Good Money (9 page)

A crease appeared on the Phuong forehead. ‘What?'

‘I went into her apartment. Ben helped me break in.'

‘Of course he did. When was this?'

‘Before I spoke to you. Her handbag is in there.' I looked her in the eye, held her gaze.

‘I agree,' she said. ‘It's not good.'

‘Her bag with her wallet, phone, everything; and her car is in the carport.'

Phuong expelled air with a small exasperated groan that told me I was taxing her loyalty, her patience, her Zen-ishness. ‘How involved are you in this woman's life?'

I shrugged. ‘Not much. I thought she was
Tania the blonde beauty therapist
until this morning.'

‘Could she have gone back home? Did you ring her parents?'

‘Not yet. Her dad is Clayton Brodtmann.'

‘You say that like he's someone.'

‘He's a director of a mining company that made a two-billion-dollar profit last year and didn't pay tax.'

Phuong stared at me, all seriousness, her chopsticks paused in mid-air. ‘The parents are wealthy?'

‘Top one per cent of oligarchs.'

‘Shit, Stella. Fucking shitballs.' She whipped out her phone and started texting. ‘Who are they?'

‘Crystal Watt and Clayton Brodtmann. They have a mining company — more than one, actually. One is CC Prospecting, they're directors. Watt is her step-mother.' I took the newspaper article out of my bag and read:
… Prominent Perth socialite Clayton Brodtmann and his wife Crystal …

Phuong took the article, barely glanced at it, and handed it back. Before I put it away, I studied the photo, carefully this time. Clayton Brodtmann was a handsome man in his fifties, work done round the eyes, distinguished grey hair at the temples. Crystal was somewhere between fifteen and sixty, blonde bun, thick black eyeliner, false lashes. From her bony frame, sheathed in gold lamé, sprouted improbably large breasts. Nature had not fashioned those, nor maternity neither. Old-school vulgar rather than fashion victim.

‘Let's see what Bruce makes of it,' Phuong was saying.

‘Bruce Copeland?'

‘Yes.' She put the phone down and started a furious minute of typing on her tablet, finishing with a hard final tap. ‘Is that it? You've told me everything now?'

‘Yes. I only just found out about the Brodtmann thing myself.'

‘She is estranged from the family?'

‘Given she changed her name and moved interstate, that's a fair guess.'

Phuong seized another morsel and guided it to her mouth. ‘She's worth God-knows-how-much but chooses to live in a tiny, nondescript flat on the other side of the country.'

‘Hey. They're
nice
flats. Great location.'

‘I've seen where you live,' said Phuong. She pushed her bowl away. ‘Right. I've filed the missing persons. Bruce is in the loop, there'll be the leg work, cops going to her home, her work. They'll take it from there.'

She was on her feet, fished a twenty from her bag. ‘You need a lift home?'

‘No.'

She left and came back. ‘Stella. It was Jacob, the man. The way he treated you. Not the fact that he was married. You know?'

‘Right. I see that now,' I lied. How quaint her version of history was.

She gave me a quick hug. ‘Let's catch up soon, okay?'

9

I SAT
there while a waitress cleared the table. She worked briskly, getting on with it. I felt almost guilty, I had things I should have been getting on with too. I opened my bag to find my wallet and saw Adut's book. The idea of burning it was starting to seem wise.

I paid the cashier and asked for takeaway boxes and a plastic bag. Ben would get his damn vegetables tonight. Outside, the sun had come out and I wandered along Irving Street to the end of Nicholson Street. People were sitting outdoors in spite of the cold. Well-dressed men in suits: ‘Do you have something for me in that bag, girl?' Tall, elegant women in printed dresses and headscarves walked in groups, some with babies in slings. Herds of school-aged girls were heading to the nail salon, others were hanging around the bakery. I turned right at Paisley Street and crashed into an A-frame signboard in the middle of the footpath. I cursed and clutched my knee. Public hazard, those signs. I dragged it to one side, reading the words:
The Narcissistic Slacker Art Gallery
. An arrow pointed up through a doorway between two shops, which was open and led to a wooden staircase.

Art gallery.
That could mean anything: a pile of old junk, a grainy video, or stuffed dead animals. I thought of the Blackman in Tania's flat. I liked it. I liked paintings. But who was I kidding, I didn't have the money for art. I'd had money once, ill-gotten lucre, and I'd put it all on my mortgage. It would never happen again. Never would I let myself succumb to temptation like that again. And besides, dead junkies didn't just leave bags of money lying around every day of the week. The very idea induced a galloping heartbeat, shallow breathing, dizziness, trembling, and constriction in my muscles.
Drug
money, how could I have been so stupid? Whoever owned it, sooner or later, would come for it. For me. And I wouldn't see it coming. Death, execution style. I looked around the street, to the rooftops, for an assassin.

The thing to do was run. Start a new life, maybe in Fiji. Live in the tropics, eat bananas, and become an artist, a modern-day Gauguin. I'd always had a vague ambition to be artistic. If I had only chosen that path back then, I'd be good at it by now and I wouldn't be a burnt-out social worker with real estate and a guilty conscience.

New plan: I would take the redundancy package from work and flee to Fiji — and live a humble, modest life in a tropical paradise. It was an excellent plan, and the first step was to visit this art gallery to get some inspiration.

Also, I imagined Ben's face when I told him I'd spent the afternoon in an art gallery: a look of soaring, credulous esteem.

In a sudden burst of elan, I bounded up the stairs. As I approached the gallery door, I heard a series of sneeze-explosions, five, six on the trot. At the top of the stairs a metal sliding door was open enough to squeeze through. Beyond, tinny music played through rough speakers, a female voice singing. I squeezed through the gap and found myself in a cavern with a high ceiling, concrete floor, white walls, and a wall of grimy windows at the far end. Standing by the windows, in front of an easel with a stretched canvas on it, was a dusty-looking dude with dark hair and grey stubble. He was blowing his ample beak into a manky hanky. I cleared my throat. He pocketed the handkerchief, picked up a paintbrush, and started tapping his foot and humming, oblivious to anything else. ‘Hey,' I yelled.

‘Jesus.' He clutched at his chest and staggered. ‘You scared the crap out of me.'

‘I saw the sign.'

He stared at me uncomprehendingly.

‘Gallery?'

‘Oh, right.' He dropped the brush into a tin on the floor and wiped his hands on his jeans. He had wary blue-grey eyes that watched me while he stooped and hit the stop button on the tape player. A genuine cassette tape player. Little towers of tapes beside it.

‘Peter Brophy,' he said, hand extended.

I reached my hand through the handles of my plastic bag for a shake.

‘Shopping?'

‘Leftovers.'

‘This way.' He got out a bunch of keys. ‘Security conscious,' he said apologetically. The adjoining room was larger still, with afternoon sun filtered through cloudy windows. The canvases were arranged at even intervals along the wall, about fifteen or so. Repetition in the style: light central figures bordered by darker hues. I walked up to the nearest one for a closer inspection. A man, a business executive type, with multiple arms à la the Hindu pantheon. A fist full of dollars, a mobile, a flower, and a tea cup. A line of fish swimming nose-to-tail circled the man, and a kangaroo looked on from the side. The face, half in shadow, seemed skilled in the ways of absurdity — no smile, intelligent eyes. At once sad and beautiful. Strange emotions clashed within me; a fissure threaded along a weak seam.

The next painting had the same man in a different stance, dressed as a Shakespearean figure, with a rap-artist pose, encircled by seagulls. Sure, there was a naive quality, a surrealist idealism thing. But they were enthralling and pleasing and I liked these paintings, how uplifting they were. I was on the verge of laughing out loud. Not that there was anything cartoonish here; he was a serious guy.

‘The opening is tonight.'

Whoa — he was behind me. I turned, a look of unabashed joy on my face.

‘You're welcome to come, if you want. There'll be cheese. Some kind of cheese. On toothpicks.'

‘Classy. Did you do these?'

Both fists went into his pockets. ‘Mucking around with an idea.'

‘I like them.'

‘Buy one then.'

I laughed. ‘How much?'

He blinked, smiled. ‘Let me see. You a collector?'

‘Absolutely.
All
my money is in art.'

‘Really?'

‘Oh, God yeah. DVDs mainly. Actual box sets of DVDs. Complete sets!'

A grin cracked under the stubble. ‘You drink beer?'

‘Is the Pope an accessory to — I mean, yes. I do.'

He stayed looking at me for a millisecond, then left.

Now I could continue at my leisure. I stopped at the last painting. A glimpse of lovers with languid arms entwined, plain and raw and magnificent.

‘Here.' He pressed a stubby of VB into my palm.

I took a sip. The moisture triggered unrestrained thirst. I sipped at it again, then kept going, taking a long drink. It neutralised the saltiness but it wasn't enough. I upended it. It was good. Then it was gone. ‘Thanks. So what time tonight?'

‘What?' he asked, looking with astonishment from the empty stubby in my hand and back to me.

‘The opening tonight, what time is it?'

‘Oh, um. Nine-thirty,' he said
.
He picked up a flyer from a desk by the door. ‘Official invitation.'

I stuffed it in my pocket. ‘Great.' I handed him the empty. ‘See you then.'

Trotting down the steps, I hit the pavement at a canter. The spring was back in my step. I walked to an idling tram and sat down just as my phone buzzed.

A Phuong text:
Brodtmann staying @ crown. You call?

My phone battery was nearly flat. I replied:
Yes thnx.
While I was searching for the number of the Crown Casino Hotel, my phone rang.

‘This is Clayton Brodtmann's assistant, Nigel Broad. Is this Stella Hardy?'

‘Yes.'

‘You are a friend of Nina Brodtmann?'

‘How did you get this number?'

‘You reported her missing. The police have been in touch with the family.'

‘Right.' I was flustered for some reason. ‘I told them that Nina didn't meet with me this morning as arranged, and she didn't show up for work. I'm worried about her.'

‘And you're a friend of Nina?'

‘Yes.' I fought the urge to say ‘Sir'.

‘Miss Hardy, Clay Brodtmann has instructed me to — just a minute.'

The tram moved with a sudden jerk and I almost slipped off the seat. Outside, two people came running alongside and banged on the doors. The driver stopped to let them on, telling them they should not bang on the tram. They told him to get fucked.

‘Miss Hardy?'

‘Who's this?'

‘Clayton Brodtmann. My wife and I are very grateful for your concern about our daughter. We wondered if you might have time to talk to us, to tell us more about Nina. Would you mind coming to our hotel?'

‘Sure, but I can't get there until —'

‘I'm sending my car to your flat now.'

A car? Who were these people? When the tram was two blocks from my stop, I saw that the nearby high school had just unleashed its students on the world. It must have been sports day — teenagers in shorts wandered like Brown's cows all over the place, jamming the roads in every direction. I hopped off the tram and walked. There was no car waiting for me in Roxburgh Street.

As I neared my building, the stocky bloke in the shorts and the thongs, who I'd seen earlier, ambled out of the entrance and up Roxburgh Street. Maybe he'd moved into the neighbourhood.

Upstairs, I kicked off my boots, and plugged my phone into the charger and tried Mrs Chol while it was charging. Still no answer.

While I waited for Brodtmann's car to arrive, I opened the laptop and searched for images of Melbourne gangland identities. I scrolled and clicked for a while — then I found him. The man I'd seen talking to Mabor was Gaetano Cesarelli. He was a flamboyant man, Gaetano. In one picture, he was addressing reporters outside court in a Hawaiian shirt and striped shorts. In an
Age
photo, he had on aviator sunglasses and a black muscle T-shirt. An article mentioned his convictions for grievous bodily harm, illegal possession of firearms, his beating up an old man in a road rage incident.