Black Glass

by Mundell, Meg;

  ‘Perfect, thanks, Damon. One other thing. That guy you were talking about, the moodie?’

  ‘Yeah? Strange guy. Smart though. Top of his game, I’m told.’

  ‘You interviewed him, right?’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s more of a long-range thing. Haven’t quite got the story angle perfect yet.’

  ‘I’d be interested to see anything you’ve got on him. He could be useful. Can you connect me, just on the quiet?’

  [Remedy, private club, Commerce Zone: Milk | Madame Krane, manager | patrons]

  The alleyway behind the club is strangely clean: no stinking bins or stray litter, the cobblestones shiny like they’ve just been hosed down. The security guard scans Milk’s face with a PalmScreen, nods once and stands aside. The back door opens with a discreet bleep. The lift is lined in cherry-dark wood, and it makes no sound at all as it slides towards the nineteenth floor.

  At their interview the manager had tried to insist he use the front entrance, a plush foyer ruled by an intimidating phalanx of what appeared to be Russian catwalk models. He spent some time explaining that invisibility was essential in his line of work. ‘I’ll dress the part,’ he told her, ‘but I prefer to stay out of sight. Going public spoils the illusion.’

  She’d given a theatrical sigh and checked her hairdo in the bar mirror. ‘Well, darling, it seems a pity with your talent. But as you wish. Frank from the casino tells me you are a genius, and I never argue with a genius.’

  ‘Frank is too kind,’ Milk replied. ‘I’m just very fortunate to be doing what I was born to do.’

  She’d flashed too-white teeth, faked a laugh. ‘Then we will drink a toast to being fortunate. I do hope we will share in your good fortune, Monsieur Milk.’

  This is more like it, Milk tells himself. This is where the kudos is; this is legit. Two floors of over-the-top luxury, half upscale club, half speakeasy, nothing minimal about it: flocked wallpaper, gilt-framed mirrors, huge rococo candelabra sprouting from the walls; the buttery glow of genuine candlelight, a general air of high-end velvet. Jewelled drinks twinkle on trays, a mezzanine dance floor hung with flowering vines, and through the huge windows, the city laid out below them like a sparkling map.

  And the clientele. At Milk’s casino gig the main room draws some real low-lifes, and even the high rollers’ sections are a mixed bag: after all, money is the sole condition of entry. But not here. This place is exclusive in another way — not a club where Milk himself would necessarily be granted entry, had his life taken a different turn. Sure, there’s no sign of the financial slump inside this room: he can see new money, old money, smart money, a handful of trash money. But there’s also an intriguing mix of other elements, not all of them obviously cashed up.

  Facial scanning has identified many of the main players. Beneath the central candelabra poses a fledgling Hollywood starlet in a long dress exposing a snow-pale back. Around her hover a constellation of minor luminaries and hangers-on: an Italian design baron, a US record producer, two wealthy local architects who had recently gotten married in a submarine (televised), a tabloid sexpert, some high-ranked arts bureaucrats and the owner of a budget lingerie chain.

  A booth below Milk houses a barbecue tycoon, two mid-ranking fashion journalists, a controversial performance-artist couple (both fully clothed), a petite woman with a buzz cut — probably a film or media type — several anonymous good-lookers, and a glamorous mafia lawyer who is never photographed wearing anything but impeccable suits and extremely high heels.

  Milk can’t scan the faces in the darker booths further back, where much of the night’s business is apparently done. This has been emphasised: Remedy might look like a recreation joint, but its true calling is more complex.

  ‘Many, many important projects are arranged here,’ the manager had said, one finger raised like a conductor. ‘Good things, positive things. Millions of dollars and some very powerful people. People we must keep happy.’ Her angle was obvious.

  ‘You don’t want any sudden changes,’ Milk replied. ‘Nothing disruptive or uneasy, nothing that might translate to a no.’

  She had beamed then, and Milk knew the job was his.

  ‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘Shall I show you upstairs?’

  This is number three of what will be, if all goes smoothly, a high-paid weekly gig. The DJ is luring people onto the dance floor with a mix of vintage soul and heavy bass. An old guy in a cravat is prancing around like an emu, his silliness loosening the mood. It’s always good to have one oddball in a crowd, provided they don’t sink too many cocktails and get out of hand.

  Milk is aiming for a slow sizzle — mildly seductive, nothing raw — balanced by optimistic notes, a pinch of adrenaline, saturated colour and soft light. So far, it seems to be working.

  This time around he’s settled on three barometers to help modulate the room; the law of averages, he figures, should reduce the margin of error. It makes sense to pick the mafia lawyer: well connected with brains, business sense and street smarts. His second subject is a clean-cut guy in a back booth, a regular who swings mid-range deals of some kind; he’s busy wooing some corporates with the club’s second-most-expensive champagne. His third pick is that little film/media chick with the shaved head: she is clearly here on business, and her face has a certain confident inscrutability, a look Milk can’t help interpreting as a challenge.

  The room is warming up. So far, so good. An exchange of nods, a raised glass; laughter, a hand coming to rest on a shoulder.

  Then the small woman looks up. Milk flinches: she’s not looking into a camera, they’re all concealed. Instead, her double-barrelled gaze seems to shoot straight through the glass of his booth, like she’s staring directly at him.

  Milk feels a prickle of fear. The glass is black, he reminds himself, they can’t see anything from the other side. But for someone who’s staring into a void, the woman seems to hold his gaze a long time. The illusion is unsettling. He is relieved when she drops her eyes and goes back to her conversation.

  Paranoia, he tells himself. Classic Bob Arctor syndrome: he blames that debacle of a concert. Nobody can see him this time: aside from the manager and a couple of staff who’d nodded respectfully, nobody even knows he’s up here. Still, he’ll pick another barometer: this one is making him uneasy.

  The manager likes to mingle and be seen, which means he can keep an eye on her too. She calls herself Madame Krane, but she instructed Milk that as he was entering the inner circle, ‘Ms Krane’ would do nicely. She is a woman of uncertain age, her smooth features a result of wealth and constant maintenance. She adopts an Eastern European air and, after several purple martinis, a hard-to-place accent.

  But Milk’s background research has revealed a different story: Madame Krane is in fact from Geelong, a small, unglamorous satellite city an hour south-west, now little more than a factory-scape thanks to all the chemical spills that have fouled its harbour. Madame Krane’s first name is apparently Janine, and her surname has changed many times. But she has a clean record and pays him in cash. He doesn’t need to know a whole lot more than that.

  Or does he? As he’s become more intimate with the room, he’s detected a subtle undercurrent at work. It’s barely legible, hard to pin down, but it is there. This bothers Milk: knowing a room is his business. There are drugs around as usual, but it’s not that. This is something unfamiliar, like a subsonic hum or an unbidden thought.

  He’s figured out its epicentre: a steel door in a dim alcove in the far corner of the room, almost hidden behind a screen of ferns. No cameras are trained on this portal, and the blind spot immediately drew his attention. Twice on his first night he glimpsed someone’s back vanishing behind the greenery, then a slice of light as what looked like a lift door slid swiftly open and closed.

  The next week he’d arrived early, before the club opened, and strolled over for a closer
look. Behind the plants were two solid steel doors, wedged firmly shut, and a button set into the wall. Nothing else to see. On his way back one of the Russian girls gave him a glossy stare and asked if he was looking for someone.

  So at the end of last week’s successful shift, after accepting Madame Krane’s praise, he decided to be direct. ‘Could I ask — what’s through there?’ He nodded towards the alcove.

  The manager’s face clicked into a polite smile and she led him swiftly into her office. ‘That is a separate matter,’ she said, placing her purple drink on the desktop. ‘It doesn’t concern us here.’

  ‘With all due respect, from my position, I see it differently,’ he said. ‘Whatever happens through that door is linked to what happens in the room I’m responsible for. It’s all connected.’

  Her face set a fraction harder. He wondered how far to probe. He was a pioneer working in a barely defined realm, but this business with the door looked like a sideline, and sidelines have a way of looping back on you. He needed to know — if not all, at least something.

  ‘If the club takes clients through that door —’ he began.

  ‘It’s not so simple,’ she interrupted.

  He tried another tack. ‘Ms Krane, you’ve hired me to shape the ambience of your club, to look after your profits. But if I don’t know exactly what I’m underscoring, I’m not working with the full picture.’ He was sure she’d be frowning if that was a movement her face could realistically perform.

  She said nothing.

  ‘Okay, I’ll ask you frankly — is there a skin-shop through that door?’

  She shot him a look of pure disgust. ‘That’s what you think?’ She made a hissing sound, and he knew he’d overstepped a line. ‘That is a low and tragic industry, and I want no part of it. You must never’ — she leaned forward — ‘never imply such a thing to anyone. Quite apart from the question of reputation, it is patently incorrect.’

  He back-pedalled, but not too fast. ‘I’m sorry, but I had to ask. I never make moral judgements or discuss my clients’ business with outside parties. This is about doing my job as well as possible.’

  ‘Are you happy with your rate of pay?’ she asked.

  He nodded. ‘So far, Ms Krane.’

  ‘Well, I can offer you what you might call a gentleman’s agreement. First, you have my word that I run no skin shop.’ She spat the last two words.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘You continue to prove yourself here, to share this good fortune of yours …’

  He waited.

  ‘And when we know each other a little better, provided all goes well, I will take you on a personal tour of that particular facility.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Milk had said. ‘That’s reassuring. I appreciate your trust.’

  A knock on the booth door makes him jump: he’s asked not to be disturbed. He gives the room below a last sweep, leans over and swings the door open. A young waiter stands there with a drink on a fancy tray.

  ‘Compliments of the lady,’ says the boy. Milk tries not to look annoyed. He’s told Madame Krane he doesn’t drink. He glances over his shoulder at the monitors.

  ‘It’s non-alcoholic,’ says the waiter apologetically. ‘She insisted. Said you might be thirsty.’

  Milk is thirsty. He takes the glass and sniffs: a fizz of fresh ginger, mint and lemon zest. No booze. He smiles: a good choice. The boss clearly wants to keep him onside.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says, taking the glass and retreating, ‘but I’d rather not be interrupted while I’m working.’ He shuts the door and locks it.

  He has a sip and smiles, and turns his attention back to the room laid out below him.

  [Exterior billboard, Dreamtime Travel Agents, Commerce Zone: Tally | Blue]

  ‘There, look, told you: right in the middle of my country. Those bastards. Minga mob, bloody ants.’

  ‘They just tourists. See, they all got cameras.’

  ‘Those dumb terrorists climb all over that big rock. Walking round, taking photos. No respect for that place. It’s not for walking on.’

  ‘Why you living way down here then, if that’s your place?

  ‘—’

  ‘Blue? Why you not up there instead?’

  ‘Can’t always be where you want. I’m going back, though. I’m saving up.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘To go back. Drive back into town on my own wheels. Straight up the Stuart Highway, stereo full bore. Just turn up: Heyyyy …’

  ‘You saving up for a car?’

  ‘Ute. Sleep in the back, carry some water, no worries.’

  ‘Where’s your money? And your licence?’

  ‘Never you mind, Sherlock.’

  ‘Blue you can’t drive with no licence.’

  ‘I can drive alright.’

  ‘You got no papers.’

  ‘So what.’

  ‘And you got a black face.’

  ‘You got chicken legs.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Fuck off yourself, chicken legs.’

  [—]

  ‘You want half this last apricot?’

  ‘Alright.’

  [—]

  ‘Your birthday. It’s April fourteenth, right, Blue?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘That’s winter.’

  ‘Autumn, start of winter.’

  ‘Reckon you’ll still be here then?’

  ‘Reckon I don’t know, Sherlock. You tell me.’

  CHAPTER 7:

  THE LOOKOUT

  [Foyer, Prime Talent Agency, Commerce Zone: Tally | receptionist]

  It’s mine of course what a question to ask, Jesus whose else would it be? I’m a photographer. For my birthday, from my grandpa. Cos I’m looking for someone that’s what I want to ask you about. Can’t I just show you this photo? Don’t worry about my feet please, I swear this is a million times more important please. Just look at this, have you seen this girl — You sure? Well it’s a bit blurry, but that’s on purpose that’s the effect I was going for. No. It’s the only one I got. Her eyes are blue, light blue without the sunglasses, she just got them that day they look pretty cool don’t you reckon. Her hair comes down to about here, she’s kind of tall and real pretty, like a model like someone in a movie. She sort of walks like this, watch: like this, see? … Are you sure? Jesus alright alright, I’m going. I’m going. Thanks for giving a shit, lady, no really. Thanks for giving a whole lot of shit.

  [Room 14, Legends Hotel, North Interzone: Grace/Violet | Macy]

  Grace was amazed by the tricks make-up could play. The first time Macy did her face, she sat on a swivel stool in front of the mirror, watching the transformation — like that CGI effect, where one face blurs into another so smoothly you forget the original. She’d worn make-up before, but Macy was a professional: under her sure fingers, as lines were drawn and edges blended, Violet appeared painlessly from the clean face of her predecessor, like a photo coming into focus.

  ‘It’s easy,’ Macy had said, as Grace faded away. ‘Soon you’ll be able to do it yourself.’ Macy had picked up her wineglass and stood back. ‘Wow. Not a bad scrub-up.’ And now, she said, she had a surprise for Violet; she turned her away from the mirror and pinned her hair up on her head. She rummaged through some boxes, lifted out a droopy black shape, settled it on Violet’s head and fussed with its shiny strands. ‘Okay,’ she said finally. ‘Now you can turn round.’

  It had given her a jolt, becoming someone else so fast. The woman who looked back at Violet — and it was a woman, she realised with a twinge, not a girl — was only faintly familiar. The false lashes and smoky shadow gave her eyes a new shape, bigger and more knowing; her face seemed thinner, the cheekbones sharper, her mouth rewritten as a red curve against pale skin. (‘Garnet,’ said
Macy. ‘Classy colour.’) The wig was 1920s style, a shiny black bob cut sharp to the chin. Violet turned her head to watch it swing in the light. Back straight, she heard the director say. All quiet on set. This would help — it really would. She could be a different person, start again.

  At rehearsal last week Merlin had made a comment: her red hair was beautiful, but the colour could prove distracting for the audience; she was only meant to distract them at certain pre-ordained moments, not the whole time. They were meant to be focused on him. Peep, always blunter than the old man, had simply demanded, ‘Hey, doll-face, why not just dye it brunette?’ Violet had looked around her at the dried-out mops and old bleach bottles, the basement where they practised their routine. She’d tried not to think about what Peep had said, but now here was a solution that didn’t involve dye.

  ‘Well?’ broke in Macy. ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘I reckon that’s better,’ Violet answered. ‘Much better. In fact I might just wear it all the time.’

  ‘Star material,’ Macy had said. ‘You look at least twenty. Now don’t get weepy tonight or you’ll wreck my masterpiece.’ She’d held both glasses under the wine cask, filled them to the top. They drank a wordless toast to the miracles of paint.

  [Table 9, Belladonna Cafe, North Interzone: Damon]

  Twenty minutes since he’d walked out of that meeting and Damon was still shaking. He’d kept it together, of course, at least until he got outside on the footpath. Then he plugged in his headphones, jammed on his shades and walked and walked, trying to calm down. Great tracts of the city passed beneath his feet before he found himself hunched in the back booth of some dimly lit diner, drinking stale brewed coffee. Only when the waitress gave him a funny look did Damon realise he was still wearing his shades.

  He reached up to touch his hair: sculpted neatly into place. One thing at least, he thought glumly, that he had under control. It’s just a glitch, he told himself. Toughen up, mate. This was no game for thin-skins. Happens to everyone, can’t please all the people etcetera. But it didn’t help.