Shane Maloney: The Brush-Off

‘Ken,’ I said. ‘About that favour.’

The white Commodore V-8 with the chequerboard stripe down the side flashed its twin blue lights, whooped its siren and swung across the path of the metallic green Laser reversing away from the kerb. I jumped out and jerked open the Laser’s rear door. ‘Out of the car and spread ’em,’ I barked.

Tarquin cowered back. Red, faster off the mark, gave an ecstatic grin.

‘Tricked ya!’ I said.

Faye reached back from the driver’s seat and biffed me around the ear. ‘Scared the shit out of me,’ she said.

Ken Sproule, true to his grudging word, had managed to get a traffic division squad car placed at my disposal. ‘It’s only to save him the trouble of running his own red lights,’ he explained to the despatch officer. Even on a quiet Monday evening, running red lights was strictly the prerogative of the constabulary.

As we raced through the intersection outside the Trades Hall, the caretaker was removing the CUSS art exhibition sign. An unprecedented burst of efficiency from Bob Allroy. One less speech for me to write.

On my lap in the front seat was a black plastic bin-liner. ‘What’s in the bag?’ Ken said as I emerged from the toilet in the police garage, tucking my shirt into my pants. The hundred-dollar bills that had been pressed against my skin were as soft as suede and I had inky smudges like tread marks on my spare tyre. ‘Dirty laundry,’ I said.

Faye nosed her Laser back into the kerb. The boys got out and extended their attention to the figure in blue behind the wheel of the police car. His sunglasses were the same kind as Spider’s. I was beginning to think that the Police Cooperative Credit Union owned shares in Ray-Ban. ‘This officer is going to drive us to the airport,’ I told Red. ‘Hop in.’

Tarquin, green with envy, demanded to be allowed to come along for the ride. ‘Next time,’ I said. ‘But you can sit in the back seat for a minute while I talk to your mum.’

Prompted by my remark on the phone, Faye had successfully grilled the boys on the true reason for our flying visit to Artemis Prints. She’d followed up with a call to Claire. ‘She didn’t sound very impressed, Murray,’ she said. ‘She thinks you took advantage of her better nature. She was quite keen on you, you know. For a while. But I’m afraid you’ve blown it. So what’s all this about friends of yours with a forged Drysdale? And what’s that smell?’

A proper answer to those questions would take three days, a whiteboard, a flow chart and a breach of confidence. I gave Faye the thirty-second version. ‘Wow,’ she said, mentally reaching for her keyboard.

‘This is absolutely not for publication,’ I warned. ‘Within the life of this government.’ The money in the bag in my hot little hand, of course, I did not mention.

‘Look!’ called Tarquin. He’d pulled something out of a box on the back seat of the prowl car and was waving it out the window. It was a deep red stick of waxed paper about as long as my arm. ‘Extra-length dynamite!’

It wasn’t, but it might as well have been. It was an emergency flare. Two kilograms of compacted magnesium with a ring-pull activator cap. I reached over and deftly relieved Tarquin of its possession. ‘My wrist,’ he squealed. ‘You’ve broken my wrist.’

In what seemed like no time at all, we were barrelling down the Tullamarine freeway with the roof lights flashing, the siren wailing and Constable Speedy Gonzales of the Accident Appreciation Squad making the rest of the traffic look like it was standing still. ‘I’m sorry your visit was so boring,’ I told Red. ‘Next time, we’ll do something more interesting. Go fishing, maybe. And we’ll definitely have that pizza, I promise.’

Speedy dropped us at the terminal with ten minutes to flight time. ‘Told ya,’ I informed Red, although we were too late to get him a window seat. We embraced at the departure gate. ‘See you later, Dad,’ he said. ‘Sorry about busting the picture.’

‘Do something for me,’ I asked. ‘Tell your mother I’ve got a new girlfriend.’

‘You haven’t really?’ The kid squinted at me dubiously. ‘Have you?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘But you never know your luck. And don’t mention the dead body. Or the snake. Or the painting. Or the police car. Or the dynamite.’ I started to reach into the plastic garbage bag, thought better of it and fished a twenty out of my wallet. ‘In case you need a beer on the plane,’ I said. ‘And your teeth still look fine to me.’

We embraced again. Then he was gone.

If anyone needed a beer it was me. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I found an airport eatery with a tray-race and a neon sign that read Altitude Zero. I got myself a tray and ate something they claimed was lasagne. Ate it all. Right down to the plate. That’s how hungry I was.

It was eleven before I’d got a cab back to the Arts Centre, picked up the Charade, put the black plastic bag under the seat and drove home. Home sweet lonesome home. I stepped inside the front door and reached for the light switch. Intuition stopped my hand stopped in mid-movement. I bent my head to the darkness of the hall and listened. The muted rustle of paper. An infinitely faint flush of light beneath the door into the living room. An electrical charge in the atmosphere. Someone was in the house. My hand went sweaty around the black bag.

Streetlight flowed through a gap in my bedroom curtains. Nothing out of order there. I flicked the money under the bed. The only thing in the room vaguely resembling a weapon was the bedside lamp. It was either that or a lumpy pillow. With the lamp cord wrapped around my wrist, I advanced noiselessly down the hall, put my shoulder to the door and pushed it open.

Claire was lying on the couch, her red hair lit by the feeble fluorescence emanating from the kitchen nook. She looked up over the top of an open book. ‘Pretty dense,’ she said. The Rise and Fall of the Great Powers.

‘You’ll ruin your eyesight.’ I knelt on the floor and plugged in the lamp. ‘How did you get in?’ Not that I was complaining.

‘Your security is abysmal,’ she said. ‘But your friends are terrific. Faye gave me the key. She also told me what’s been going on. I thought I’d save you the price of a lunch.’

The face of Sister Mary Innocent flashed before me and dissolved. ‘Don’t go away,’ I said. ‘I’ve just got to take a quick shower.’

‘Not a cold one, I hope,’ said Claire.

When I came out of the bathroom, Metternich was on the floor and Claire was in my bed. Luckily, I’d changed the sheets. I do that every time I get a new job. ‘I don’t know about this, Murray,’ she said.

‘Me neither.’ I dropped my towel to the floor and she could see that I was lying. I lay down beside her and put my head between her breasts, my ear over her heart. It didn’t hurt at all.

Few things remain secret for long in the modern office. Even through two plate-glass walls I could read Angelo Agnelli’s face like the fine print on a rent-a-car contract. If Ange had got any sun while he was inspecting those mountain lakes, it wasn’t showing in his complexion.

My boss’s ashen face wasn’t the first reading I’d done that morning. Over a two-egg breakfast with Claire, I’d taken in the headlines. The Age, doing its best at broadsheet restraint, led with KARLCRAFT DEFAULT PROMPTS OBELISK SUICIDE. The Sun concentrated on the human interest angle with LOVE NEST DEATH PACT. Faye’s piece on the front page of the Business Daily took a more soberly fiscal line.

Agnelli had read them, too. They were spread across his desk in front of him. He’d been sitting there, staring down at them, for what felt like a very long time. I knew that because I’d been watching him ever since he’d arrived. He told Trish he was not to be disturbed, shut his door and sank into his seat like a condemned man assessing the comfort of the electric chair.