by Peter Temple
…The Development Minister Tony DiAmato joins me now. Thanks for coming on the programme, Minister. Last week you washed your hands of the Cannon Ridge controversy because the previous government awarded the tender. It’s done, it’s history, you said. Now this is a tricky one, I know, Minister, but if the tender process was corrupted, don’t you have a duty to declare the tender void and hold an inquiry?
I thought about the library-warming, my attempts to make conversation with Mike Cundall. ‘Politics of business,’ he’d said. ‘WRG wants to build a whole fucking town on the Gippsland Lakes. Get the new government in some shit over Cannon, good chance they won’t get knocked back on that.’ Now the Minister cleared his throat.
Barry, we’re talking about allegations here. We’ve had a pretty good look at the documents and we can’t find any evidence of corruption.
Barry, ever the unctuous ex-seminarian, said: That’s a reasonable approach. Now Minister, I’d like to put a tricky one to you. WRG Resorts says a member of the tender evaluation panel was quote placed under duress unquote. Now I wouldn’t dream of saying the name but every media person in town has heard it. Do you know who the alleged person is?
The Minister sighed, tired at the end of the day.
No, I don’t. And Barry, I’m surprised at a person like you not recognising that WRG’s on a fishing expedition. They say they’ve got evidence. Where is it? They’ve yet to approach me with it.
Barry, nimble as ever: Of course, it might well be a fishing expedition, Minister, as you point out. We might take a call. It’s Steven from Doncaster.
A confident voice said: Hi Barry, love your show. About this Cannon Ridge business, everybody knows that in opposition this government put up a pissweak resistance to the sale of Cannon Ridge. Pissweak. They let the previous government sell off part of our heritage. Why’d you reckon? Because they’re in the Cundalls’ pockets like everyone else in this town.
Barry: Minister?
DiAmato, weary: Well, for a start, Anaxan has five major shareholders…
Caller: And one’s a Cundall. One’s all it takes. You know that…
It went on this way. I parked beneath the trees outside the boot factory, listened for a while, went upstairs and switched on the radio in the kitchen, tuned to Linda’s station.
…breaking up is hard to do. That’s what the old song says. But do men take it harder than women? Yes, says writer Phil Kashow in her new book, published today. It’s called Healing Your Broken Bits. I want your views on the subject. The author’s on the line from Sydney. Hello, Phil…
I stood in the room listening to the exchange, Linda’s mildly amused tone in dealing with the publicity-hungry woman. Then, without thought, I went into the sitting room and dialled the talkback number, pressed the redial button a dozen times until I got through to the producer.
‘Hello, you are?’
‘Jack from Fitzroy.’
‘And you want to say?’
‘I’m a psychotherapist and I’d like to shed a little…’
‘Stay on the line please, Jack.’
A wait, listening to people emoting, then Linda’s voice. ‘Jack from Fitzroy’s next. What’s your view, Jack?’
‘If breaking up is hard, how much harder is making up? That’s the question I’d like to pose to Phil. And to you, Linda.’
‘Excellent point, Jack,’ said Phil. ‘No simple answer. I deal with this in chapter sixteen of my book, called “Be proud and be lonely”…’
She talked rubbish for a good while, then Linda said, quickly, ‘And insofar as that question included me, not hard at all, Jack from Fitzroy. Moving on, Phil, you say…’
I switched off, found a bottle of Cooper’s Sparkling in the back of the fridge, stood around drinking it, thinking about Linda, what the remark meant, about who would want to give me the video of Marco and why. In the way of minds, I then veered off to Sandy the bashed plunge organiser, to my sister, to a despondent survey of the clutter of my life. A life that had no pivot, no fulcrum, no axis, no…
The phone.
‘Jack Irish.’
‘I’m in the ad break.’
Linda.
‘Ad break. I’m in the life break.’
‘Where?’
‘Donelli’s?’
‘Shit,’ Linda said. ‘Doesn’t anything change?’
‘Not if I can help it.’
‘Eight-thirty?’
For a Tuesday night, Donelli’s in Smith Street was crowded. It had recently been redecorated, which included knocking a large hole in the wall between the dining room and kitchen. Now it was a theatre-restaurant: diners could watch the fat faux Italian patron and chef, Patrick Donelly, fussing around and abusing his staff.
I’d rung to book. The patron spotted me entering and came out to escort me to my table. ‘You’re a lucky man, Irish,’ he said. ‘Two servings left of the stuffed squid braised with white wine and tomatoes.’
‘That’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘Anything I don’t have to watch you both stuff and cook.’
‘The watchin’s by popular demand,’ he said. ‘Punters can’t get enough of the chef. Sex objects, that’s what we are.’
I looked at the man, torso like a wrapped fridge. ‘Speaking for myself,’ I said, ‘I’d rather have sex with the squid. Now, a decent bottle of white. Any of that little Tuscan number left?’
‘Two bottles. I was savin them for the cognoscenti.’
I patted him on the white arm, as thick and round as a fire extinguisher. ‘Well, they’re not coming tonight, Patrick. I’ll have theirs.’
‘You’ll be dinin on the bill, will ya?’ he said.
‘I think you can take that as read.’
Donelly owed me a large sum, payment for hundreds of hours of skilled labour over a messy legal matter finally resolved in his favour. Since getting actual money from the man was impossible, I’d been extracting my fee in food and drink.
Linda came in the door. Her hair was different, longer, parted in the middle. She was wearing a black raincoat and she took it off to reveal a black polo-neck and jeans. Lean and handsome, that was the same. She came over and kissed me, on the cheek, touch of silk, throat-catching hint of perfume.
‘Now this closes the circle,’ she said.
Our first social meeting had been at Donelli’s, at this table.
We sat down.
‘How can circles be circles before they’re closed?’ I said.
She smiled. ‘When I think of the years I’ve wasted wrestling with that problem.’
My desire was to take her by the hand and go home, but nothing was that simple. Except in beginnings.
‘I’ve ordered squid. Stuffed. Braised with tomatoes and white wine.’
‘Sounds good, excellent.’ She pushed her hair back. ‘Somehow, I never saw you as a talkback caller.’
‘I’ve always wanted to be. Full of potential. Just never heard a talkback host I wanted to talk to.’
We sat looking at each other, smiling, neither of us sure how to proceed.
‘How’ve you been?’ she said.
‘I’ve known better. You’re looking good.’
‘For radio, I’ll pass. You’re thinner.’
‘Worry.’
Silence again. The wine arrived. I waived the tasting ritual.
Linda sipped. ‘Nice. I heard you’d taken up with a photographer.’
She’d never been one to step around subjects. I tried the wine. Much too good for the cognoscenti. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Gavin Legge. He rang me. Trying to get publicity for a book he claims to have written.’
Legge was a journalist, a client of mine in the old days when I was practising criminal law. I’d got him off a charge of assaulting a female restaurateur. He had also introduced me to Linda.
‘The Legge is quicker than the eye,’ I said. ‘But he’s out of date. I’ve moved on. Now I’m seeing a supermodel. She’s eighteen. Stalked me, a thing for older men. What about you?�
��
She made a gesture of dismissal. ‘Too much bother. And there’s this internet service that home-delivers men – yourfuck dot com. It’s all a working woman needs.’
I nodded. ‘Do they take them away again?’
Linda frowned. ‘They say they’re working on that bit. Four in the garage the last time I looked.’
I laughed, she laughed, and the awkwardness was over, the long time apart contracted to nothing. I felt buoyed, light-headed. We talked about things that lay in our common ground, laughing a lot. She’d always been able to make me laugh and I’d had some success with her.
The squid was served by a small and intense young man. It was delicious. Donelly arrived, lifting Linda’s hand and bowing his head to kiss it, reverent.
‘Deeply honoured, my dear,’ he said. ‘I remember when ya first graced my establishment in the company of this ruffian. And now the whole kitchen loves ya. Station of choice while we’re preparin the finest food in this city.’
‘Thank you,’ said Linda. ‘I appreciate you saying that.’
I realised that people said things like this to her all the time. It was nothing new to her. She was a celebrity. I took the opportunity to order another bottle of the Tuscan.
‘And in the circumstances, how could I say no?’ said Donelly, shaking his head at my opportunism.
‘Exactly.’
Donelly sighed. ‘Consortin with this famous lady, Irish,’ he said. ‘How ya do it, legal extortionist that you are, defies the imagination.’
‘She sees in me what is invisible to people like yourself, Patrick,’ I said.
He went off, stopping here and there to bestow benedictions on tables of chef groupies, all eager to have sex with him.
‘I’ve been consorting with other famous people,’ I said. ‘I met Mike Cundall last week. And the beautifully preserved Ros.’
I told her about Mrs Purbrick’s library.
‘The son and heir’s in with a fast crowd,’ said Linda. ‘Comes from spending too much time in Sydney. Sam’s been trying to get out from under Mike for years but everything he touches turns to dog shit. The nasty coke habit and the gambling don’t help. Then along came Cannon Ridge.’
‘What’s the story there?’ Linda knew Melbourne.
‘The Sydney smarties put together this consortium to tender. It’s full of funny money. They brought in Sam because they reckoned the Cundall name could swing the thing. Not an unreasonable assumption. I mean, Mike Cundall used to just front up to see the last Premier, no appointment, shown straight in. And people heard him shouting at the Premier. Now that kind of thing cuts ice in Sydney.’
And Linda knew what cut ice in Sydney. She’d left Melbourne, and me, to be a current affairs television star in Sydney. That was where it all went wrong between us.
‘And he did swing it?’ I asked.
She forked up the last of her squid and chewed thoughtfully. ‘Let’s say it was swung,’ she said. ‘Noone quite knows how. WRG, the other bunch, they thought they had it stitched up. Australian company, experienced resort operators worldwide, went through the probity stuff without a hitch, pitched the tender on the high side to be sure and threw in some sweeteners. Cometh the hour, they find Anaxan has got them covered on all counts. Into shock they went.’
‘I heard Barry Moran saying everyone in the media knew the name of a tender panel member who’d been put under duress.’
Linda looked around. ‘Said to be a bloke called Rykel. A conservation bureaucrat on the panel. The whisper is that a large sum arrived in his wife’s bank account just after the winner was announced. A transfer from a numbered account at the Bank of Funafuti or some such.’
The wine arrived. Then our plates were removed.
‘According to Mike Cundall,’ I said, ‘and Mike tells me things all the time, this leak stuff is just WRG’s way of screwing the government into letting it bulldoze a large section of Gippsland. Presumably the section that houses the last known breeding ground of an endangered creature.’
‘With tiny pink nose. Yes, Anaxan’s got the spin doctors putting out that story. Best in the business. Ponton’s. Did you know Gavin Legge works for them now?’
‘Openly? He’s come out?’
‘This mole has lost his value on the inside. Damaged goods is Gav.’
‘What’s his book called? Living Off the Land: How to Take With One Hand While Also Taking With the Other?’
‘Media Relationship Management in the Cyberage. It’s a slim volume.’
‘I beg your pardon? Are we talking about the Gavin Legge who offered to get the name of the man who was tiling his shower into the paper? As a contra deal?’
‘We are. Ponton’s keep people chained up in New York to write a book for every new consultant. It’s called WTB cred.’
‘What? Wing Tailed Buzzards?’
‘Wrote the Book. As in, the expert on the subject. Then they subsidise publication and bribe the reviewers in the business press to say things like succinct and definitive work, brilliant insights, etcetera. All easy, cheap. One decent contract, Ponton’s are in profit.’
‘Shocked, that’s all I can say,’ I said.
She gave me the Linda eye and half-smile. ‘Yes, well, you would be, pottering around as you do exclusively in Christian outreach circles.’
‘Have a heart,’ I said. ‘Not just Christian. I don’t discriminate on grounds of faith.’
She raised her glass, serious, put out her left hand and touched my face for an instant. ‘To old friends new again.’
We touched glasses. I also thought I felt a leg touch mine and an erotic charge went through me, through the core. I often thought about her athlete’s legs. ‘That’s a good toast,’ I said. ‘Welcome home.’
‘I may never leave Melbourne. Well, maybe not never.’
‘No. They say never is now down to six months.’
Donelly appeared, beaming smoked-salmon face moist above his surgical garb. ‘You’ll be wantin somethin to close with.’
I shook my head. Something about this personal attention was nagging at me. Celebrity-sucking, yes, but there was something else.
‘I want the memory of your stuffed squid to stand alone,’ said Linda. ‘So a short black would be lovely.’
Donelly smiled at Linda, smiled at me, bowed and departed.
I poured the last of the wine, having had the sense to come by cab. ‘You’re not driving?’
‘The station pays for after-work limousines,’ said Linda. ‘It’s in my contract.’
‘Good.’ We looked at each other, smiles beginning.
‘As someone steeped in the lore of Sydney,’ I said, ‘do the names James Toxteth and Colin Blackiston mean anything to you? They’re venture capitalists, but that’s all I know.’
‘Jamie Toxteth, yes. Are you planning an IT startup? Involving horses?’
‘I’m trying to find out about someone who ran away with someone else’s album of naughty snaps, died of smack, turned out not to be who he said he was.’
‘This doesn’t sound like Jamie Toxteth country to me,’ said Linda. ‘Jamie plays polo. The Toxteths are landed gentry. They own Mount Toxteth station. It’s huge, like a small country. A country of sheep. Prince Charles spent weekends there.’
‘He’d like a country of sheep. They have no problem with following the most stupid. What would a woman in Melbourne be doing driving a car owned by a two-dollar company Jamie owns?’
She raised her cup. ‘This place is closing. For all I know, women all over Australia drive cars owned by Jamie. I may be the only one left out. This was a lovely evening.’
Linda found her mobile and rang for a cab.
We rose. Linda went to get her coat. I appreciated the way she looked from behind as I strolled towards the waiting Donelly.
‘Show me where to sign,’ I said. ‘And may I say that if I were a squid, you would be my preferred stuffer.’
He ran fingers over his brow, disturbing the long strands of hair th
at originated well to the west.
‘That’ll be $38.50,’ he said, a light in his eyes, a glow, an unearthly glow. He’d been waiting for this moment for three years. ‘Your outrageous bill paid in full plus $38.50. And we’d prefer cash. If it’s a cheque, you’ll have to leave your watch.’
An era ended, closed. A watershed, a turning point. Dining out would never be the same.
I gave him a $50 note, said, ‘I presume there’s a discount for cash.’
‘Certainly.’ Donelly went away, he was gone for a few seconds, and when he returned, he counted out $11.50 in change. Then he said, ‘And here’s your discount.’
He put half an unshelled peanut in my palm.
‘You’re being petty, Donelly,’ I said. ‘Give me the other half.’
Outside, rain and cold had driven everyone except a few drug desperates into shelter. We stood against Donelli’s window. ‘I’m back at the boot factory,’ I said. ‘What about you?’
‘I bought a place in Carlton. On Drummond Street, near your old office. It’s nice, an old building, used to house nuns.’
‘I can understand you feeling at home.’
She put a fist under my chin. Her cab arrived. ‘I’ll drop you,’ she said.
Seize the moment? No. Patience. I shook my head. ‘Wrong direction. We’ll do this again, I hope.’
She opened her hand, touched my lips with three fingers. ‘Call me.’
I was at home on my way to bed, in a better mood than I’d known for some time, when the phone rang.
Cam said, ‘Somethin we should do tomorrow morning. You okay?’
‘Any luck on short Artie with a Saint tatt?’ I said.
Cam shook his head. ‘That Braybrook address, he was there for three months in ’98 after he came out. Three years for serious assault.’
Artie’s name was Arthur Gary McGowan, he had form going back sixteen years, and he lived outside the world of telephone books, credit cards, Medicare, voters’ rolls, and phone, power, gas and rates bills. He was out there in the cash economy and all we had was an old driver’s licence address.
