Black Tide (18 page)

I took a big drink of beer. ‘Tell me, Stan. Slowly.’

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‘Want the freehold. Melbourne HQ of the Brisbane Lions. New name. Listen to this. The Lions’ Lair.’

‘Inspired.’ I drank more beer.

He gave me an encouraging look, the look Harry Strang had given McCurdie when the rustic trainer managed to pour his own tea.

‘My suggestion that,’ said Stan. ‘Shoulda seen the bloke’s face light up. Marketing magic. Total synergistic marketing. These kids can’t see the big picture. Takes years of interface with actual point-of-sale.’

‘Actual point-of-sale? Is that the same as pulling beer? Beer that tastes of soap.’

He ignored the question. ‘Me in charge, naturally. Pokies. Bistro. Big screen. Knock all the walls out down here. Arches. Then there’s the upstairs. Guess.’

‘Too hard. Haven’t had enough years of interface.’

‘Consider this. Two loft-style serviced apartments upstairs. How’s that for out-of-the-square thinking?’

I gave him the cross-examination stare. ‘Not so much out of the square, Stan,’ I said,

‘as out of your cotton-picking mind. Goodnight.’

I drained the glass, no heart for this discussion. Any discussion. Goodnight all. Went home.

Home felt a bit more homely when I’d cleaned out the grate and made a fire. I cheered up, put on music, Clementine Liprandi, voice like a faraway trumpet. In the freezer, four small Italian beef sausages from Smith Street’s finest butcher were huddled in an ice cave, joined like Siamese quads. Into the microwave to defrost. Sausages and mash.

Potatoes in the basket, still firm of body. I peeled, quartered, immersed, went out to the car to get the case of Heathcote shiraz from the boot. Rain hung in the air, was the air, dampened the honking, humming, wailing night sounds of the city.

Glass in hand, I pressed for the messages. Rosa. Drew, missed by minutes. No Linda.

No Linda.

That’s the way it’s gonna be, liddle darlin, I said to myself, put on the television for the news. A female reporter with a startled look took us through a small hostage drama in North Balwyn. Generally, the police, endowed with a strong sense of theatre, like to shoot someone to end a hostage drama. However, the protagonist wimped out and was led away, alive, unperforated. On to a bus crash in Queensland, very few dead, 120

allegations of sexual misconduct against two army officers, calls for the resignation of a football administrator, a hostile reception for the Prime Minister at a welfare conference.

I missed the sport while I was mashing. When I got back, ‘The 7.30 Report’ was on and Dermott O’Sullivan was interrogating the Federal Treasurer, David Maclay. The subject was Money, Power and Politics.

O’Sullivan: So Mr Maclay there’s no unhappiness in the party about the influence of people who hold no elected office?

Maclay: Absolutely not. Dermott, we’re a party of consultation and consensus. We listen to all our members and supporters. And we listen to all the voters of Australia. Always have, always will.

O’Sullivan: But some people get listened to more than others.

Maclay, shaking his head in sad disbelief: Dermott, seriously. Of course some opinions carry more weight than others! I don’t ask people in the supermarket queue how to manage interest rates. Does the ABC choose the people on its opinion programs at random from the phone book?

O’Sullivan, tilt of head, smile: And I’m sure you’re in the supermarket queue on a daily basis, Minister. But my point is that people in the party, elected people, have expressed concern that some unelected individuals seem to command huge power.

Maclay: Dermott, I’m really disappointed in you. Why don’t you just come out with it? If you want to play Follow-My-Leader, at least try to be the leader. You owe the idea that a great Australian achiever, and I’m referring to Steven Levesque, has some undue influence on government to your ill-informed commercial media colleague Ms Linda Hillier. People expect more from the ABC, Dermott.

Was there no escape from Steven Levesque? First Linda and now Dermott.

Maclay carried on: In my twenty-odd years in politics, Dermott, I’ve never heard of or felt the influence of Steven Levesque. If you know something I don’t know, please tell me.

O’Sullivan smiled, his wry smile this time: His companies are among the biggest donors to your party in all States, his former partner is the Attorney-General, the Premier of Victoria is said not to choose a tie without consulting him. And you know nothing of his influence, Mr Maclay?

Maclay: Dermott, whether you give the party five bob or fifty thousand dollars, you buy exactly the same amount of influence. Nil.

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O’Sullivan: So the fact that Fincham Air last year won the coastal surveillance contracts for Northern Queensland and the Northern Territory owes nothing to Mr Levesque’s relationship with your party?

Maclay, frowning: What are you getting at, Dermott?

O’Sullivan: Fincham Air is partly owned by a company called CrossTrice Holdings. And one of CrossTrice’s directors is Lionel Carson, formerly a partner of Mr Levesque’s in TransQuik Australia.

Maclay: So?

O’Sullivan: CrossTrice also owns a quarter of Consolidated Freight Holdings, TransQuik Australia’s owner.

Maclay: You’re being irresponsible, Dermott. And silly. My understanding is that Steven Levesque no longer has any active involvement with CFH or TransQuik Australia. But even if he did, what has he to do with Fincham Air winning a government contract?

O’Sullivan assumed the look of a person holding four kings.

Are you aware, Minister, that a Brisbane newspaper will tomorrow publish a story saying that a former employee of Fincham says she saw photocopies of the other tenders for the contract before Fincham submitted its bid? And that she heard an executive of the company say, ‘Steven says increase the flight frequency and go in a million under CattonAir.’ She says she understood ‘Steven’ to refer to Steven Levesque.

Maclay’s expression was bland, the look of a person who has dealt himself four aces.

I think you’ll find, Dermott, that the newspaper will not be publishing that allegation tomorrow. I understand the person concerned now says she was misrepresented and the journalist involved has apologised to Fincham. But I don’t want to be drawn into this sort of nonsense. And, Dermott, for your own legal wellbeing, I don’t think you want to propagate defamatory material of this kind.

The ambush had failed: blanks in the magazine. O’Sullivan was unnerved by Maclay’s display of superior knowledge and the interview fizzled out.

I found Barry’s slip of paper, picked up the phone and dialled inquiries. ‘Canberra,’ I said. ‘A Dean Canetti. I don’t have a home address.’

A woman answered the phone, tired voice, young children in the background.

‘Is that the home of Dean Canetti of MarketAsia Consultants?’

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‘Yes.’

‘Is Mr Canetti available?’

Silence. In the background, a girl shrieked, ‘Mum, she’s pushing me again.’

‘No,’ said the woman.

22

‘Go where?’ said Shane DiSanto, former panelbeater, now operator of Veneto Travel.

‘Canberra, Shane. The nation’s capital. Heard of it?’

‘Jack, no. Nothing there. Like a farm. No nightlife, nothing. Brown shoes with big rubber soles, that’s what the men wear. The women all got their hair in buns. Listen, whaddabout a week in Bali? This package you won’t believe, not a cent in it for anyone.’

‘This is business, Shane. Today, this morning, coming back this evening. Is Denise around?’

‘I dunno,’ Shane said. ‘Business, business. Nobody takes a holiday. Business? You want business class?’

‘Economy. I’m paying.’

He dropped his voice. ‘Listen, Jack. Fifty bucks cash I get you an upgrade from economy. Both ways.’

Shane had been a bit rough on Canberra, although his capsule description of the city’s life and people was not without some basis in fact.

Canberra is a nice place to pass over on the way to Sydney. Even on the ground, the massive amounts spent on freeways enable taxpayers to pass through the capital at high speed. And massive spending on itself is what Canberra does best. This one city is the most expensive and longest running job-creation project in human history.

These thoughts came to me as I made my way to the top of the most recent employment-generator, the new Parliament of Australia, formerly a rather nice hilltop.

Following the design of American architects, an army of workers removed the hilltop and spent years replacing it with a neo-Aztec pyramid of sacrifice. A pyramid with its top lopped off and replaced by a triangular flagpole.

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But I’d underestimated the appeal of the structure. The huge spaces were full of tourists. Coachloads of elderly people, eyes glazed, were being sheepdogged by hard-voiced tour guides when all they wanted to do was sit for a minute, rest the legs, think how nice it would be to be home with a book. Scrums of children moved around, girls bored, whispering to each other, boys yelping, pinching and punching. Japanese were eyeing the place uncertainly, like men who think they may be in the women’s toilet.

It was a relief to get to the top, out into the weak sunshine, the biting little wind. I was tired, furry-mouthed. Opening the second bottle of Heathcote shiraz was now a matter for regret.

I went out on the flat top, on to the mountain meadow on concrete, looked down on the Disneyland lake. Off to the right, trophy buildings represented Art, Justice, Science.

But the eye was drawn across the shining water, up another slope to a monumental building, the memorial to Australia’s part in wars for Britain and America. The great place of the killing: honour the dead, believe in the glory, keep sending the children.

I felt for the pulse of patriotism. Two Irish were listed as dying for their country on the slate they were running in the war temple across the water. All I felt was a sense of waste. That and a recidivist desire for a cigarette.

Meryl Canetti was in her mid-thirties, jeans and a jacket, medium-height, thin, pale hair cut close to the head, memories of freckles around her nose. Smoking a cigarette, pressing it to her lips, hissing out smoke, looking around jerkily like a bird. When the cigarette came away from her mouth, her left hand went up to her eyes, nervous eyes, to her ears, to her hair, touching. She’d been a pretty teenager, attractive in her twenties, could be again if the feeling of panic ever went away.

She saw me coming, two quick puffs, dropped the cigarette, ground it, looked pointedly at the copy of the Age I was carrying.

‘Mrs Canetti?’

Sharp nod, sniff.

‘Let’s find somewhere to sit.’

There was a cafeteria, not crowded. I fetched tea, watched her looking around, shifting in her seat like a child.

‘I don’t know a lot,’ I said, sitting down. ‘What’s MarketAsia Consultants?’

‘Import–export,’ she said. Bitten-down nails. Thin lines, cracks, ran down from the corners of her mouth. ‘I thought. Now I don’t know. Believe that? Married for eight years. Two kids.’

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‘He went off to work every day?’

‘Yes. Office in Manuka.’

‘You don’t know exactly what kind of work?’

She didn’t answer the question.

‘How can you just be missing?’ she said.

The medication was only just keeping the lid on. She took a sip of tea, choked, coughed. Her eyelashes were short, almost invisible. I waited, drank some of mine.

‘You said men came to tell you. When was that?’

‘Eighteenth of April.’

‘Did they tell you where your husband was when he went missing?’

‘No. But I know where he was. Melbourne.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘The phone. Shows the caller’s number.’

‘He phoned you from Melbourne. When was that?’

‘Charlotte’s birthday. Third of April. She’s the first. Mad about her, couldn’t miss her birthday. Princess Charlotte he called her.’

She hung her head, shivered. ‘Jesus, why can’t you smoke in these places? Never been here. Watched the whole bloody thing go up. Waste of money.’

‘How long had he been away?’

She bit at a nail on her right hand, checked herself, put both hands on the table. On the little finger, she wore a big ring, a greenish stone, oval, set in gold. ‘When he phoned?

About a week. Bit more. He went away a lot once, but not recently. Once it was five months, he came home five or six days in all that time. I used to go mad. After I had Lorna, she was, oh, a year old, he was gone for three months. Then we went to Noosa for six weeks. Unit on the beach, hire car, ate in restaurants all the time, three times a day some days. Everything. Lovely. You just forget. Till he goes away again.’

‘But you don’t know what he was doing when he went away?’

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‘Sometimes he said it was secret work. For the government. He speaks Thai and Vietnamese and Mandarin. That’s a kind of Chinese. His mother was half-Thai. Never met her. Never met anyone in his family.’

I looked around. Secret work for the government. Parliament House. This was an excellent spot to be discussing someone who did secret work for the government.

‘Any idea what kind of secret work?’

Helpless look. Shake of the head.

‘And he didn’t tell you where he was going this time?’

Shake.

‘Or how long he’d be away?’

Shake.

This was fishing without a hook.

‘The men who came to tell you. Who were they? Police?’

‘Didn’t say. You don’t ask, do you? Said Dean might have had an accident. That he was doing secret work…’

‘For the government?’

She shrugged. ‘Didn’t say that. Can we go out? I need a smoke.’

We went out and found a smoking spot, in the wind, evidence vanishing as it left her mouth.

‘They said I couldn’t tell anyone about it.’ Deep draw, expulsion, instant disintegration of smoke. ‘They said we’d be taken care of. Mortgage paid out. All that. But I couldn’t tell anyone.’

She had two more quick, shallow draws, threw the cigarette away, leaned towards me, took my left hand in both of hers, long fingers, squeezed. Eyes on mine, pale blue eyes.