Dead Point Part 19

'I've known better. You're looking good.'

'For radio, I'll pa.s.s. 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 a.s.saulting 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 'But he's out of date.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 yourf.u.c.k 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 s.e.x 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 s.h.i.t. The nasty c.o.ke 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 a.s.sumption. 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 st.i.tched 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 s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g 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 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 gla.s.s, serious, put out her left hand and touched my face for an instant. 'To old friends new again.'

We touched gla.s.ses. 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 alb.u.m 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 that 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 unsh.e.l.led 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 a.s.sault.'

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.

Today, we were in a non-threatening vehicle, a new Subaru Forester, dark-green, parked outside the Royal Melbourne Inst.i.tute of Technology on Swanston Street, just up from the ugliest new facade in the city. The architects had played an end-of-century joke on the university. Needless to say, the university hadn't caught it yet. Universities never do catch the joke until it's too late. Many a French fraud had died laughing while earnest Australian academics were still doing PhDs on his theoretical jokes.

'She finishes at twelve today,' said Cam, eyes on the pa.s.sers-by. 'Fashion, that's what she does. Whatever that is.'

He was talking about Marie, the eighteen-year-old daughter of Cynthia the commission agent.

I watched the throng of students, many of them the sons and daughters of the old colonial world, the Asian part. We'd closed our factories so that we could exploit the cheap labour their parents provided. Then we had a second cunning and rapacious thought: we could convince them that our universities were intellectual powerhouses and charge huge fees for admitting their children.

It worked.

'What'd Cynthia say?' I said.

'The boy told her Marie's got a habit. Coupla days ago. She says she went wild, grabbed Marie when she came in the house. Marie says it's over, she's clean, clean since Cyn got bashed.'

'That's all?'

He nodded.

'This Cynthia's idea?'

'No. She doesn't make any connection. I never said anythin. There she goes. You start.'

Cam was out of the car, walking round the front, long strides in his moleskins. He caught up with a slim young woman in black jeans and a purple top, said something. She turned her head, smiled, stopped, obviously knew him. He gestured at the car. She nodded, came back with him.

Cam opened the back door for her.

'Hi,' she said.

I turned and said h.e.l.lo. Her spiky hair was the same colour as her top, her lipstick was green, and she had ear and nose rings. The overall effect was innocent, something a five-year-old let loose on her mother's things might achieve.