Dead Point Part 7

'The one, he's got a tatt down the middle finger. Right hand.'

'What kind?'

'The Saint.'

'No, don't say that.' The stick figure with the halo was St Kilda's emblem.

'She says she was at the stove, it came to her. The head and the halo. Halo bigger than the head.'

I took the cap off the coffee cup.

'Can't drink it without sugar. Needs sugar,' said Cam.

'No.' I sipped. This was coffee, Harry Palmer coffee, sugar ruined it. 'That's it?'

'No. Ring each side she thinks, gold.'

'She should go back to the jacks.'

Cam opened his coffee, added sugar from two little paper bags, stirred with the plastic implement, tasted. 'She's not happy to do that.'

Our eyes conversed. I said, 'Yes. Leave it with me. It's an exceedingly long shot and I've exhausted my welcome. But.'

He nodded, not looking at me, eyes on his coffee. 'Can't find any other way.'

'The vehicle,' I said. 'I've been thinking about the vehicle.'

'The vehicle?'

'From a carpark.'

'A carpark.' Cam looked up, into the distance, turned the eyes on me, yellow eyes, the sinews bracketing his mouth showing. Nothing more to be said.

'Do the tatt,' he said, 'then we'll do the carpark.'

'This breakfast, I owe you.'

'Dinner. Owe me dinner.'

When he'd gone I made a call about the tattoo. The man at the other end groaned.

'Jesus, f.u.c.k,' he said. 'Use the phone book.'

'Robbery with violence, maybe serious a.s.sault. Not inside on February 20.'

'Use half the phone book. Tomorrow it'll have to be. Six-thirty.'

'Not f.u.c.king bad,' said the driver.

It was 10.40 a.m. and we were in the furniture van outside the wrought-iron double gates of Mrs Purbrick's neo-Georgian mansion in Kooyong. The greasy rain on Punt Road had turned to a soft, clean mist here, further testimony to the preferential treatment handed out to the extremely rich.

The driver's name was Boz and she was a film grip, an occupation whose essence, as I understood it, was the moving of things. When not gripping films, she used this skill to cart stuff around in her vintage van. I'd met her through Kelvin McCoy, a conman artist and former client of mine who leased the building across the street from my office. Boz transported McCoy's appalling creations to his gallery in the city. He had not been receptive to my suggestion that, on these missions, the Boz vehicle should display a Hazardous Waste sign.

'There's a side door,' I said. 'Just beyond, it's probably best.' I'd hired her for the day; one person couldn't move the library bits around.

I got out and pressed the b.u.t.ton in the wall, could have smoked a full cigarette before David, Mrs Purbrick's personal a.s.sistant, came down the gravelled driveway. His hair was wet and he bore the telltale signs of someone not long vertical.

'My dear Jack,' he said. 'Apologies in full. I was on the phone, dealing with this most dreadful rug trader. Can you believe the man's tried the old switcheroo on us?'

'The switcheroo? That's impertinent,' I said.

'My word.' He held up a key. 'I have to unlock these now. It turns out all the high-tech electronic rubbish can't keep out a 12-year-old armed with an old remote control. So much for maximum security.'

The gates swung open on silent hinges. Boz drove in and lined up the truck with the side steps to within a centimetre.

She got out, broken-nosed, six foot two, near-shaven-headed, a woman in khaki bib-and-braces overalls and a white sleeveless tee-shirt.

I introduced her to David.

'I can see you work out,' he said admiringly.

'Work out?' said Boz. 'Work out s.h.i.t, I'm a manual labourer.'

David was suitably taken aback. 'Well,' he said. 'Well, I'll leave you to it.'

It took us half an hour to move the pieces of the library into its home, an empty room with deep windows looking onto the side garden.

Then the real work began.

We started with the plinths, six of them. Their fit was snug but allowed for wood movement. More important were the levels. I worked my way around the room with a long spirit level and a box of maple shims. Fortunately, the floor was true; only three thin shims needed.

Next came the base cupboards, fixed to the plinths with Charlie's hidden locking wedges. Then we put the shelf cabinets on the bases, again fixing them with secret wedges. As instructed, I screwed each cabinet to the wall with two screws that went through prepared slots. Then I slid into place the decorative cover strips that hid the expansion gaps. Finally, I attached the cornices and the skirtings.

The room was transformed. Boz and I stood looking at it. We'd worked well together, said little as we turned a bare room into a library: woodwork softly glowing, bevelled gla.s.s catching the light. With books, a library table, a few chairs, the room would be complete.

'You blokes know what you're doing,' said Boz. 'It's beautiful. Best thing I ever carted.'

'Did your bit,' I said.

I walked around, tested a few locks, opened and closed a few doors and drawers, admired the fit, even admired my hand-cut dovetail joints and raised panels. This piece of furniture would be giving pleasure long after everyone alive on this day was gone, I thought. It was not a bad thing to have helped create.

A voice said, 'Oh my G.o.d, I'm dreaming. Heaven, this room is absolute heaven.'

Mrs Purbrick, owner of the house, danced into the room, head thrown back, came around me, pirouetted with arms above her head, finished leaning back against me. It would have been girlish had not Mrs Purbrick's girlhood been somewhere in the early 1960s. She was a short blonde with a formidable bosom, all of her lifted, tucked, sucked, puffed, abraded, peeled, implanted, stripped and buffed, and, today, packaged in a short-skirted dark-grey business suit.

'Mr Taub will check the installation when he gets back,' I said. 'This is Boz Bylsma, who did the hard work today.'

Mrs Purbrick was walking around the room touching the woodwork. Her eyes flicked to Boz, summed her up, nodded. She stopped, put her head back and shouted, 'Daaviid.'

David appeared. He had clearly been waiting in the pa.s.sage. He looked around the room. 'Marvellous,' he said. 'Quite marvellous. In exquisite taste.' He tugged at an earlobe. 'An island of good taste.'

Mrs Purbrick fixed him with her gaze. 'I want the books in by the end of tomorrow,' she said. 'Is that clear, darling?'

'Clear? What could be clearer? Any preferences? Leatherbound Mills & Boon? Collected works of Danielle Steel? I believe there's a special on Jeffrey Archer.'

'Use your exquisite exquisite taste,' Mrs Purbrick said. With difficulty, she raised her eyebrows and showed her top teeth. The teeth were perfect. Some cosmetic dentist probably lay warm and slack beside a pool in Tuscany on the proceeds of that achievement. taste,' Mrs Purbrick said. With difficulty, she raised her eyebrows and showed her top teeth. The teeth were perfect. Some cosmetic dentist probably lay warm and slack beside a pool in Tuscany on the proceeds of that achievement.

'How I wish that that were a standing instruction,' said David, not quite tossing his head.

Mrs Purbrick tried to narrow her eyes at him. 'On your way, you dear little man.'

'Well, that's it from us,' I said. 'On behalf of Mr Taub, I wish you well to use this library.'

Mrs Purbrick came over to me, came close, the torpedoes prodding my bottom ribs, put a short-fingered hand on my cheek. 'You are so old-fashioned and courteous, I can't believe men like you still exist.'

I caught the eyes of Boz, we were even-height, eyes level, some distance above Mrs Purbrick. She was expressionless, then she blinked, just a blink.

'Frozen in time,' I said.

Mrs Purbrick moved her hand down to my chest, traced a circle with a stubby finger. 'I'm going to have to have people for drinks to show off the library, make them envious. You'll be getting an invitation, you and Mr Taub. Nothing fancy, just drinkies after five. Mike and Ros Cundall will be coming. I'm sure you know them.'

'Not in the flesh, no.'

'Lovely people. And I'm sure they need a library. G.o.d knows, they've got everything else. I was at Sam's birthday party a few weeks ago, that's the son and heir, charming young man. In the recreation wing. Wing, mark you, it's like a resort, two bars, the pool, billiard tables, gymnasium, sauna. And then there's this games room electronic shooting things, old pinball machines, you name it, my dear.'

'A library would certainly complete the facilities,' I said. 'I look forward to receiving your invitation.'

Mrs Purbrick saw us to the side door. On the way, she ran a hand over my b.u.t.tocks, no more than an appraisal, the touch a trainer might give a horse's rump at the sales. It had been a while since anyone had done that to me.

'You will come for drinks, won't you, Jack?'

'It'll require legislation to keep me away.'

'And make sure the darling Mr Taub comes.'

Going back across the river, the empty van bouncing and squeaking, I studied Boz's forearms. Long, sinews showing, just a sheen of pale hair.

'So,' she said. 'Hangin out with the rich and famous. I was on a film set where Sam Cundall was big-notin himself.'

'In films too, is he?'

'Had money in it. Just for tax. And the possibility of s.e.x. Dud film.'

'I haven't been to drinks for years,' I said. 'I'll have to go if the invite comes through. Charlie could use another library job.'

Boz gave me an unbelieving look. 'What about this Cannon Ridge business?' she said. 'Reckon it's bent?'

We talked about the politics of the state. She had no respect for anyone. Outside Charlie's, she said, not looking at me, 'That was quick. Short-time. What d'ya reckon?'

'The deal's the deal.'

She looked at me, left hand went over her stubble. 'No. Make me a lesser offer.'

I thought about it. 'You pay for a late lunch.'

Dodging drug dealers and their customers, we walked to a Lebanese place in Smith Street where they knew me.

Seated in the window, I said, 'How's the film business?'

Boz shook her head. 's.h.i.thouse. I'm thinkin of givin it away. There's a bloke called Sewell moves a lot of art and antiques, wants to pack it in, sell the business. Problem is I can't work out what I'd be buyin.'

'How's that?'

'It's about ninety per cent goodwill, no contracts or anythin, just customers he's had for twenty years. They could take one look at me and say so long Maryanne.'

'You know that number? Tell him you want to go through the books. Work out the percentage of turnover from each of the regular customers. Then go and see them and ask if they'll carry on hiring the firm if you buy it.'

She looked at me, fork poised. 'I could do that?'

'If he says no, walk away. How old's this bloke?'

Through the window, a few metres away, I could see a boy of about thirteen, a thin boy, face sharpened by the street, peachfuzz on his chin. He was someone's child, lost into the world like a puppy into an open drain, now waiting for something, someone, agitated, scratching, licking his lips, rubbing his small nose. The person came, older, bigger, stood close to him, obscured him.

'Fifty maybe, around there,' said Boz.

The boy was gone. Two girls, older, late teens, dirty hair, faces pierced in three places, were on the spot, heads moving, looking in different directions. One clutched a plastic bag.

'You'll need a restraint of trade in the contract,' I said.

'Pardon?'

'How old are you?'

'Am I asking a stupid question?'

'No. I'm just losing touch with ages. I need a baseline.'

'Thirty-six. A week ago.'

'Happy birthday.'

'Thank you.'

Her eyes were the colour of wet slate.

'Restraint of trade. It stops him selling you the business and then starting a new one in opposition to you. He's young enough to try that.'