Brunswick street blues, p.5
Brunswick Street Blues, page 5
Gail arched her eyebrows—or at least the skin where her eyebrows would be if they hadn’t been plucked to oblivion. ‘Were there any media inquiries?’
It was clear someone had told her about Mitch Mitchell’s appearance at the meeting. My mind raced. Should I play the innocent idiot or pretend I was managing the potential threat in an efficient and businesslike fashion? I went for the second option. ‘Yes—the award-winning journalist Mitch Mitchell stopped by. Quite an honour.’
There were signs of recognition from my colleagues, who obviously followed current events more closely than me.
‘He hadn’t given me notice beforehand,’ I continued. ‘But I’m having a meeting with him this week to find out if I can assist him in any way. He just wanted a general overview of council governance procedure for an in-depth piece he’s doing on … kerbside recycling in Melbourne. I think it’s a great opportunity for us to highlight our strategy regarding hard-waste rubbish collection.’ It was weak, but all I could come up with under pressure.
I could see from Gail’s expression that she didn’t believe a former war correspondent like Mitch Mitchell was the slightest bit interested in hard rubbish, but there was a good chance she thought I was dumb enough to believe it. That would buy me time to find out what was really going on. She surveyed me like a snake eyeing a small furry animal while trying to assess how wide it can stretch its jaws. Then she turned her attention to the next victim, Phil, who was still being punished for suggesting that someone needed to clean out the office fridge. He was drunk at the time. He kept a bottle of homemade hooch in his bottom drawer and I really couldn’t blame him.
‘Any more reports of phantom smells in the office kitchen, Phil?’ she asked. ‘You may need to get yourself checked out by a doctor. I’ve heard that brain tumours can cause people to imagine strange smells.’
Phil looked like he wished he had a brain tumour—or else he was wishing he hadn’t given up drinking.
After two hours, I could see Gail was desperate for caffeine so I grasped the opportunity to escape. I offered to do a coffee run and was inundated with a dozen orders, all of them slightly bespoke: it required a photographic memory and the bicep strength of a cocktail waitress. Luckily I had both.
I went to the nearest cafe, gave the order to the barista, then picked up a newspaper and sat down to wait. The front page had an eye-catching photo of a tall, blond and expensively dressed man who’d been pelted by something that looked like excrement. ‘SUITS YOU, SIR!’ read the headline.
On reading the article, I learned that someone with a good throwing arm (and gloves, you’d hope) had lobbed a large turd at the Victorian premier, Errol Grimes, in protest against plans for a six-lane freeway to be expanded to ten lanes. There was speculation as to the origin of the turd—dog or human? The thrower was believed to belong to a particularly feral group who called themselves the Anti-Freeway Protest Alliance. I turned the page. People were always protesting against freeways in Melbourne, but it didn’t stop more and more of them getting built. You couldn’t have a sprawling monster of a city like Melbourne without some seriously big roads.
‘Talk about a PR fiasco.’ A woman had sat down next to me. She also had a copy of the newspaper. ‘Not to mention a waste of a good suit. Of course, it made for a great news story. Did you see me on television last night?’
I froze. It was Selena McManus and she was pretending we were old school friends instead of nemeses: the last time we’d spoken she’d called me an ‘ugly dog, who deserved to go to the local high school with the other losers’. The irony of this was that teachers had mixed us up all the time due to an apparent likeness. Not to mention that she’d have given up a lifetime supply of hairspray to go to the local high school. She went to the orthodox convent, where even Chapstick would get you beaten half to death by the hundred-year-old nuns who ran the place.
‘No, I missed the news last night,’ I said trying to keep my voice casual.
‘Don’t worry. There’ll be more riots for sure. The premier’s not going to budge an inch; he’s one hard bastard. Great-looking for a politician, though, usually they’re hideous. But you’d expect an ex-footballer to keep in shape. My boyfriend plays for Richmond and he’s got a six-pack you could eat lunch off.’
That explained why the man in the dog poo suit looked familiar—he was a former AFL footballer. Thanks to Uncle Baz I’d spent many a freezing winter’s day watching a bunch of men run around a muddy paddock, although as I grew older I developed an appreciation for the finer points of Aussie Rules (mostly the footballers’ legs).
‘My boyfriend won the Brownlow Medal last year,’ Selena continued. ‘You probably saw me in the paper.’
‘Gee, I’m sorry, but I missed that too,’ I said as insincerely as possible.
‘Actually, I’m glad I ran into you, Brick. I hear you’re working for the council now.’
The penny dropped. She’d been staking out the cafe in hopes that a council worker would come in so she could pump them for information.
‘A friend of mine dropped by the council meeting last night,’ she continued. ‘Maybe you’ve heard of him? Mitch Mitchell?’
First Gail asking questions and now Selena: Mitch Mitchell was obviously a man to watch. I tried to think of a topic so unsexy that it would scare Selena off her fishing expedition. ‘He’s writing an in-depth piece about plastic recycling by councils around Australia. Recycling is becoming such a major issue these days. The planet’s in real danger. Koalas at risk. Not to mention quolls.’
At that moment the barista arrived with my coffee order and a free side of flirtation. ‘Ah, bella signorina, you’re meeting your just-as-beautiful sister today.’ He treated Selena to his most winning smile.
Selena looked at him as though he’d just put a tray of full-fat lattes in front of her.
‘We’re not sisters,’ I said quickly. ‘Just old school—’ The right word escaped me: ‘friends’ was the wrong term; even ‘mates’ was a stretch. ‘We went to school together.’
Selena exited after the barista’s unintentional insult and I hoped she’d stay away. She’d always had the kind of cunning that could ferret out secrets. At primary school her favourite move was to steal things out of people’s bags by bumping into them. Brucie had told me about some of the fanciful TV stories she’d done in the past and I didn’t want her writing any more stories about council affairs, lest Gail’s brain explode with fury.
I returned to council to find the meeting was entering its third hour. The coffees were received like Elvis in the Vegas years. I promptly spilled mine down the front of my shirt as theatrically as possible and rushed out again, indicating I’d just pop to the loo to rinse the stain. With everyone else still stuck in the meeting I’d be able to make some personal calls from my office phone without anyone listening in. Not only was our section of the office open plan, but it had bizarre acoustics that meant you could hear every sniff, chew or fart of your colleagues. I needed to ring Mitch Mitchell and find out what he was up to before anyone else started asking questions.
I attempted an internet search first, but the hamsters that powered our system must have been sleeping, so I retrieved the card he’d given me at the meeting. It was plain black on white, regular font with just the basics: name, mobile phone number, email. I dialled the number and he answered right away.
‘Mitch Mitchell.’
It didn’t surprise me that he was too arrogant to bother saying hello. I decided to play the clueless PR girl, seeing as the clueless part wouldn’t be a stretch. ‘Hi. This is Brick Brown. I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself properly last night at the council meeting. I’m with the PR department, I helped you when you had trouble opening the door.’
‘Brick Brown.’ His voice was low and as rock’n’roll as his scruffy hairstyle, and I could tell by his tone that a smart-arse comment about my name was coming. I decided to keep talking and hopefully head off any witticisms.
‘We were so honoured to have a journalist of your calibre at one of our little meetings.’ I used the most gushing tone I could muster. ‘Can I ask what brought you there?’
‘You can ask,’ he said, ‘and maybe I’ll tell you.’
I gritted my teeth. ‘Well … is there any way I can assist?’
‘No thanks, Brick Brown. I don’t feel you’d be able to provide me with anything useful.’
‘I’m such a fan of your work,’ I gushed a bit more. ‘Please tell me if there’s anything I can do—’
‘I’ve already had a call from someone at your council—a rather unpleasant woman called Gail Fawcett.’
I nearly snorted with shock and tried to disguise it with a cough. I had never known Gail to communicate directly with a journalist. Was he telling the truth or was this a sneaky journalist ploy aimed at tricking me into giving something away?
‘She told me I could expect legal action if I attempted to enter council chambers again without notice.’
It certainly sounded like something Gail would say. Maybe she’d been testing me earlier by not mentioning it. ‘Oh, that’s great!’ I was babbling by now. ‘But still, if there’s anything I can do, just give me a buzz or flick me an email.’
‘Sure thing, Brick Brown. Is that really your name?’
‘That’s what it says on my driver’s licence.’ There was no need to mention to him that my driver’s licence was fake. It was a good fake though, and cheaper than forking out for a real one since I rarely drove. ‘Does yours really say Mitch Mitchell?’
I put down the phone before he could answer, which gave me a smidgen of satisfaction, but I doubt he even noticed.
My computer chose that moment to load a page. It was about Mitchell’s kidnapping in Iraq. The photo released by his captors was disturbing: he still had the rockstar look, but it was more like a rockstar who’d just been arrested for crashing a car while high on drugs. There was something about his gaze, as if he was looking at his own death and saying, ‘Bring it on.’
I was about to return to the meeting when my mobile phone rang. It was Mick O’Toole, one of Baz’s oldest partners in crime from his football-playing days. ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ Mick wheezed. ‘Listen, I’m trying to get hold of Baz, but the Phoenix is closed up and he’s not answering his bloody mobile phone. He was supposed to come and watch the footy training with me last night. One of my nephews has got the call-up to the Reserves.’
I frowned. Baz could be absentminded about appointments—particularly if I made him a doctor’s appointment—but it was rare for him to miss a date that involved football. Baz sometimes mentored young players, specifically ones who’d moved from regional areas to play in Melbourne. ‘It’s similar to mentoring musicians,’ he’d say. ‘Gotta try and keep them off the grog, gambling and girls. It’s a bit like pissing in the wind.’
I licked a tissue and attempted to lift the coffee stain on my shirt. ‘I think he’s gone out of town, but I don’t know where or why.’
‘I don’t want to worry you, love,’ said Mick. ‘You know what Baz is like. He’ll turn up. Tell him to call me.’
As soon as Mick hung up, I tried ringing the Phoenix, Baz’s favourite betting shop and even his mobile—although I was pretty sure it was still on his office desk. There was no answer on any of them. Reluctantly I returned to the meeting.
* * *
When the meeting wrapped up an hour later, I don’t think I was the only person who could have used a hit from Phil’s stash. I returned to my desk and pretended to read my inbox while really wondering what excuse I could concoct to borrow a car from the council fleet. It would be quicker to drive over to the Phoenix and see if there was any sign of Baz rather than ride my bicycle.
‘Does anything need to be picked up?’ I asked Brucie. ‘I’m happy to go on an errand. Even if it’s not in my job description.’
Brucie ignored my attempt to poke fun but was happy to have me go and pick up a month’s worth of newspapers. ‘We’re supposed to keep a copy of all the newspapers on file,’ he said. ‘In case the council’s being shit-canned in one of them. Not that anyone reads them these days. Unless they’re a total dinosaur.’ He rolled his eyes.
Brucie gave me the spare key he had hidden in his desk drawer, which saved me filling in a mountain of paperwork. The council fleet was kept in a basement carpark and once I’d managed to extract the car from its tight spot with only a minimal amount of paint scraped off, I drove to Brunswick Street and parked in the Phoenix’s loading zone. I entered via the side door and took the concrete stairs straight up to Baz’s flat. It was just as I’d left it the previous night, as was his office.
I wasn’t sure where to look next. Baz’s 1985 Datsun had blown a gasket on the South Eastern Freeway a while back, and he’d decided it wasn’t worth fixing, much to everyone’s relief. If he’d gone off somewhere further than walking distance, he’d either borrowed a car or taken the train.
I sat down at his desk. Baz couldn’t use the computer, so I dug out his phone message pad and had a flip through it. It was often my best way of finding out what he was up to. A page was torn out, so I did the old lead pencil shading trick on the next blank page. A ghost impression of the most recent note appeared. It was a list of names:
Daphne
Delilah
Margaret
Perhaps Baz was cheating on Flora after all.
I scanned the desk for any further clues and tried the desk drawer. It was locked, which was unusual. I took out my lock-pick kit and the drawer soon sprang open.
Inside I recognised the letter with the spidery writing which had arrived the last time I’d spoken to Baz. I looked inside and was shocked to see a stack of hundred dollars bills: several thousand dollars’ worth. I hastily returned it and re-locked the drawer. Who was sending Baz money? Why hadn’t he told me about it? And why had he left it in his drawer?
Something brushed against my leg and I nearly hit the ceiling, but it was just a semi-stray cat that seemed to be able to infiltrate the Phoenix via mysterious feline means. The cat had started hanging around a few years back after getting stuck in the space where an old dumbwaiter had joined the cellar with the bar above.
Suddenly it occurred to me I should check the cellar. What if Baz had had some kind of accident down there? I went down to the bar and flicked on the cellar light switch concealed under the counter. Then I took a deep breath and heaved open the cellar door in the floor behind the bar. A waft of cool air rose up to greet me, carrying the slight smell of salami. Before the Italian lady next door had sold up and moved to Frankston, Baz used to let her cure all kinds of smallgoods in the cellar. Now the only things kept there were the kegs and a haunting smell of ham. It’s probably why the cat was in the cellar in the first place.
I looked around for the cat, thinking it would be better than no company at all, but it must have buggered off when it sensed it was needed. I went down the metal stairs as fast as possible before I could change my mind.
The next thing I knew I was flat on my face on the cold stone floor—I’d tripped over a knee-high object right at the bottom of the stairs. On the plus side, the pain took my mind off my panic.
I rolled over, wiping my smarting palms on my skirt. The object looked kind of like a vacuum cleaner, but without the bag attachment. I checked out a model number stamped into the metal, then staggered to my feet.
The solid brick walls and the cool, dry atmosphere made it feel tomblike. I took a look around, but Baz wasn’t hiding behind a keg and there was no way he could squeeze himself into the old dumbwaiter. It was a pretty boring cellar really, not spooky in the least. Still I turned and ran up the stairs as fast as I could, shutting the trap door with a slam.
When my heart had resumed a normal beat, I rang Flora. ‘I just tripped over some weird piece of equipment in the cellar. It looks a bit like a vacuum. Did Baz book a tradie without telling me?’
‘Not that I know of, hen,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to ask himself.’
‘I would if I could find him.’
‘Is he still no’ there?’ A note of alarm had entered her voice, which worried me since I’d seen Flora evict drunk punters who weighed at least twice as much as her without so much as dislodging a false fingernail. ‘I’m making some more calls, and when I get hold of that man, he’s in danger of getting his guts ripped out.’
I almost felt sorry for Baz, but I was glad I had Flora on my side. I locked up the Phoenix and drove to my place. I was grabbing a clean shirt off the clothesline when Bunny’s younger brother Timmy emerged from his caravan. His eyes had that glazed, staring-at-a-computer-for-twenty-hours-straight look.
Timmy was a nineteen and struggling to break into computer game design. He had some kickarse technology in his little caravan. In fact, that’s pretty much all he had in there apart from a mattress on the floor and a microwave. On seeing him, it occurred to me he might be able to help me identify the machine I’d found in the pub’s cellar a lot quicker than the council internet.
‘Come in and I’ll do a quick search for you,’ he said.
‘If you’re not in the middle of some weird cyber battle with half-naked elves.’
Timmy blushed sweetly. ‘I’ve paused it.’
Timmy was actually a cute little package: slim but not skinny and kind of tall with a good head of fair, wavy hair and dark blue eyes. As a gamer, he desperately needed some tuition about the finer points of social interaction with the opposite sex. I was pretty sure I was one of the only women Timmy talked to—apart from Bunny and maybe his ‘Mummy’, a cringeworthy title I couldn’t believe anyone actually used outside of an Enid Blyton novel. As usual the caravan was a shambles of half-empty Coke bottles, cans of deodorant, sci-fi paperbacks and gamer magazines. Timmy was Bunny’s younger brother by eight or nine years. They’d been brought up in a divorce and remarriage scenario and hadn’t lived in the same house when they were younger. Apparently not all blond people have a perfect childhood.
