The Shadow Maker

by Robert Sims

  ‘Pussy helmets,’ said Barbie dismissively.

  Giselle gave him a sideways look. He seemed on edge. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

  He didn’t answer straightaway, just gazed ahead at the strip of airport freeway unwinding through a fringe of fields, gum trees and giant billboards. His own grinning face mooned back at him from one of the hoardings - an ad for his TV game show.

  ‘Business hiccups,’ he said at last. ‘That’s all.’

  She knew he was understating the problem. ‘Are we in financial trouble?’ she asked pointedly.

  He looked at her quickly and said with a bleak smile, ‘Not yet.’

  She frowned. ‘You had a phone call before we got in the car.

  Jojima again, was it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is he the hiccup?’

  He let the question hang there for a moment. It was a reminder of why he’d married her. Despite appearances, Giselle was not just arm candy, as one dyspeptic columnist had described her. She was observant and smart, with a perceptive grasp of the crude and mercenary forces that shaped the social life around her. As well as being decorative, she was a valuable ally.

  ‘Jojima’ - Barbie pronounced the name as if it referred to a venomous species - ‘is in a position to do us damage.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He’s threatening to pull the plug on a very big deal I’ve been working on. The new VR game. I don’t know if the threat’s real or it’s just brinkmanship ahead of Friday’s deadline. The whole thing’s up and running at last but the software research has cost a fortune.

  If the Japanese don’t sign now, I’m left with a cashflow problem.

  That’s why I’m flying up to Sydney. There’s a takeover bid for the first production company. I’d been hanging onto it for sentimental value. Now we need the money.’

  ‘Well that’s more important than sentiment,’ she said, giving him a sceptical look.

  He nodded and accelerated past a line of trucks.

  ‘Can’t you sell to someone else?’ she went on. ‘The Americans?’

  ‘Timing.’ He shook his head. ‘Just the process of trying to set up another deal.’

  ‘And our personal finances if Jojima says no?’

  ‘Tight.’

  She didn’t like the sound of that at all. It had a nasty ring of austerity. ‘What’s he really like, this Jojima?’ she asked. ‘I’ve only met him once at that black-tie dinner when the state government was touting for trade. He seemed quite pleasant.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it. He’s commercially ruthless. Hard as nails.’

  ‘Yes, but what’s he like away from the office? What sort of man is he?’

  ‘Pretty cold from what I gather. Precise. Formal. No emotions.

  I’ve tried getting round his defences - but no luck so far. It’s like playing chess with a grandmaster.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Gay?’

  ‘Definitely not. He uses women prostitutes on a regular basis.’

  ‘Japanese or western?’

  ‘Western, as a matter of fact. He has a thing about them. Why do you ask?’

  This time Giselle didn’t answer, turning to look through the window and watching a 747 climbing from take-off.

  ‘How important is he to us?’ she said at last.

  ‘Extremely important,’ he said with a sigh. ‘If he says no, we lose millions. If he says yes, we stand to make our first billion.’

  She nodded, as if making up her mind about something. ‘I think I should look him up in Tokyo. Get him to take me out - for a social drink at least. Would he do that?’

  Barbie pondered the suggestion. ‘He would if I asked him to.’

  ‘I think you should. I can charm him in ways you can’t.’

  Barbie fell silent, knowing exactly what she meant. He had no misconceptions about their marriage. There was nothing idealistic or romantic in it - other than for public display. Like most things, it had been a pragmatic choice for both of them. And on that basis, it was consistent for Giselle to do whatever she could to seal the contract in Tokyo. With a mixture of distaste and admiration for her commitment, he nodded his assent.

  He drove into the tiers of long-term parking and pulled into one of the bays. Before he turned off the ignition, his wife rested her hand on his forearm and looked him straight in the eye. She wanted her own verbal agreement. There could be no guilt, no recriminations.

  ‘If I think I can save the deal, should I let him fuck me?’

  She was offloading the responsibility. It was Barbie’s decision.

  He switched off the engine and sat back, averting his eyes so he was facing straight ahead at a grey concrete wall. ‘A lot of money’s at stake, and it might only need a nudge to get him to commit,’ he said. ‘Just play it by ear.’

  They looked the perfect couple as they walked through the jostle of people milling around the international departures gate - Giselle sharply dressed in a black slashed top with matching trousers and peep-toe sandals, Barbie in his lightweight Italian wool suit. Smooth beige. Open-neck cream shirt. They were both dressed for travel.

  Behind her she trailed her black leather Louis Vuitton flight case, while he carried an overnight bag, laptop and business suit. They stopped just short of the sliding doors. Around them people backed off a little. Smiles of recognition. Heads turning. It was something they were used to - personal rituals performed in public - but the rewards were worth it. Image was everything.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘See you on Thursday.’

  She nodded, but in her eyes there was a coldness and it spoke volumes. For the first time in their partnership she was letting him see an entirely new emotion: disappointment. He didn’t like it. He was being censured for failing to maintain the basis of their marriage, unassailable wealth, and as a result forcing her into a sacrifice that few women would contemplate. The expression in her eyes lingered for a long moment, like a warning, then switched to their usual brightness as a fellow fashion model approached - her travelling companion to Tokyo.

  As the two women greeted each other, kissing the air and embracing with all the sincerity of a stage-managed welcome, Barbie was frowning. Giselle’s brief display of disapproval was like a shot across his bows, a potential threat to their relationship, based as it was on mutual respect, public loyalty and professional empathy.

  As he faced the biggest financial crisis of his career it was the last thing he needed.

  They said their goodbyes and the two women disappeared through the sliding doors on their way to the executive lounge. While he stood there distracted by his thoughts a small boy approached, a shy smile on his face, autograph book in hand. Barbie signed it without a word, then turned and walked briskly towards the domestic terminal. The pressures in his life were converging. Problems were multiplying. Secrets were getting harder to manage. His trip to Sydney was shaping up as a moment of truth, and the flash of hostility from his wife was like a bad omen.

  Every now and then the air hostess would brush by, wanting to catch his attention or fuss over him. Now she was flirting openly.

  ‘Coffee, tea or me?’ she asked with a teasing smile.

  Barbie looked up from his laptop, his mind still juggling sets of figures. He leant back in the comfort of his business-class seat, took a deep breath and gave her the once-over. Slim. Tanned. Attractive enough in a fresh-faced, ingenuous sort of way. Not his type at all.

  No hint of the fallen woman. It was what he always looked for, the thing that excited him most: a lubricious element of vice. He was astute enough to know it was because of his repressive upbringing

  - and indulgent enough to pursue it. But this woman was just available. No sign of corruption in her eyes.

  ‘Coffee,’ he said with a selfless shrug. ‘Triple espresso.’

  She gave a mock sigh and went off to get it. Too bad. But that’s all he wanted from her. Caffeine. Lots of caffeine. He was flying into battle
and needed his wits about him. The three business meetings that lay ahead would all be tough ones.

  Far below the lazy course of the Murray River wandered through a dry brown landscape, where wide open farmland stretched towards the crumpled ridges of the mountains. From twenty-three thousand feet it all seemed bled of moisture under the harsh exposure of the sun. Dry paddocks. Dry roads. Dry dusty towns. The odd homestead baking in the heat. While other passengers peered through the windows, Barbie was too busy on his laptop with his calculations.

  When the stewardess delivered his coffee he didn’t notice her at all.

  A chauffeur-driven car collected him from Sydney Airport and drove him into the city. He checked into his favourite harbourside hotel, with its five-star service, marble lobby and views over The Rocks and Circular Quay, and rode the lift up to a suite on the twenty-fifth floor. He changed into a fresh shirt, tie and business suit, ready to do battle with a team of bankers in half an hour - the first of his meetings. But before leaving he took a moment to pause and clear his thoughts and adjust his mental geography. This was the place where he’d gained his first taste of liberation and had begun to explore his own hidden depths.

  He crossed to the window and gazed down over the broad blue sweep of the harbour. The glittering water was dotted with ferries and launches and white sails - the billowing arcs of the Opera House on one side of the quay, and the giant metal arches of the Harbour Bridge on the other. Lines of cars and trucks swarmed over the freeway network far below, and on the crest of the bridge he noticed a column of tiny figures - a tourist party - like a file of insects trying to crawl into the sky.

  Barbie had always been unimpressive at field sports but he was adept at psychological games, among them stud poker. That was something else he’d learnt in this city, as a cadet reporter on the Sydney Morning Herald, during late-night sessions in the rambling old rabbit warren of a building in Ultimo. Card games in a back room under clouds of cigarette smoke, excitement fuelled by booze smuggled in under the jackets of rheumy-eyed hacks. It was his first job, fresh out of grammar school. It was also his first whiff of freedom from the archangels of fear that towered over his formative years. He smiled at the memory as the taxi took him from the hotel to the central business district. Yes, he’d treat the meeting with his bankers like a game of stud. That way he had a better chance of winning.

  He was into the bank for millions upon millions of dollars. The total amount scared even him. Much better to think of it as so many chips around a poker table. The dealer would raise the stakes so he’d raise them even more. And as in seven-card stud, the others in the game couldn’t see all of his hand. Some of the cards were face down.

  Just as well, given what he was hiding. Tokyo threatening to pull the plug on his VR deal. Police knocking on his door. The concealment of a sex crime. And the next meeting on his schedule with the TV

  network’s head of programming. He had a nasty feeling his reality show would lose its prime-time slot due to a recent slide in ratings.

  Of course the bankers must know none of this. Instead they’d be treated to a carefully delivered bluff.

  He got out of the cab at Martin Place and strode purposefully across the plaza, oblivious to his surroundings as he psyched himself up for the negotiations ahead. Ignoring a Big Issue seller he entered the sombre chamber of an old bank, its heavy presence redolent of a century of tradition, prudence and serious money. In the lift he checked himself out in the mirror, anxiously playing with his tie.

  Getting out on the third floor, he walked down the corridor to the boardroom. He glanced at his watch. Right on time. The door was open, waiting for his arrival, so he went straight in.

  At the far end of the deliberately imposing boardroom sat the same three bank executives who’d grilled him during the winter - a trio of formal, uptight bureaucrats called Garvey, Rosenberg and Fisk.

  In front of them were documents, sheets of paper, files and laptops.

  To their right was a fourth man, whom Barbie didn’t recognise. To their left was the same woman who would take the minutes and slip him shy smiles when the financial going got heavy. She was the only one whose sympathy he could rely on. Unfortunately it counted for nothing.

  They all stood up as Barbie walked along the length of the table, exchanging handshakes and conventional greetings. Just as on previous occasions, Rosenberg, as the most senior manager, was in charge of proceedings. He seemed to distrust Barbie instinctively. The feeling was mutual, as was the underlying antagonism.

  Rosenberg introduced the fourth man, whose name was Theobald.

  Barbie took him in as they shook hands. He had a new suit, a brutal haircut and ambitious eyes.

  ‘He’s just been promoted,’ explained Rosenberg. ‘I hope you don’t mind if he sits in and learns the ropes.’

  ‘No problem,’ Barbie said and sat down on the opposite side of the table from the rest of them.

  Rosenberg looked up from his files and frowned. ‘I notice you haven’t brought any documents with you,’ he said.

  Barbie nodded. ‘I didn’t need to.’

  ‘But if we’re to review your financial position -‘

  ‘I know exactly what my financial position is,’ interrupted Barbie.

  Rosenberg sat back, a mixture of concern and suspicion on his face. ‘When we met over six months ago, you agreed to certain economies.’

  ‘They were aspirations - not fixed limits.’

  ‘According to our information, you haven’t met any of them.’

  ‘There are good reasons,’ said Barbie firmly. ‘Sound business reasons.’

  ‘And there’s a pressing argument, from the bank’s point of view, to consider you a liability.’

  Barbie had been waiting for this - the first threat. He folded his hands in his lap and asked, ‘Is this a review or an inquisition?’, his tone calmly aggressive.

  Rosenberg observed him carefully then tapped a black folder on the table. ‘We’ve done a risk assessment on you,’ he said coolly.

  ‘Would you like to see it?’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Barbie. ‘All I want from you is an assurance of the bank’s continued support while I develop my investment projects

  - principal among them, my software company.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Rosenberg grimly. ‘The computer game. If I read the financial profile correctly, it’s drained off all your liquid assets.’

  ‘The R&D is expensive.’

  ‘R&D aside, you’ve just arranged a bank transfer of two million dollars to a private account in Malaysia. What was that? A gift? A personal donation?’

  Barbie cleared his throat as if to dislodge the memory of rape, blackmail and bribery, along with the sour taste of revenge inflicted by Kelly Grattan. ‘It was a necessary expense to ensure confidentiality in a very sensitive market.’

  ‘Where you have no guaranteed buyer.’

  ‘A contract is being negotiated, but I can’t disclose details.’

  ‘“Being negotiated”?’ repeated Rosenberg dubiously.

  ‘At this very moment,’ said Barbie, a disturbing image - his wife submitting to Jojima - flashing into his mind. It unsettled him and he looked away to where a shaft of sunlight poured through a tall leaded window to fall on the grey marble hearth of an antique fireplace.

  ‘That’s all well and good, but have you got any working capital left?’

  Barbie sighed. ‘That’s why I’m in Sydney. Tomorrow I sign on the dotted line. I’m selling my first production company. It’s not making much money but it holds some lucrative rights. The sale will be worth a clean ten million to me, which will offset my cashflow problems.’

  The bankers exchanged looks.

  ‘But one other thing, gentlemen,’ Barbie said, then paused, standing up, leaning forward on the table and giving them a cold smile. ‘You’ve done a risk assessment on me. Be careful, though. If I dump this bank, and do it publicly and eloquently - which I would be very good at - you might want
to consider your own reputational risk. Do I make myself clear?’ He looked from one to the other and, getting no more response than a set of startled looks, said, ‘Good. Meeting over.’

  As he turned and strode from the boardroom the only sound was the slap of his shoes on the floor and the faint echoes from the high gilded ceiling.

  The bluff had worked. As Barbie cut briskly through the streams of pedestrians and dodged through the traffic on George Street, he felt a new spring in his step, confident he’d coerced the bank’s continued support - for the time being at least. And that was enough. It would have been nothing less than disaster if Rosenberg and his dreary colleagues had yanked the rug from under him before he could clinch the software deal with the Japanese. So much was riding on that now. Not just his investments but his entire financial future, his marriage and, more importantly, his image. Trying to bounce back from bankruptcy and the stigma of failure in the full glare of the media spotlights was not a prospect he relished. Such a nosedive would stick in the public’s mind and permanently tarnish his celebrity status. He brushed that worry aside for the moment.

  His luck might be riding on a high-stakes gamble, but he was still in the game and the prize was a stake in the new multimedia galaxy.

  It was worth the risk.

  He passed the Romanesque structure of the Queen Victoria Building, with its copper dome and ornate stonework, as he headed towards Darling Harbour and his second business appointment of the day - one likely to be even more problematic than his showdown at the bank. He needed to psych himself up for this one as well and, with a few minutes to spare, he sat down at a cafe table, loosened his tie and ordered a triple espresso - his third for the day.

  He couldn’t afford to relax. After going through his strategy for the next meeting, he drank down the rest of his coffee, straightened his tie, got up and walked towards the TV network office among the buildings looming over the harbour. As he strode up the slope the metallic whirr of the monorail zoomed overhead.

  He’d been summoned by the network’s head of programming

  - media super-bitch Curtis Cole. Most people in the industry knew her only by way of poisonous gossip, but Barbie knew her intimately as well as professionally. It was a daunting privilege and a burden.