26

‘COMING.’ I slid the chain, but my hand paused on the deadbolt. There’d been a lot of talk of danger lately, some of it concerning me as the target. Odd women in suits threatening me, teens with box cutters and auxiliary sharp objects, and other general unpleasantness. I secured the chain and backed away to the kitchen.

‘Who is it?’ I said.

‘Stella?’ Phuong called.

‘Oh, thank Christ. You scared the crap out of me.’

‘Sorry to wake you.’

‘I’m awake, what’s happened?’

She strode in, her sequined top shimmering over skinny jeans and stiletto-heeled leopard-skin ankle boots. I invited her to sit, and relax. I demonstrated the technique.

‘Cuong. The bastard’s in deep shit this time.’

‘What’s he done?’

Her groan was almost violent. ‘I went to pick up my car from his place, like we arranged. He’s not there. He’s not answering his phone. Something’s going on with him. I’m sure of it. He’s going to look me in the eye and tell me exactly what he’s involved in.’

‘Do you know where he is?’

She shrugged. ‘Crown. Where else?’

‘You’re pretty upset. I better come with you.’ I tapped her bag. The Glock was ever within reach and loaded. ‘In case you shoot him.’

She moved her bag away from me. ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’

I quickly threw on some clothes more suited to Melbourne’s casino. Then we went downstairs and into the night. My street was silent. Ascot Vale people were decent, hardworking types; young families or the elderly. We kept civilised hours. The odd ice fiend from time to time, but not tonight.

I looked around. ‘Where’s your car?’

‘Still at Cuong’s. I took a cab here. Where’s yours?’

‘In the shop. I had an altercation with a power pole.’

Phuong paused, seemed about to speak, but then didn’t.

We walked down to Union Road to hail a passing cab. Ever since the Uber disruption, cabs were plentiful. One pulled up and soon we were speeding towards Crown. I lowered my window, let the warm wind caress my hand. The only caressing I’d had for a while. I breathed in and hit the button, watched the window slowly rise.

‘How’s the investigation going into Cory Fontaine’s death?’ I asked Phuong.

‘Who?’

I sighed. ‘The boy hit by a truck at the Footscray McDonald’s. I think he was mixed up in something the Corpse Flowers are doing. I think they’re coaching homeless kids.’

‘Coaching?’

‘I don’t know. Favours, paying for haircuts, photographs, other unusual activities. Who do I talk to at VicPol about it?’

She looked at me. ‘Bikies use kids to sell drugs to other kids. They all do it. They’ve been doing it for years. For now, Stella, please don’t go to HQ with this. Keep it under wraps until we get Mortimer? Then Bruce will smash the whole Corpse Flowers enterprise, get them out of business.’

That was straight from Copeland, he was making her act against her better judgement. I wished Phuong would stand up to him. I looked out the window. I would not keep my concerns under wraps. I’d try Blyton one more time.

‘I’m surprised at Cuong,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t seem the type. He seems very straight.’

‘The signs were there, early on,’ Phuong was saying. ‘He was trouble as a kid. My poor aunt and uncle, they didn’t know what to do with him. They used to come over and have long conversations with my parents. They suggested he go back to Vietnam. Get himself sorted out. So they sent him back to live with a relative. Boy, was that a mistake.’

‘Why?’

‘He came back full of stories. Bad magic, ghosts, curses, hauntings.’

‘Maybe the ghost thing is real,’ I said. I’d lost count of mine. I’d been haunted by people fixations, good and bad, or sometimes a spectre from the past. I’d want them gone, and later suffer pangs of regret when they went. The daily presence of my deceased father was a scaffold of affection, in the process of slow dismantling.

Phuong tossed her silky hair. ‘Who knows. Dad always said Cuong got off to a bad start because he was born in năm của dê, the Year of the Goat. Dad said that’s where the trouble started. Goat babies are calm, gentle, and honest. In the Goat year, you avoid the word ‘cường’. As in, cường độ, meaning intensity. You see the problem.’

I really didn’t. ‘You’re saying the trouble is all in Cuong’s name? Or is it because he went to Vietnam and developed a fear of ghosts?’

She shrugged. ‘Rich tapestry.’

I looked out the window, wondering at my fate. Considering how much I loathed the place, it was weird that I often found myself at Crown. A place untroubled by conscience. Gambling, my father used to say, was a tax on fools. Nowadays it was referred to as ‘gaming’, a euphemism for a legal swindle, a theft from those least able to afford it.