trouble is, Channel 15 have got more to follow. I didn’t dig it up, one of the other researchers did. Clizbe, Balmoral and Peter Kelzo have got together—”
He frowned: wolves and bears mixing?
“I know,” she said, squeezing his knee. “But it’s true. Last week they were cutting each other’s throats—well, Joe St. Louis was bashing Mr. Clizbe . . . Now . . . Now they’ve got a deal where Kelzo drops his man from the Boolagong pre-selection and he gets behind Balmoral. They’re out to toss Mrs. Vanderberg—”
He shook his head at that. “They’ve got Buckley’s chance of that. They might just as well try for pre-selection in Serbia.”
“Well, they’re going to try. And there’s another thing. Channel 15 have found out that Jerry Balmoral has been taking out that Chinese girl in the Olympic Tower partnership—”
“Camilla Feng,” said Claire.
“I remember her,” said Malone. “Quite a dish.”
“I’ll tell Mum.”
“The suspicion is,” said Maureen, “that the two hundred and fifty thousand that’s supposed to have been given to Boolagong came from Olympic Tower. They’re after something—”
“What?” asked Malone.
“We—” Then she remembered that she and Channel 15 were no longer we. “They don’t know. But there’s a rumour of a casino being built at Coffs Harbour—nothing definite yet—they could be after the licence—”
“Rumour, suspicion—” He looked at Claire.
“What we think, our firm, is that Clizbe and Balmoral have gone to someone on the Channel 15 board and made a deal. No suit, no more story. We think the deal’s been made, but no one’s telling us. Just drop the suit, we were told, and send them the bill. It stinks.”
“It gets your sister off the hook.”
“Yeah, that’s the good part. But it still stinks.”
“It really does,” agreed Maureen.
“Girls,” said their father, “welcome to the real world. That’s how it’s held together. By deals.”
“You don’t sound—disgusted?” said Claire.
He turned aside and spat into a nearby bush, then turned back to them. “That’s how I feel, every time. Then I spit, get the taste out of my mouth and try to get on with the job. Which in this case is finding out who paid John August to bump off the Premier.”
“There’s another rumour—” said Maureen.
He sighed. “There always is.”
“That the Premier might not have been the target, that it could’ve been Jack Aldwych or his son.”
So far the task force had managed to be silent on its suspicions about Joanna Everitt; even the veteran police reporters had not been told. The media had concentrated on the killing of Hans Vanderberg, the political murder, and though there had been one or two suggestions that Aldwych
, though never naming him, might have been the target, there had been no follow-up. Janis Eden, if anyone remembered her, was not in the cast of characters.
“We’ve thought of that,” said Malone non-committedly.
“And are you chasing it up?” asked Claire.
“We are pursuing our enquiries—”
His two daughters looked at each other. “Wouldn’t he give you diarrhoea?” said Claire. “Putting it politely.”
Then Lisa came to the back door. “All right, you’ve had long enough—the conference is over. Have your shower, darl, and we’ll have dinner.”
“What’s for dinner?” asked Maureen.
“For you two, humble pie.”
Again the two girls looked at each other. “They should be on Australia’s Funniest Home Videos,” said Maureen.
“How did we ever deserve them?” asked Claire.
Malone stood up, slapped the behinds of both of them and went ahead of them out the pool gate and into the house. He winked at Lisa as he passed her and went on into their bedroom to strip for his shower. The girls could be pains in the arse, like all offspring, but he loved them dearly.
And couldn’t express his relief that Maureen had got herself out of the firing line.
IV
Billy Eustace had come here to the boardroom of Olympic Tower, bringing with him Roger Ladbroke, on whom he was relying more and more. He had been massaged, polished, done over as much as the rough original had allowed; Ladbroke had brought in the image-makers and Billy Eustace had surrendered. He had never been a poor dresser, as his predecessor had been, but just nondescript. Now he had a new wardrobe, which, he had to admit as he looked in a mirror, made him look good, if not impressive. The shine was taken off the image by how much it had cost him. He still counted pennies, even though they were no longer minted.
The visit was an unofficial, non-governmental one; skulbuggery, as Ladbroke’s old boss would have called it. The others in the room: the two Aldwyches, Leslie Chung, Madame Tzu, General Wang-Te and Camilla Feng: all recognized it as such. There was no moral atmosphere to spoil it. They all, even the young Miss Feng, knew this wasn’t just a chat over coffee and biscuits.
“Iced Vo-Vos,” said Jack Aldwych, holding up the national icon. “My favourites.”
“Mine, too,” said Eustace, not to be outdone in patriotic fervour. So far the conversation had been no more than ping-pong, the balls bouncing lightly and no one making a smash. So far all the balls had remained on the table, but Aldwych and Co. were waiting to see what was under it.
Roger Ladbroke, no patriot he, had passed on the Iced Vo-Vos and just sipped his coffee. He had, with hand on heart (or rather his wife’s: he had been fondling her breast in bed at the time) sworn to leave politics and go back to journalism; there had been no shortage of offers, the media falling over themselves and each other to get him on their payroll and dish out the dirt of the past twenty-two years. Then the light on the road to Damascus had blinked, faded, gone out like a faulty traffic light; then abruptly it had turned red and turned him back to politics, or sin, call it what you liked. It would even be worth staying on as Billy Eustace’s minder to remain where he was, in the swamp of politics that smelled, to him, like a garden of poppies. He couldn’t resist the drug.
Madame Tzu was drinking green tea, not coffee, and had turned her nose up at the biscuits. At last she grew tired of the ping-pong and whacked the ball at the corner of the table: “Are you going to win the election, Mr. Eustace?”
“Can’t lose,” said Eustace, glad the game was at last warming up, and looked at Ladbroke for confirmation, if a little apprehensively. The bloody polls were still predicting the voting would be too close to call. Line-ball, said the commentators, some of whom hadn’t a clue what a line-ball was.
“We are succeeding in convincing the voters that Mr. Eustace is the natural successor to Hans Vanderberg—”Ladbroke almost said, I am succeeding in convincing . . . But he knew as well as anyone that acolytes with arrogance beyond their station might just as well cut their own throats because sooner or later their bosses would do it for them. Nothing has changed in the upper galleries of history. “Our government will be returned. The margin will be less, we’ll lose some seats, but we’ll retain power.”
“How can you be so sure?” Madame Tzu didn’t trust, or had contempt for, democracy.
“The other side has been out to lunch for the past four years. They have just woken up, too late.”
“So you’ll be the Premier?” said Aldwych.
“No doubt about it,” said Eustace and managed an air of confidence rather like a threadbare overcoat. He was well-dressed now, but he was still wondering if the wardrobe of Premier would fit him.
“So what do you want from us?” said Aldwych, putting away the ping-pong balls.
Even after two years here amongst the barbarians Madame Tzu was still surprised at the bluntness of the Australian approach. Even in the mad, mad days of Chairman Mao circumlocution had still been practised; the Red Guards might give one a punch in the face, but they had been an aberration and soon disappeared. She remarked that Chairman—no, Premier Eustace did not appear put out by the bluntness.
“We understand,” said Billy Eustace, “you would like a bill introduced setting up a casino somewhere.”
“Coffs Harbour,” said Les Chung, who had been silent up till now.
“Wherever,” said Eustace; if the price was right, he’d give it to them in Macquarie Street, right across from Parliament House. “We understand Hans was going to promote such a bill.”
“Where did you get that understanding?” Aldwych looked at Ladbroke.
“He told me,” said Ladbroke. “If he were still alive, it would have been my job to sell it.”
“And can you still sell it?” asked Camilla Feng.
So far General Wang-Te was the only one who had remained silent, but he had missed nothing and behind the designer glasses his eyes were flickering like an accountant’s calculator. He would never be Westernized, or Australianized, but he enjoyed the education.
“We can sell it,” said Ladbroke confidently. The years had taught him what kites would fly and he knew this one would. The voters now looked on gambling as one of the higher pursuits in life.
“How much will it cost?” asked Jack Junior, chairman and keeper of the books.
Eustace looked at Ladbroke, who had to carry the night-soil; even The Dutchman hadn’t quoted the price. “Two hundred and fifty thousand.”
“What a coincidence!” said Camilla Feng. “Exactly the same price—I mean amount—we gave to the Boolagong electorate.”
“Not an extra quarter of a million,” said Eustace. “The same money. It stays with Boolagong—at least till the election is over.”
“Mrs. Vanderberg won’t like it,” said Les Chung and looked again at Ladbroke: “She’ll be disappointed in you.”
“Disappointed, yes, but no more than that,” said Ladbroke. “Gert is a pragmatic woman. She can still run Boolagong, be Mother Teresa out there, and we’ll see that Barry Rix, her man, gets pre- selection and is elected.”
“We’d heard that you were backing Jerry Balmoral.” Les Chung looked at Eustace this time.
“Where did you hear that?” But Eustace was not surprised. Radar in State politics was more advanced than anything the Pentagon had yet developed.
“He told me,” said Camilla Feng. She had been out with Balmoral again, just once, and let him kiss her, promising that next time her mother wouldn’t be waiting up for her. He had gone away satisfied with that, satisfied, indeed, with the whole night. They had gone to the Golden Gate where, she told him, Mr. Chung had insisted the dinner should be on him.
“That was yesterday’s news,” said Ladbroke, who, like a good minder, was already into next week’s news. “Balmoral and Mr. Clizbe, from Trades Congress, and Peter Kelzo, whom I think you know, have got together and think they are going to take over Boolagong. It won’t happen. Barry Rix w
ill be pre-selected, we’ll get behind him and see he’s elected and he will then put forward the casino bill, then the Premier—” he nodded at Billy Eustace, who nodded in acknowledgement—“then the Premier will take it up and it will go through.”
“What about the Upper House?” asked Aldwych.
“A mix of hacks, nuts and time-servers. We have the majority there and the bill will go through.”
“Who is your majority? The hacks, nuts or time-servers?”
Ladbroke smiled. “We have no nuts in our party.”
“And what will happen to the two hundred and fifty thousand?” at last asked General Wang-Te.
Billy Eustace looked at him as if he had only just arrived. He was not at ease with Asians; they all looked alike to him. Even Les Chung was a stranger to him; he was not to know it, but Chung was a stranger to many people and Chung didn’t want it otherwise. But this feller was a Chinese general and represented the face of an army of millions. True, he was an ex-general, but Billy Eustace knew there were no ex-generals.
“It comes back to the Premier’s Fund.”
“What’s that?” said Madame Tzu.
“Don’t ask,” said Aldwych and winked at the Premier.
“It’s agreed then?” said Eustace.
“If it can be done without holding a gun at Mrs. Vanderberg’s head,” said Chung. “We don’t want any bad publicity. We don’t want any publicity.”
“It can be done,” said Ladbroke and knew he would be the one sent to do it.
“There’s still unfinished business, though,” said Jack Junior. “We don’t know who killed Hans Vanderberg.”
“Yes, we do,” said Eustace. “A man named August. The police are after him now. It’s been on all the news—”
“I don’t mean him,” said Jack Junior. “Who paid him? The reports said the police found a suitcase full of money.”
“I thought you had your own suspect?” said Eustace.
“Oh?” said Jack Senior. “Who told you that?”
“I’m the Police Minister as well as Premier.”
