21

TALBOTS BODY Works was an old-school mechanic’s business. Wedged between a long-closed shoe factory with windows smashed, and a thriving cleaning-supply shop, the place was a quarter acre of concrete with a single covered bowser and a large mechanics workshop. An external flight of stairs led to the flat above. The enterprise was fenced off on three sides by a series of posts slung with a white chain.

A legion of grubby youths in combination overalls were swearing and wheeling car parts around on low trolleys. To the right, a small office was sectioned off. FM-radio pop, and the place reeked of the macho catnip of testosterone, motor oil, and unwashed bodies.

I sat idling in the Mazda, taking a sneaky gander at Gorman’s place above the workshop. The exterior of the flat had a cosy feel, coloured leadlight in the casement windows, and to one side a rooftop patio. Fringed by a rusted railing, the terrace was decorated with large palms in concrete pots. A set of retro cane chairs was arranged under a fifties-style beach umbrella; the occupants kept serious faith with the period. There was even a Hills Hoist up there, some smalls waving in the breeze — the ex-con favoured wonder bras and frilly French knickers.

I went into the workshop area, crowded with cars in various stages of repair. None of the young men took any notice of me. Then a senior-looking mechanic came waltzing around the corner, sporting a rockabilly hairdo and carrying a fish-and-chip white-paper bundle. He’d made a hole in the paper and was throwing chips in his mouth with his filthy fingers as he approached.

‘Yeah?’

‘Bit of a run in with a pole.’ I pointed to the damaged panels.

‘That right?’ He had a look. ‘Yeah. Come off second best, didn’t you? Won’t be ready till Wednesday at the earliest.’

Damn the Cup Day long weekend. ‘How much?’

‘Depends.’

I gave him a look.

‘Not more than … five hundred.’

I held out the keys.

‘Got everything out of it?’

I held up my handbag. There was a packet of mints in the glovebox, but these lads were not going to bother with those.

‘Come in the office, and I’ll do the paperwork.’ He wiped his hands on his overalls.

I followed him to a dingy little room lined with shelves, umpteen boxes of screws and nuts piled up everywhere, and a girlie calendar on the wall from 1968. He dropped his lunch on the work bench and picked up a stubby pencil. ‘Name?’

I gave him my particulars, and he printed each word laboriously in a random combination of caps and lower case.

‘Been here a while?’ I asked.

He dropped the pencil and opened the chip wrappings. ‘Me old man’s.’ He put some chips in his mouth and nodded at the wall. Stuck there among the business cards was a black-and-white photo of a man with rockabilly hair leaning on a hot-rod.

‘Place belongs to you now?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And the flat upstairs? You live there?’

He shrugged. ‘Used to. When we were kids. It was good then. Then the old man bought a bigger place out at Ardeer.’

‘Anyone up there now?’

He frowned like he didn’t want to say.

‘You could rent it out,’ I prompted him.

‘Me mate’s in it, he don’t pay.’

‘Wow. That’s a sweet deal.’

He shrugged.

‘What’s it like inside?’

He waved a piece of steaming flake at me. ‘Wouldn’t go near the place I was you, ’less you wanna get shot at.’ He bit the shark.

‘Ah, not really. No.’

I hurried away, walking down Anderson Road. What had I achieved? I’d seen Gorman’s place. What had I learned? Bikies terrified folks.

Karen Carpenter’s deep vocal heartbreak crooned from inside my bag. That was more like it. I checked the caller. Shanninder: ‘Got some info about those kids.’

‘Shoot.’

‘Alma Dunmore, fifteen. She’s her own worst enemy, like a lot of them.’

‘In what way?’

‘The attitude. Mensa-smart, but she hangs out on the streets. Risk taker, caught riding the back of a train.’

‘Tough at home,’ I said, guessing.

‘Not really. Upper-middle class, expelled from her private school. When she’s not causing trouble, she lives in Williamstown with her mum and two sisters. Big house, apparently, amazing spot opposite the Pavilion.’

‘Just a brat then?’

‘Her father died in a car accident about four years ago,’ she said. ‘Since then, Alma’s been a handful.’

There was a lot more going on with Alma than anyone knew. Her drug dealing, and her familiarity with Isaac Mortimer, for starters.

‘Great. Thanks. And anything on Cory?’

‘Not as much. Full name, Cory Felix Fontaine. DOB, May 2001.’

‘Makes him, what, sixteen?’

‘Near enough. Became a ward of the state when his mother was incarcerated. Ran away from his foster family, managed to stay on the streets, avoided Human Services, slipped through the system. But I did get one snippet of intel, not sure if it’s of any use to you. He’s got hep C. The department made a couple of attempts to get him on the new antivirals, but he never showed up for appointments.’

‘How did he get it?’

‘Don’t know. I’ve got to get on. I’m busy,’ Shanninder said.

‘One last thing. Where do kids like Alma hang out?’

‘Come on, Stella, you know the hang-outs as well as me. Anywhere in central Footscray, like the kebab place on Nicholson. Or McDonald’s. And there’s always Funky Town, your favourite amusement parlour. I’ve seen actual teenagers there.’

No, not Funky Town, where bacteria thrived in the finger holes of bowling balls.

‘Also, Flinders Street Station’s popular, for some reason.’

‘Of course, Flinders Street,’ I said. Bacteria in a wind tunnel.

‘By the way, you’re supposed to meet Boss in the city for the Pukus meeting.’

If it wasn’t for Shanninder keeping me on the ball, I would’ve been sacked years ago. ‘What time?’

‘Four. He’s already left. He read your fire-safety report. He wants you to pitch a program to the minister, use your sway with him.’

‘I don’t have sway. I’ve never had sway. I don’t know why he thinks that.’

‘Maybe because you were the one who secured our funding for the next five years.’

‘Oh, yeah. That. Where do I go?’

‘Parliament. Can you make it?’

I checked the time on my phone. ‘Just.’

‘By the way, a man came into the office asking for you.’

‘What man?’

‘All muscles and tatts. Funny haircut. Orange on top. He asked for your address. We told him that’s against policy and he left.’

He knows you’re looking for him. What if Alma wasn’t bluffing. ‘Thanks, Shanninder, see you Monday.’

‘Not me, honey. I’m taking Monday off for a long weekend. See you Wednesday.’

I ended the call and looked around. Spotting a man with orange hair should be an easy matter. The city train arrived, plastered in stupid tags, its interior strewn with sheets of newspapers, the floor a river of cola and other fluids, and I jumped aboard.