Sucked In (18 page)

Sebastian handed me a card with his contact numbers. ‘Anytime, anywhere. Just call me and I'll be there.' Phil had missed his vocation. He should have been a lyricist.

One of Quinlan's back-room beavers stuck his snout around the door. ‘Your car's here, boss. And the select committee papers are ready. Christine'll brief you in the car on the way to the airport.'

Quinlan stood up and donned his jacket, tugging it into good order and shooting his cuffs. ‘Sorry to rush,' he said. ‘I've got to go and make the case against the full privatisation of a rapacious monopoly. Try to explain why it isn't a great idea to let a five-hundred-pound gorilla out of its cage to a pack of ideologues who'd sell their sisters to sailors and call it asset rationalisation.'

Phil Sebastian stayed seated, clearly anticipating my further assistance.

‘Bit pressed myself,' I said. ‘I'll come down with you, Barry.'

I followed Quinlan to the lift, just the two of us there waiting for the doors to open, Barry raising and lowering himself on the toes of his tiny, well-buffed shoes.

‘Funny thing,' I said. ‘I had a visit from the police the other day. Seems they've found Merv Cutlett at long last. What's left of him, at least.'

‘Yeah,' said Quinlan, eyes on the floor numbers. ‘I heard they were doing the rounds.' One lift went past, going all the way to the top, stopping to take on cargo. The other had taken up permanent residence in the basement. ‘They talked to me last week. I was surprised there was anything left after all this time. Odd coincidence, eh, Charlie dying the day after they found him.' He tapped a toe, time-strapped. ‘Showed you the watch, did they?'

‘Yes. I didn't recognise it.'

‘Me neither. I wish I'd had the presence of mind to say I did, though. I should've told them I'd seen Merv wearing it. Save the taxpayer the expense of further buggerising around. Those forensic tests cost a poultice.'

Quinlan didn't sound like a man with anything to hide. He reached over and pressed the button again.

‘I got asked some other questions as well,' I said. ‘They wanted to know all about internal relations in the union. How everybody got along and so forth.'

‘Yeah?' Quinlan raised an eyebrow. ‘What did you tell them?'

‘One big happy family. A veritable Woodstock.'

Quinlan snorted. The lift arrived and we stepped aboard, the only passengers.

‘I got the impression they were giving the original reports a pretty thorough going over, like they were suspicious of something.'

‘Well it was the Homicide Squad, right? That's the found bodies department. If they don't act suspicious, people think they're not on the job.'

The doors opened at the fourth floor and two women got in, talking some kind of finance language. Barry smiled and they smiled back, not drawing breath.

‘So,' I said, just chatting. ‘How did Merv manage to lure you up there that weekend, middle of winter? My idea of hell.'

‘Well it wasn't for the fishing, that's for sure.' Quinlan adjusted his drape in the mirrored wall of the lift. ‘That part was just Cutlett being bloody-minded. Actually, we'd gone up there to make him an offer, try to seal the deal on the amalgamation. The old coot had been playing hard to get, seeing how much he could squeeze out of the proposed new set-up before he'd agree to it.'

We followed the two women into the foyer. An officious looking young apparatchik in a navy pants-suit was standing by the door with a briefcase beside her and a fat folder in her hand. She looked towards us expectantly, but Barry signalled her to wait. We continued our conversation beside the tenants list. Orion Investment Planners. Cohen, Bullfinch and McGill. The Marasco Group of Companies. Leicester and Associates.

‘It all came down to money and face. The golden parachute and its rate of descent. Cutlett wanted three years' salary, a term on the PEU executive and life access to the Shack. All of which wasn't going to happen. We were prepared to top up his super, which was already generous, and hang his picture in the hall of fame, but we weren't going to let him screw us. If he didn't accept, Charlie would go around him, swing the other state secretaries and he'd end up out in the cold.'

Quinlan was telling me this, his tone implied, for no other reason than to satisfy my curiosity. It was an act of courtesy.

‘Cutlett being Cutlett, he would not go gently. Dug his heels in, made the whole exercise as difficult as possible. Always had to have the last word. He was the hairy-arsed champion of the underdog. We were a cabal of limp-wristed pen-pushers. Of course the big irony was that by getting himself drowned, he made the amalgamation both easier and cheaper. Charlie was assistant national secretary,
ex
officio
. With Merv gone, he was in charge. The amalgamation sailed through under budget and ahead of schedule.'

‘Earning you a seat in the Senate,' I said.

‘Indeed,' he said, acknowledging the point with a courtly dip of his head. ‘Indeed. And Charlie a place in the Reps. A most fortuitous outcome all round.'

One worth killing for? It would have been impolitic to ask.

Quinlan put his hand on my sleeve, signalling his departure. ‘Just before I go,' he said. ‘There's nobody out there in your neck of the woods looking to make an issue of Phil, is there? He'll be a real asset, you know.'

‘These things are rarely uncontested,' I said. ‘Nature of the beast.'

‘Anybody in particular?'

‘Nobody you need worry about, Barry.'

‘But you'll keep your ears open?'

‘I always do.' It was simple anatomy.

‘Good man.' He patted me again and started for the door.

‘Matter of fact, I did hear something might interest you,' I said. Quinlan paused mid-stride and turned. ‘Apparently Sid Gilpin has resurfaced. He's trying to peddle some story about corruption at the Municipals, something involving you and Charlie.'

Quinlan creased his brow. ‘Sid Gilpin?' He tried to place the name. ‘Cutlett's off-sider? What story?'

‘Dunno,' I said. ‘He approached a journo I know, reckons he's got evidence of dirty deeds. Won't specify what until he sees a cheque-book.'

Quinlan made a world-weary face. ‘Sounds like he hasn't changed. Your journo mate buying?'

‘I don't think so.'

‘Somebody should tell Gilpin we've got defamation laws in this country.'

‘Specifically designed to protect politicians.'

‘My oath,' said Quinlan. ‘Who do you think made them?'

The aide approached, displaying her wrist to urge haste. Quinlan took the folder and gave me a parting nod. I watched them get into the back seat of his Comcar and drive away.

You can't defame the dead, I thought. Not within the meaning of the act. Once a man is gone, you can say anything you damned well like about him. And if you say it loud enough or long enough, it'll find its way into print. And if it's in print, it must be true.

A row of cabs was waiting outside the hotel across the street. I headed for the start of the line, hand raised, and gave a whistle.

The entire area between the waterfront and Spencer Street railway station looked chewed up and spat out. The shunting yards had been uprooted, the cargo sheds demolished, the oily earth churned by bulldozers.

From this blasted heath a glorious future would soon arise. The sod had been turned on an astroturf colosseum with a receding roof and fifty thousand pre-warmed seats, due for completion in 1999. The docks were destined for transformation into luxury apartments, high-rise mortgages with water views. Surprise, surprise.

The old nissen hut was virtually the only remaining evidence of the area's industrial past, a hump of curved tin marooned between dead-end roads and freeway feeder ramps. Grimy engine blocks, gutted washing machines and doorless refrigerators stood out the front with their hands in their pockets, looking bored and propping up weathered signs spray-painted on warped bits of plywood. CLOSING DOWN SALE. ALL STOCK MUST GO. LAST DAYS.

The big double doors were shut, so I gave the cabbie a twenty and asked him to wait.

A Docklands Authority notice-to-quit was tacked to the splintery timber of one of the doors. Its plastic sleeve was torn and the ink had bled on the tenant's name, rendering it illegible. From inside came the sound of machinery, a cutting or drilling device of some sort. A heavy chain hung loose, dangling an open padlock. I pushed at the door and it moved inwards.

The vaulted interior was lit only by filthy safety-glass windows. Worthless crap of every variety was laid out in aisles on the concrete floor. Obsolete computer monitors. The carapaces of busted stereo speakers. Rough stacks of chipped crockery. Milk crates and plastic baby-baths overflowing with disembodied chunks of kitchen appliances. Cracked wash-tubs. Scaly coils of perished garden hose. Rag-stoppered oil bottles and drip-encrusted paint tins with lids hardened on.

The aisles terminated at a chain-mesh partition running across the rear quarter of the shed. On my side of the wire, a figure was hunched over a bench, his back to me, working the screeching machinery. I waved off the cab and went inside.

I walked down the central aisle past a row of derelict Space Invader machines. Cracked screens, holes punched in their chipboard carcases. Inside the fenced section of the shed was a roofless room, its interior visible through an open door. Television sets were stacked haphazardly on a bench inside. One was running, its volume inaudible. Jerry Springer was working his audience. In front of the sets was a sagging sofa, a repository of yellowed bed linen. A boxy electric radiator glowed red, sending its heat upwards to a row of lights that hung from the ceiling. Their globes were screwed into basin-shaped enamel shades. Probably the only marketable objects in the place.

An open door led out the back. It had a Yale lock on the inside and a heavy-duty bolt on the outside. Standing just inside it was a slide-top ice-cream chiller. Magnum. Cornetto. Paddle Pop. Through the door I could see the tray of a ute and a 44-gallon drum, lidless and toppled. Flattened hessian sacks lined the drum and bleached dog turds surrounded it.

The din filled the shed, amplified by the curve of the walls. Its source was an ancient electric grinder bolted to an oily bench. The hunched figure was oblivious, engrossed in his task. He was picking tarnished brass pipe fittings out of a milk crate, polishing them on a spinning wire brush, then tossing them into another crate. He worked with the pointless mechanical monotony of a man shovelling mercury with a pitchfork. A can of beer sat by his elbow. From time to time he took a slug, maintaining a constant pace.

I stood at the end of the bench, trying to catch his eye. He wore leather work gloves, a frayed Collingwood beanie and a grot-marinated gabardine raincoat. When he'd finished the brass elbow-joints, he pushed back the armature, fitted a grinding wheel and started on a rusted pair of hedge clippers, sending out a spray of sparks. The bench was strewn with similar detritus. Corroded shears, rusted machetes, the heads of mattocks and axes. At this rate, I'd be waiting all day.

A lead ran from the grinder to a power board at my feet. I reached down and pulled out the plug. The motor shuddered to a halt, its bearings screaming. The bent figure straightened up and turned.

It was Gilpin all right, although it took me a moment to be certain. He must have been about sixty, but he looked at least ten years older. Time had not dealt well with Sid and little of the spivvy cockerel remained. Patchy stubble covered his cheeks and his eyes were half-buried in sagging pillows of flesh.

He tore off his ratty gloves and glowered at me.

‘This is fucken harassment,' he exploded, spit flying from his lips. ‘You lot, you think you can just barge in here any time you like. I've got until 5 p.m. Friday. Until then, I'm legally entitled to quiet possession. Now fuck off or I'll have the dog on you.'

I looked around reflexively. The dog was nowhere in sight.

‘You've got the wrong end of the stick,' I said. ‘I'm not here to evict you.'

Gilpin peered at me and wiped his mouth with the back of a bloated hand. His arm swept the merchandise. ‘You want something?'

‘I'm not a customer, Sid. I was at the Municipals when you worked there.'

He narrowed his gaze, trying to place me. Eventually, a tiny spark flickered.

‘Talbot's bum boy? Whadda
you
want?'

‘I've just come from Barry Quinlan's office,' I said. ‘Senator Quinlan. He's heard you've been talking shit about him. Charlie Talbot, too.'

‘Quinlan.' He spat out the name. ‘Arsehole.'

‘You'd be making a mistake to aggravate him.'

‘He's the one made the mistake.' Gilpin raised his chin and widened his stance, the old Sid coming back. ‘Sending some goon down here to intimidate me.'

Nobody had ever called me a goon before. Perhaps my new exercise regime was bearing fruit already.

‘I'm not here to intimidate you, Sid. I'm here to deliver some free advice. You shouldn't go round telling porkies, trying to flog something you haven't got.'

Gilpin's breath was a laboured wheeze. For a long moment, we stared at each other. He hadn't just aged badly. He was not a well man. His eyes were filmy and jaundiced. He was mixing his medication with alcohol.

‘Fucken Quinlan,' he said. ‘And that weasel Charlie Talbot, you'd think he was Christ almighty, the stuff they've been printing about him in the papers. They'll be singing a different tune when they see what I've got.'

‘And what's that, Sid?' I said. ‘Water on the brain?'

He took a gulp from the can on the bench. In the sullen silence that followed, I could hear the slosh and stew of some half-formed idea slithering into life.

‘You go back to Quinlan,' he said. ‘Tell him I've got evidence he's a thief and a liar. Maybe worse, even. Talbot, too.'