Facing the Music

by Brian Smith

  ‘Yes, of course. Thank you.’

  ‘Let’s be off then.’

  Mike expected Vern to lead him to his car. Instead, he headed through the gate and across the road.

  ‘I thought we’d go to a place I know on the river. Good day for a stroll.’

  They made their way across a bare patch of ground and began walking towards the city on the paved pathway that hugged the Yarra. Vern turned to gaze downstream at the Bolte Bridge with its lines of slowly moving cars and trucks.

  ‘You know, Riverside will go all the way to the bridge by the time they finish. A massive project.’

  As he spoke, he turned back and lifted his head to take in the height of the latest tower, rising beside the river.

  ‘Does seem a bit quiet, doesn’t it?’ Mike replied.

  He considered telling Vern about the significance he placed on the sound of a building site but thought better of it. He gestured instead at the still incomplete frame of the Southern Star Observation Wheel, jaggedly reaching into the blue sky across the river.

  ‘Do you reckon they’ll ever get that thing up and running again?’

  ‘Glad we haven’t got the job,’ Vern replied and strode ahead, apparently more intent on reaching his destination than enjoying the stroll he had suggested.

  They reached the two completed towers, separated from the river by a lawn on which wooden tables and benches stood among flowering shrubs. Vern, wearing his usual tweed suit, was starting to labour in the warm sun, the colour in his ruddy face deepening. They crossed a footbridge that brought them to a marina where a flotilla of expensive craft lay murmuring in the wake of a passing tourist ferry. The bulk of the ANZ Bank building across the river stood in dark contrast to the gleaming white cabin cruisers, speed boats and yachts in the marina. Mike was surprised when it appeared Vern was headed for Bistro Vite where diners sat on cane chairs overlooking the marina. A beer and a pie in a pub was the usual extent of Vern’s infrequent hospitality. But they passed the bistro and went under the Charles Grimes road-bridge to reach the single storey building that had replaced the line of tin sheds that for years had clung to the wharf on this side of the river. The buildings of the CBD were plainly before them and Mike was beginning to think Vern intended to take him all the way to the casino when his boss turned to enter the door beneath a sign proclaiming Highland Steak. Inside, only a few diners occupied the black, metal framed chairs set around matching pedestal tables. A bar ran along one side, its base covered in tartan fabric. Above it, the dark head of a bull poked from the wall.

  ‘All the meat here is good,’ Vern said. ‘And the beer’s OK as well.’

  He pointed to an unoccupied table and Mike decided Vern’s reference to the beer was probably intended to signal that the large array of whisky bottles behind the bar was off limits this lunchtime. The bottle of malt Vern kept in the bottom drawer of his desk was renowned for its quality and the rarity of its appearance in company.

  After they had ordered a T-bone each and the waiter had brought them bottles of Becks, Vern leaned forward and stared at Mike over his glasses.

  ‘Look,’ he said awkwardly, ‘I’ve been thinking about what’s happened in the past few days and reckon I should have told you more than I have. For a start, you were right about Ted Horton. George Fowler has never let me down before, so I couldn’t believe he had this time. Perhaps it’s a sign of age – stuck in my ways. I should have put you in the picture before we met with the union people. There was no point in bringing in the police – having them around the site would only bring us a heap of disruption and get us nowhere. I knew Ted Horton had to go, of course, and started to think how we could get something positive out of it. That’s when I got the idea: if we didn’t sack Ted but allowed George to move him, George would not have to go into bat for him, would save face and owe us big time. You were right about George, letting me know what was going on at Riverside. He’s been useful to me in many ways in the past and now he’s sure to be useful in the future.’

  Vern paused and scratched the side of his face as if considering what he had just admitted. Or perhaps he was weighing up what else he might say.

  ‘The trouble is, when it comes to Riverside these days, George is being kept in the dark by Reardon. That beanpole is on to something at Riverside and has uncovered some dodgy practices there. But now George suspects Reardon is angling for a pay-off from Rubicon to keep quiet about what he’s found and is freezing George out.’

  Vern took a draft of his beer as though needing to lubricate his voice. Mike could not remember Vern speaking for so long or being so candid.

  Apparently refreshed, Vern continued.

  ‘I said to be careful around Reardon. But you seemed to be getting on pretty well with him the other day and we might be able to use that.’ Vern nodded and a conspiratorial smile crossed his face. ‘After all, you both have bosses who tell you nothing of the deals they stitch up between one another, and I hear he was hinting he might be open to an offer at the right price.’

  Mike shook his head vehemently, partly to deny Vern’s accusation and partly from irritation that Freda Bradshaw had heard and passed on the tail end of his conversation with Alan Reardon.

  ‘No, you’ve been given a bum steer there. Actually, he was saying he thought you might be slinging something George Fowler’s way.’

  There was a time, a very recent time, when Mike would not have dared to speak like this to Vern, but that had changed or, as Mike watched for Vern’s reaction, he hoped it had.

  Vern smiled again. ‘If you say so. Keep in touch with Reardon and see what you can find out from him. If nothing else, it’ll give you some experience of how to cultivate a union official. I won’t always be around to do it.’

  Mike noticed yet another change in Vern’s attitude. Until now he would never countenance any dealings with the head office of the union that did not go directly through him.

  ‘But why this focus on Riverside? Do you think they’re behind these attempts at undermining us?’ he asked.

  Vern shook his head vigorously. ‘No, nothing like that. I told you the thug you call Bruno was trying to mount a protection racket. I also told you Reardon is very familiar with that kind of stunt. Perhaps he’s the link to Bruno. Could be. No, I’ve been thinking about the company more than the site, Rubicon rather than Riverside. I think Rubicon could be a saviour for us.’

  ‘What?’

  The waiter returned with two plates crowded with large steaks, topped with tomato and onion and surrounded by hefty servings of chips.

  ‘Another beer?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Vern after consideration. ‘Need something with the steak.’

  Although Mike had drunk most of his first bottle while he listened, Vern’s was still half full. Mike waited for Vern to continue what he had been saying, but he was more intent on dealing with the steak and they ate in silence until the waiter brought the second round. Vern finished off his first beer with a long draft and licked his lips, looking around as he did so, as if checking he could not be overheard.

  ‘I told you the other day I’d been thinking about the company. Since then I’ve done a lot more thinking. Jim’s as good as gone – nothing more than a figurehead. Ben’s a disaster, with big ideas and no detailed understanding of what we need to do if we’re going to achieve any of them. You might say he can learn over time, but he’s already put us in a position where we don’t have any time left. I’ve tried to counsel him, but he’s too arrogant and too impatient to listen or learn.’

  Vern broke off to dispatch some more of the steak and sip his beer before continuing in a voice which began in a self-deprecating tone but soon became assertive.

  ‘I’m only an accountant but I’ve been in the industry a long time, I know how it works, I’ve had the experience of turning Jim’s ideas into viable projects and I have valuable contacts. I also know our financial situation backwards. I can tell you we haven’t got anywhere near the financial b
acking we’ll need to take us down the path Ben has in mind for us, yet the rest of our business, the projects that are all ticking along very nicely for modest gains, are a nice little cash cow, which would be attractive to a purchaser.’

  ‘A purchaser?’

  Mike’s surprise was obvious.

  Vern dropped his voice so that Mike had to lean forward to hear him clearly.

  ‘What we need is an arrangement that covers our weaknesses and uses our strengths. The best way forward for us is not to try to leap into the big league by some kind of frontal assault. We have to become part of a bigger outfit that could enhance and build on our strengths. Someone like Rubicon. The fit with them is great. For a start, there is the synergy between the sites – Riverside and CityView. Our other projects would give them the cash flow they will need if I’m right about them being overcommitted with Riverside, and they have access to the funding sources we lack.’

  ‘Have they approached you?’

  ‘Angelo Rossi is a smart man and he has the knowledge and experience to do the same analysis I’ve done. He mightn’t have got around to it yet – busy with other things – but I wouldn’t be surprised if he did.

  ‘Have you discussed this with Jim?’

  ‘No, not yet. You’re the only person I’ve mentioned it to.’

  ‘Why me?’

  Vern nodded encouragingly as though Mike had at last asked the question that mattered.

  ‘It was Jim who first suggested we should look within our own workforce for people with the potential to rise higher in the company if we gave them the opportunity. Like many of Jim’s ideas, he left it to me to implement. We’ve had some successes over the years and we’ve had our share of failures, but you stood out. You need more experience yet and maybe you’ll fall short, but you were my best bet for leading the company in some years’ time, when I expected Jim would be hanging up his boots. That’s all changed now. I reckon Rubicon would give you the chance you need.’

  Mike fought unsuccessfully to prevent a self-conscious grin coming on to his face but dismissed it quickly and frowned.

  ‘There’s no way Jim would agree and I wouldn’t blame him, even if it does make it harder for the firm to survive. He’s spent a good deal of his life developing Findlay Construction and to see it disappear, even if it was part of a bigger firm, would be devastating for him. You know that better than I do.’

  Mike raised his glass to his lips and thought of his own father who must one day, possibly soon, face the same dilemma. Would he be willing to sacrifice his own career – the one Vern had just described in such glowing terms – to prolong the life of the family business? He finished his beer and added, ‘I’ll just keep giving this job all I’ve got. Only yesterday you said I owed it to Jim and you were spot on. If it wasn’t for him, and for you, I’d probably be a foreman carpenter somewhere.’

  ‘I told you things have changed. Jim has all his funds tied up in the company. He needs to release them. And when Ben thinks about it he’ll see the advantages for himself as well. It’ll give him the opportunity to lead the marketing effort of a much larger outfit, and that’s an area he does know something about.’

  ‘Vern, you can’t tell me Jim would ever agree to what you’re suggesting. We’ve got to stay as an independent firm whatever the risks.’

  Vern looked at his watch. ‘We should be going.’

  He signalled to the waiter for the bill and leaned forward so his head was close to Mike’s. ‘I said I hadn’t mentioned any of this to anyone else. Let’s keep it that way. If Angelo isn’t as switched on as I think he is, it may all come to nothing. A pity, but I don’t see any other contenders I would want to deal with.’

  He looked at his watch again.

  ‘I’ve arranged for a cab to pick us up out the back of here in a few minutes. I’ll drop you off on the way back to my office.’

  Back in his office, Mike closed the door and sat at his desk staring at the drab wall opposite him. What a change-around! Was Vern really serious about encouraging, even possibly initiating, a takeover of Findlay’s? It was so hard to see him as a defector to Rubicon, but that was pretty much the way he sounded. He hadn’t said anything about his own place in any new structure. Was that what this was all about: a way to secure a future for Vern? Why would he try to recruit Mike to the idea before at least floating it with Jim? That wasn’t the way Vern worked – wasn’t the way he had worked. And it was so out of character for Vern to be so forthcoming. Perhaps this was an illusion – just like Mike’s new standing with Vern and with the men on the site was an illusion. Maybe there was a lot more going on than Vern had told him.

  Mike opened the booklet of business cards he kept in his desk drawer and reached for his phone. After punching in a number, he waited until hearing Alan Reardon’s voice.

  ‘Alan. Mike Georgiou here.’

  ‘Hi, Mike. How’s it going?’

  ‘Fine. Things have settled down again on the site, I’m glad to say.’ He paused but, when Reardon said nothing, Mike went straight to the point of his call. ‘You said you thought our problems here might be linked with those at Riverside. It could be the sabotage here was the lead up to coming at us for protection money. Is that what’s on at Riverside as well?’

  ‘Haven’t come across anything like that here. If I do, I’ll give you a call. Now I have to go.’

  It was clear, despite his approach to him yesterday, Reardon wasn’t yet about to confide in Mike any further.

  6

  Lissa gave him an appraising look.

  ‘Why are you wearing a suit?’

  Mike returned the look and decided the short skirt of the green silk dress asked questions of the wearer’s legs that Lissa was well able to answer.

  ‘Hey, you look good. I haven’t seen this before, have I? Still got good legs.’

  Mike thought the rich tone of the dress suited her dark colouring, although the fit could have been more accommodating – she was starting to thicken across the hips.

  Lissa smiled her appreciation.

  ‘I’m glad you like it. I thought it was time for something new. You’re looking very smart yourself. But why so formal?’

  Mike had hesitated when dressing. Few of the diners at Café Filipo would be wearing suits, but his father was sure to be one of them.

  ‘Not every day Shane takes us out for dinner,’ he offered by way of explanation ‘When is Jessica due?’

  ‘Any minute.’

  Lissa frowned and touched the back of her hair uncertainly. ‘I do hope Christos will behave. He thinks it’s an affront to his manhood to have a sitter. I told him she was here for the girls, but he’s convinced he should be allowed to do the job.’

  ‘That’ll be her now,’ Mike said as the door chime sounded.

  He brought in the tall young woman with dark plaits, who was carrying her laptop and several university texts. Lissa delivered her usual briefing before they kissed the children and walked into the street, where the night was fast taking over. Across the road and along the next street they came to an imposing house on the corner. A white picket fence and a formal fringe of box hedge and lawn ran across and down to the side fence separating the front of the house from the garage and back garden. The house itself was entirely white – wooden block walls, galvanised roof and cast iron lacework along the surrounding veranda – like a wedding cake in the twilight.

  They were mounting the steps when the front door opened and a well-built man with a full head of silver hair came out to embrace them. As Mike had expected, Demetri Georgiou was dressed in a neatly pressed navy suit and white shirt with a colourful tie. It made a stark contrast to what he was happiest wearing – his daily outfit of jeans and green T-shirt with ‘Georgiou the Greengrocer’ in red letters across his chest. He donned his suit for the occasions he deemed important – family events such as weddings, funerals, baptisms or name day celebrations – or for what many might see as less significant functions, such as a school parents’ eveni
ng or the annual general meeting of the long defunct South Melbourne Hellas Soccer Club.

  ‘No sign of the taxi,’ Demetri said with concern.

  ‘Should be here any minute, Dad.’

  When Mike first suggested it, Lissa had said there was no need for a taxi and one of them could drive, but Mike had insisted. He knew that anything hosted by Shane would include a lot of alcohol and he found he always drank more when in Shane’s company – often sipping a drink avoided the need to respond to one of Shane’s provocative comments.

  They had hardly settled themselves in the large sitting room when the sound of a horn announced the arrival of the cab. Mike shepherded Lissa and his father into the back of the car and sat beside the driver, a young Indian who nodded when Mike said, ‘The casino, please. The hotel entrance.’

  The short trip from South Melbourne was taken up with Lissa answering Demetri’s questions about the health of the children and their progress at school.

  When they reached Clarendon Street the driver swung left away from the hotel entrance as though intending to take them across the river.

  ‘Hey, I said the hotel entrance. Straight ahead.’

  The driver smiled at him anxiously. ‘The casino is just here, sir.’

  He gestured at the front of the casino across the street and swung the cab in a wide turn, which brought them to its doors.

  ‘The other end is where we want to be dropped,’ Mike insisted.

  ‘Mike. We can walk from here,’ Lissa said.

  Demetri opened the door and began to clamber out, so Mike paid off the cab driver and they entered the casino. He asked directions to the restaurant from one of the security men stationed at the entrance and was told, ‘Bear left when you enter the casino, continue through the food court and up the mall. It’s at the hotel end; quite a walk. Pity you didn’t come in there.’

  Mike muttered some ungracious thanks and they entered the casino where they were immediately surrounded by the flickering lights from the long banks of poker machines and the TV screens rising above them. As background to the electronic beeps and rattle of the poker machines, Mike could feel the bass thump of a poorly reproduced band playing slow rock music.