Good Money (12 page)

‘Have you been in prison or competing on
MasterChef
?'

‘There's so much you don't know about me.' Ben stirred one of the pots, his back to me, though I sensed his satisfaction.

‘Does the name Gaetano Cesarelli mean anything to you?'

‘What is this, a test?'

‘Yes. Your special subject is Melbourne's underworld criminals and your time starts now.'

He blew on some goo on the end of his wooden spoon, then tasted it. ‘Yeah. I know him. Know
of
him. Bit of a poseur. Mafiosi wannabe. Plates or bowls?'

‘Plates.' I took two plates from the cupboard and put them on the bench.

‘He calls himself the Caesar of Sunbury. They reckon when he collects debts he says “render unto Caesar what is Caesar's” then he breaks your fingers. Why do you ask?'

‘My client's son is —'

‘Client's
son
is not a client.'

I nodded. ‘Okay. Not officially a client. But she's already lost one boy to murder — and I'm pretty sure her other son works for Cesarelli.'

‘Then he's probably a lost cause.'

I didn't think Mabor was irredeemable. People changed. Like Ben. The brother I used to know was always in fights, or drunk or stoned or worse, and now look at him: a more responsible human being you could never hope to meet. Perhaps he had had a revelation in jail, though that was not usually where people turned their lives around. He'd reformed all by himself. Magnanimity stirred within me. ‘Doing anything tonight?'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘I'm having cocktails with the Queen.'

‘Can you cancel? I've got an invitation to an art thing.'

‘Art?' He eyed me suspiciously. ‘Where?'

‘What difference does it make? Footscray.'

‘Not my thing, art,' he said and started to set the table.

‘A favour to me.'

‘No.'

‘Fine.' I mooched to the sofa and flopped down on it. ‘Ingrate.' I continued to mutter and drink wine in this passive-aggressive fashion for some time. I put the TV on for the seven o'clock news. After a few overseas stories there was a piece to camera from a court reporter:

There were sensational scenes in court today as Darren Pickering, 29, of Deer Park, had charges of murder against him dropped. Instead, Mr Pickering has pleaded guilty to one count of manslaughter. Mr Pickering was also charged with two counts of aggravated robbery, to which he pleaded guilty.

Asked by counsel why he attacked the victim, Mr Pickering replied, ‘I had his phone and I was going home but he rushed me and I had to defend myself.'

After security footage of the incident was discovered to have been damaged, lawyer for Mr Pickering, Mr Finchley Price SC, successfully argued that there was no evidence that Mr Pickering had planned the attack on Mr Chol behind the Kensington restaurant.

Security was increased for the second committal hearing, with additional police and an additional metal detector placed outside the court.

Mr Pickering was charged after an alleged robbery that left Adut Chol, 16, dead. Mr Chol was stabbed through the heart with a knife.

Bail for the defendant was again refused.

The image cut to a shot of journalists firing questions at Finchley Price.

‘Darren Pickering has cooperated fully …' he was saying. ‘My client protests his innocence and is not a flight risk. In light of the change to the charges against my client, we will therefore be appealing the decision to refuse bail. I will not be commenting further at this stage.'

I unplugged my phone from the charger and called Mrs Chol.

‘Stella, hello, how are you?'

‘I just heard.'

She sighed. ‘The murder charge is dropped.'

‘What happened?'

‘The police told me they can't use the CCTV images from that restaurant. Now the case is not strong enough for the murder charge.'

‘At least Clacker will go to jail for the crime.'

‘Manslaughter. What is that? It is the same thing, murder.'

‘In a way, yes,' I said. Those fine legal distinctions were not easily understood, especially not by me. I agreed the situation was rotten. ‘And you?' I asked. ‘Are you alright?'

‘I don't know. I'm strong for the girls. I have my brothers to help me.'

‘That's good.' Then I turned into the world's shittiest person and turned the conversation around. ‘And Mabor? How's he?'

‘He is not happy.'

‘Because of the manslaughter charge? Or did you tell him about the book?'

‘What? Your book? No, it is yours. Why would I do that?'

‘No reason. Why is he not happy? I mean, is there another reason?'

‘He is unhappy at school. He doesn't want to go anymore. I have tried to change his mind.'

‘Is Mabor there at the moment? Is he at home?'

‘No. What is wrong, Stella?'

‘Nothing. Nothing. Not a thing. At all. Goodbye.'

There was food on the table. Ben had plated up with a swirl of sauce, a sprig of coriander placed just so, and the rice turned out in a perfect teacup shape. I mushed it all up together and the result tasted pretty good.

‘Do you know Gaetano Cesarelli? Personally, I mean,' I asked.

‘Stella, I barely know the guy.'

‘What about Darren Pickering — know him?'

‘Clacker? Yeah, I know him. A bit.'

‘He murdered a boy called Adut Chol, for a mobile phone.'

I waited for a reaction. He coughed and stared at me. ‘I saw Mabor Chol, the boy's brother, with Gaetano,' I continued.

Ben looked bewildered. ‘So?'

‘Mabor thought Gaetano was protecting Adut.'

‘The boys were probably selling for him.'

‘Yes. Clacker is involved with Cesarelli, isn't he?'

‘Yeah. Clacker's in with the Flemington crew,' he said quietly.

I didn't like how serious he'd become. ‘Why do they call him Clacker?'

‘Don't ask.' Ben said, straightening up. ‘They think he stabbed some African kid for a phone?'

‘Yes.'

Ben shook his head. ‘Clacker probably has three iPhones. He isn't some delinquent, he's a dealer with an organised set of connections.'

‘Dealing in what?'

‘Shakalak.'

‘Just tell me, Ben, I'm not in the mood.'

‘Crank, get go, shaboo, shard.'

‘Shard? So you mean
ice
, why didn't you say so?'

Dealing ice was a dangerous occupation, and associating with vicious criminals like Clacker and Cesarelli was risky. What, I wondered, had Adut done to cross them?

Ben stood to gather the plates. I stopped him and took them to the sink myself. I turned on the taps and rinsed the plates, left them to dry. ‘Dinner was excellent.'

He shrugged and poured more wine in my glass.

I sat down and took a big sip. ‘Wine too. First class.'

‘Fine. I'll see the art with you. But we're not staying long.'

12

I WANTED
to leap over the table and give him a grateful squeeze. I went to my room to change, when my phone buzzed. It was Phuong. ‘How'd it go with the billionaires?'

‘Got a lift there and back home in a limo.'

‘Good for you.'

‘It's another planet — Planet Money.'

‘Hungry ghosts.'

‘Who?'

‘Billionaires. When they die, they're too attached to their money. They come back as hungry ghosts. It's very low on the reincarnation scale.'

‘Lower than a slug?'

‘Yeah. Pretty much. So who was with them?'

‘Oh, they had Marcus Pugh there.'

‘The donor says “jump”, the party says “how high?”'

‘Pretty much. And that commissioner, Conrad.'

‘Conway. She's very qualified, Harvard MBA or something.'

Here was the moment to tell Phuong about the mining report I found concealed on the DVD. It would be germane to the case, possibly send the police in a new direction, one potentially involving industrial espionage. My only hesitation was that I might inadvertently incriminate Tania. She'd asked me to keep the DVDs safe. I had to honour that commitment. Instead, I focused on the matter of Adut. ‘What can you tell me about Gaetano Cesarelli?'

‘He's a great big poonce.' Phuong laughed. ‘No. Actually, he's a violent thug. Acts legit, coffee importer for a cover, but his KA's deal in ice, smack, ecstasy. Why?'

‘It was Gaetano I saw Mabor Chol with today.' Phuong was quiet. I thought I heard tapping. ‘Did you see Clacker's lawyer on TV tonight?'

‘In up to his neck,' said Phuong.

‘Who?'

‘Finchley Price. And that's according to Ashwood.'

‘Ah yes, he who likes to sit on people's desks. He'd know who was bent and who wasn't, I suppose.' I thought for a moment. ‘Did I tell you I saw Price with Gaetano Cesarelli? They were having a drink together at some bar in Crown.'

‘Figures. Ashwood says Price is way too close to the crooks he represents.'

‘Yeah, but coming from Ashwood. I mean, the guy's a mindless thug. How can you stand to work with him?'

‘Ashwood's not that bad. In a way, I feel sorry for him. Every time he gets a promotion, he does something stupid and gets busted back to constable,' she said, giggling.

‘Stupid like what?'

‘Bruce reckons he was reprimanded for an incident involving a prostitute.'

I feigned astonishment. ‘Really?'

‘Drug squad busted her unit but the evidence went missing. Charges dropped.'

‘Ashwood stole the drugs?'

‘Technically, he failed to secure the evidence. But everyone knew he was involved with her.'

‘When was this?'

‘Late nineties.'

‘Wait. How old is he? He looks about twenty.'

‘Baby face. He's in his thirties.'

A baby face, I thought, would be a nice problem to have. ‘I wouldn't be feeling sorry for him, sounds like a total dick. I'd stay right away from him.'

‘If I stayed away from every racist idiot in a police uniform, I'd never come to work.'

‘That bad?'

‘Some are. They're all friendly and welcoming, all the right anti-discrimination policies, meanwhile behind your back they say things to make a porn star blush.'

‘Not Copeland.'

‘Bruce? No. Got to go, Stella. I'll look into that African boy's information and get back to you.'

In all the years since I'd known Phuong, since we both dropped out of Arts at Melbourne University and I went into social work and she became a cop, she had never once offered to use her cop powers to help me with a client. Now, without me even asking, she looks into Mabor for me. What, I wondered, had come over her? And what was with the giggling and the silly joke? Maybe she was on drugs.

I put on the rose-coloured frock and, after some agonising, I put on Tania's shoes, after all, she had insisted I take them. I put my hair up in a twist, as I had seen Tania often do, and skewered it with a large bobby pin. Ben was sitting at the kitchen table. He'd done the dishes and changed into a clean pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Only a couple of neck tatts showed.

‘You look awesome —'

‘Shut up,' I said, pleased. I put on my coat. ‘Looks like rain. You got a jacket?'

‘No drama. We can go in my car,' he said, with a haughty sniff.

‘What car?'

I followed him to the carpark under the flats. In my parking spot was a 1980 red two-door Mazda Rotary that smelled of stale motor oil and Fisherman's Friends. He gunned it and I nodded appreciatively. I jumped in, belted up, and the Mazda roared down Roxburgh Street. At the T-intersection, it backfired and then stalled. Without a word, he restarted it and we motored away down Union Road. As the Mazda conveyed us through the night, a light shower fell. We crossed the Maribyrnong and Ben flicked a lever — one wiper went flat-out and the other made a pitiable attempt to keep up. We made it to the Narcissistic Slacker gallery at the fashionably late hour of 10.15pm.

Ben drove by a couple of times to check the place out, and then parked a few blocks away. He made a great show of putting on the steering lock and checking that the doors were locked. I wanted to leap over the car and beat him to death with my handbag. ‘Any chance of getting to this thing before Christmas?'

‘Can't be too careful.'