Brunswick street blues, p.10
Brunswick Street Blues, page 10
‘What’s going on out there?’ I asked. ‘This toilet is getting claustrophobic.’
‘I think the building’s safe, but the big guy is parked right out front in a black Mercedes. I don’t know what we’re going to do.’
‘We?’ I asked, still a bit thrown by being almost smothered. ‘He’s not looking for us. We can just stroll right out.’
Sue looked shocked. ‘Brick! We’ve got to help Mitch. What happened to mateship?’
‘Glad to hear someone’s on my side,’ said Mitch Mitchell, emerging from the cubicle.
Sue held out her hand. ‘I’m Sue Day, by the way. The Melbourne Weekly. It’s one of those free newspapers that no one reads. I’m so honoured to meet you. I see you’ve already met Brick.’ Her eyes were bright with excitement. ‘Listen, I’ve got an idea to get you out of here,’ she said. ‘Do you reckon you can get out the window?’ She pointed to a dingy little window high up on the wall, propped open to let some breeze in. ‘I can bring my car round to the alley.’
Mitchell and I looked at the window.
‘Well, can either of you think of a better idea?’ Sue said.
We couldn’t.
‘I think I can do it,’ said Mitchell. ‘You go get your car, Ms Day. Ms Brown here will have to help me get up there. If I’m not out in five, drive off or they might get suspicious.’
Sue practically skipped out of the bathroom. Mitchell grabbed the wastepaper bin and put it down in front of the window.
‘Wait,’ I said. I ran into the cubicle and grabbed the feminine hygiene disposal unit. ‘These things are much stronger than that piece of crap, and taller. I’ll hold it steady and you climb up. Then if you can get over the sill I can push you out.’
Mitchell didn’t look impressed at being told what to do, but he complied, after first letting his leather coat fall onto the floor.
‘Can you take that out for me? I won’t fit with it on.’
His took off his shirt as well to reveal a worn-looking T-shirt that he had underneath. Through the fine cotton, I could see he was thinner than I’d expected. Maybe he could really make it through the window.
He clambered up on the bin, as I struggled to keep it vertical. ‘I can just reach.’
With upper-body strength I wouldn’t have credited him with, he pulled himself up. His head disappeared out the window and he eased his arms out one by one. I braced myself against the wall and put both my hands up under his right foot. Finally he was out. I heard a thud that I hoped was him landing without breaking any bones. I rolled up his jacket and shirt and shoved them in my handbag, smoothed down my hair and tried to look as nonchalant as possible as I exited the building. Sue drove up a second later and I got in the front seat, guessing that Mitchell would be scrunched down in the back.
‘Did they notice anything?’ I asked. ‘I was too scared to look.’
‘No, I think we got away with it. But we’re not home and hosed yet.’ Sue drove off at a remarkably sedate pace. Only her hands, clenched on the wheel, revealed she was feeling the tension.
‘How are you staying so calm?’ My hands were shaking so much I could hardly do up my seat belt.
‘I’ve driven from Melbourne to Adelaide and back with three screaming kids. More than once.’
We cleared the block and Sue started to speed up.
‘Where should we take him?’ I asked. ‘Where will be safe?’
Sue went through an orange light. ‘I don’t know. But if I don’t get home by five, Shane will divorce me. He’s got a work dinner tonight—his national manager is in town.’ She frowned. I wasn’t sure if it was concern for her marriage or annoyance at the prospect of being left out of the action.
‘You should drop me off as soon as possible.’ Mitchell popped up in the back seat, giving me a start even though I knew he was there. ‘No sense putting you in any more danger. But I can’t go to my place. They know where I live.’
After seeing the size of the stooge in the black Mercedes, I certainly wasn’t going to volunteer Bunny’s place as a hideout.
‘I know. Turn left here,’ said Mitchell. Sue did as commanded.
Fifteen minutes more of crazy twists and turns followed as Mitchell barked directions while craning his neck to see if we were being tailed. There would be no way we could outrun them if they found us. Sue might be a good driver, but her ten-year-old family wagon would be no match for a top-of-the-range German car.
Mitchell seemed satisfied that we were safe and sank back into the seat. His directions became less intense.
We hit Sydney Road and were immediately trapped behind a tram. I gazed out the window, surprised to notice it was a beautiful Melbourne afternoon—cool but with sunny skies and the trees a vibrant green with their spring leaves.
The tram started moving again. We overtook it and Sue turned back into some side streets. After a few minutes we went past the old brickworks, soon to be apartments; then there was the old tram switching depo, soon to be apartments; and finally, as we reached Coburg, there was Pentridge, the former high-security prison, already apartments, with more under construction.
‘If I hadn’t known the world had gone mad, that one clinched it,’ said Mitchell. ‘Turning the old Bluestone College into luxury apartments. And I can’t believe they turned the gates into a display office. What do they display? Which hardened criminal might be buried under your patio?’
‘They’ve dug up all the bodies,’ said Sue, speaking over her shoulder to Mitchell. ‘At least, that’s what the sales rep told me—so it could be complete bullshit. I did a four-page spread on the apartments a while back. They’re pretty plush, but still, I wouldn’t be moving my family in there. It’d take more than a smudge stick to get rid of those bad vibes. Kids are particularly vulnerable to poltergeist activity.’
I looked out the window. We were now deep in the back streets of Coburg where I’d been the day before when I’d tried unsuccessfully to find Gene’s house. After all the excitement I suddenly felt very tired.
Mitchell asked Sue to pull over at a decrepit bungalow set back from the street. It looked like it was straight out of central casting for a crazy hermit house. The front garden was untamed to the point that one tree looked like it might engulf the front porch. But it was the nature strip that caught my eye. A row of agapanthus shone with purple and green magnificence in the sunlight. Mitchell had taken me to the exact place that had evaded me on my last visit to Coburg. My tiredness left me in an instant.
Mitchell got out of the car and leaned on the driver’s side window. ‘Thanks, Sue Day. I owe you one.’
Sue blushed like he’d just asked her to the Year 12 formal.
‘Wait!’ I said, opening my door before Sue could take off. ‘I’ve been looking for Gene, too. There’s something I need to ask him.’
For the first time in our short acquaintance, Mitch Mitchell dropped his arrogant smirk. I used the moment to gesture for Sue to go and she took off down the street.
I had no idea of Mitchell’s agenda, but for some reason it had converged with my own. He’d led me to the very person who was most likely to have knowledge of Baz’s whereabouts.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Gene’s face appeared behind the front door’s fly wire and again I found myself roughly grabbed by the arm to be dragged through Gene’s front garden.
‘Quick, let us in, Gene,’ Mitchell hissed.
Gene looked over his shoulder, then let us in the house.
‘Are you alone?’ Mitchell asked.
‘Of course,’ Gene whispered. He hustled down the corridor past several closed doors and into a larger room at the rear of the house, closing the door to the corridor. I got the distinct impression he wasn’t alone in the house, but I didn’t want to give too much thought to his domestic situation.
The house’s crazy hermit look was even more pronounced in the interior. Every single wall was lined from floor to ceiling with shelves and the shelves were jam-packed with records—LPs, 78s and 45s—catalogue cards sticking out at regular intervals. Although Gene seemed unable to organise a piss-up in a brewery—even if all the brewers were AFL players who’d just won a country premiership—there was obviously another side to him when it came to cataloguing music.
‘Sorry to come to your house, Gene, but I had to think of something fast,’ said Mitchell.
‘Uh, well, anyone fancy a drink?’ Gene shuffled off into what I presume was the kitchen, although I glimpsed through the swinging doors that it too was lined with records. Mitchell followed him, sending me a glare that said ‘stay out’.
I used my moment alone to do a quick reconnaissance of Gene’s dimly lit lounge room. As well as more shelves and more records, there was an old-fashioned rotary dial phone on a surprising tasteful side table. A scrawl on the message pad next to the phone caught my eye. I could swear it was Baz’s handwriting, so I stuffed the pad into my handbag just as Gene and Mitch returned from the kitchen bearing some scary-looking liquid in a couple of old Vegemite jars. Gene probably wouldn’t even notice the message pad was missing.
Mitchell handed me a jar. ‘I don’t want to seem ungrateful for your help, Brick Brown, but I think it’s best if you drink up and get out of here.’
‘What? No. I need to talk to Gene about something.’
‘Go ahead and talk, then.’
‘It’s kind of sensitive. I don’t know if I want to mention it in front of a journalist.’
‘I’m perfectly capable of keeping things off the record,’ he said.
‘Off the record—that’s funny,’ said Gene.
We both glared at him.
I took a sip from the jar. ‘You haven’t been at your shop, Gene. And I’ve noticed a strange car parked there.’
‘There’s some bad shit been going down in the old neighbourhood. There’s been threats, man. Threats.’ Gene’s eyes looked wilder than usual.
‘What’s going on? Is Baz involved? Has he been threatened by someone?’
Gene’s eyes went to Mitchell, which was good because I was hoping he’d be able to offer me a more coherent explanation.
‘You realise she works for the council, don’t you, Gene?’ Mitchell gestured at me with his jar.
‘What? No, Brick works at the Phoenix.’ Gene seemed to wink at me.
‘Gene. It’s true. I am working at the council. Remember? You told me they’d put a chip in my shoulder, the same way they do for cats?’
‘Just trying to cover for you. I wasn’t sure if he knew.’ Gene could sometimes surprise me by being canny.
‘So that’s why you’re so interested in Mullett’s plans? The Phoenix. Are you Barry Brown’s wife?’
‘His name’s Basil Brown,’ I said. ‘And he’s my uncle. Only just as you turn up on the scene asking questions, it seems that he’s gone missing. I’m worried that something bad might have happened to him—and I’m even more worried now I’ve seen the kind of goons who seem to be after you and Gene.’
‘Your uncle?’ Mitchell didn’t look convinced. ‘Well, I guess that explains why you’re called Brick.’
I didn’t see how, so I concentrated on drinking my beer. It tasted like piss from a cat that was undergoing chemotherapy—but it had a kick like a mule in full health and my shattered nerves needed some kind of medication.
‘Gene, do you know where Baz is? I’m worried absolutely sick.’
‘I haven’t seen him for a week or so.’
I tried to look Gene in the eyes to see if he was lying, but it was hard because his eyes went off in crazy directions at the best of times.
‘Do you swear?’
‘On my mother’s grave, Brick. I don’t know.’
‘Your mother’s not dead. You told me she lives in Ballarat.’
‘Same thing.’ He winked again, or it may have been a twitch. ‘I tell you what, Brick, if I hear from Baz, I’ll find some way to send you a message. I’ve just got to lie low, if you know what I mean? I think my shop is being watched.’
‘How are you involved in this?’ I asked Mitchell, hoping he might shed some light on things. The development meeting hadn’t told me much at all, except I hated meetings and I didn’t want to be killed by mafia thugs.
‘Well, as you may have gleaned, billionaire property developer Dave Mullett is behind the company that is planning to build a huge fuck-off building right next to your uncle’s pub.’
‘I got that much,’ I said, annoyed at the patronising tone.
‘The question is,’ said Mitchell, ‘why is he using a shell company to buy it? And how did he get the whole block rezoned for residential use?’
I gave an educated guess. ‘Dickie Ruffhead? Or Mavis DuBois? Or Hugo Clark?’
‘No doubt Dickie was a part of it, but I think it goes even higher up the food chain.’
‘It’s the tunnel, man.’ Gene sloshed some liquid from his jam jar in his agitation. ‘They’ve wanted to tunnel under there for years, take the freeway from east to west.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘People have been talking about an East-West tunnel for decades. I can’t see it ever really happening.’
‘I don’t know, man. That new premier Errol Grimes—he seems pretty set on the idea. He probably wants something named after him, like the Bolte Bridge.’
The mention of the Bolte Bridge made me shudder. It carried a huge freeway running over the river, docklands and scrubby, vacant land. The kind of place where mafia shootings were known to take place and stolen cars were found burnt out and trashed. ‘If a tunnel is in the offing, why would Mullett want to build a giant apartment block there? It would have to be torn down as soon as it was finished.’
‘Maybe he just wants a big payout when the government acquires land for a tunnel. Or maybe he wants to build another crap tower filled with crap apartments. Either scenario would make him money. It’s a win-win for him, but it doesn’t change the fact that the people of old Fitzroy are going to cop it. I need to get to the bottom of this, Gene. If you’re holding out on me … These are very dangerous people we’re dealing with.’ Mitchell smiled in a way that reminded me of Gene: ever so slightly unhinged. ‘And the way they’re tailing me, I know this exposé is going to blow some minds!’
I had the sudden urge—enhanced, no doubt, by the powerful homebrew—to beat Mitchell over the head with any object I could lay my hands on. ‘Fuck your exposé! Uncle Baz raised me as if I were his daughter and I don’t want him killed by … by—’ Luckily the rumble of a large car pulling up outside interrupted me before I could start blubbing to a hack who would probably use it for ‘colour’ if Baz’s body was pulled out of Port Phillip Bay.
Gene heard the car too (proving his hearing was fine) and reacted with unusual alacrity.
‘I’m not expecting anyone,’ he said. ‘Quick, go out the back door and into the shed. There’s a tunnel from there to the street.’
A tunnel? Jesus Christ! I couldn’t imagine council would give out permits for that kind of thing, but I didn’t think it was a good time to bring up planning regulations.
Gene thrust an old Dolphin torch at us and we piled out the door and into a back garden that matched the front for its intensity of flora. A machete would have been more useful than the torch. By the time we made it to the shed, I had half a tree and what felt like a small possum in my hair.
The shed was made of asbestos sheeting and looked about to be completely devoured by the surrounding jungle. Inside it became apparent that Gene had a hobby other than music. Evidence of dope cultivation was all around, most notably in the row of halogen lights hanging from the ceiling. It went a long way to explaining Gene’s paranoia, not to mention the bloodshot eyes.
The entrance to the tunnel wasn’t immediately obvious, obscured by rows of pot seedlings balanced on some old planks of old wood propped up on bricks. From the entrance a ladder went down about three metres. Mitchell held the torch while I clambered down—not so easy in a tight skirt.
Inside, the tunnel looked like Gold Rush–era mine, braced as it was by rickety wooden beams. I was glad the torchlight meant I couldn’t see the construction too clearly.
After stumbling along for about twenty-five metres, the surface underfoot changed to what felt like some kind of concrete sewer. I was trying not to gag when Mitchell stopped, sending me thumping into the back of him.
‘Any danger of a warning me if you’re going to stop suddenly?’
Mitchell ignored my complaint. Light was filtering through a manhole above—our way out of this dungeon. ‘We seem to have found a rope ladder of some kind,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to go first, so I can push you if necessary.’
I wished it wasn’t true, but I knew I would indeed need a push. I also wished I wasn’t wearing a skirt and tried to remember if I was wearing decent undies, but the morning seemed a very long time ago.
The manhole cover was obviously not a much-used getaway, as it was very hard to budge. When I finally levered it up, I peeked around as well as I was able while balancing on Mitchell’s shoulders and trying to grip the rope, which was slimy with mould. At least I hoped it was mould.
Several undignified moments later I’d broken a fingernail and lost what was left of my dignity. The manhole came out in a laneway. That was good—we could clamber out without having to worry about being run down by a ten-tonne truck.
I scrambled out, hearing a disturbing rip as I did so. It seemed Eve had been right about my skirt being too tight. I could feel that I now had a split all the way up the back to my waist and my undies were well and truly exposed.
Seconds later, Mitchell emerged.
‘Should we go back and check on Gene?’ I asked.
‘Better not risk it.’
‘Well, what should we do?’
Mitchell brushed off a speck of dirt from his otherwise spotless clothes. ‘I don’t think we should do anything. I think you should go back about your business as usual, although you might want to fix your skirt first.’ He peered around at my bottom. ‘The less you know about what I’m going to do, the better. Can I have my jacket back?’ He held out a hand expectantly and I reluctantly retrieved his leather jacket from my tote. He shrugged it on and was gone before I had a chance to even yell after him. Well, actually, I did have a chance to yell, ‘You dickhead!’ but as usual with dickhead types, he wasn’t listening.
