27

PHUONG MARCHED into the gaming room, eschewing the roulette, and making directly for the blackjack tables. I supposed she’d done this kind of thing before. She took her responsibilities to Cuong seriously, in the Phuong way. It made me feel guilty about the way I treated my brother, Ben. Perhaps if I’d taken a more involved role in his life, prying and meddling in his affairs occasionally, he may not have ended up in jail. Or perhaps so. Hard to say.

After a circuit of the floor and no Cuong, we went to a bar, and positioned ourselves with a reasonable view of the blackjack tables on one side and the roulette tables on the other. A baccarat table near the entrance to a sports bar at the other end of the room was the only table not occupied with a punter. I ordered a couple of Aperol spritzes, figuring we might as well enjoy ourselves.

‘I have news.’

Phuong moved her chin towards me, a sign she was listening, but her eyes were on the crowds moving around the tables. ‘About Mortimer?’

‘Sort of. Before he died, Ricky Peck was trying to get access to wards of the state. He’d applied to work for a child protection agency but they got him on the background checks. Can you imagine? A bikie working for a charity?’

Phuong shrugged. ‘It has happened. I heard about this drug dealer who found religion and now he runs a rehab.’

‘I doubt Ricky Peck found religion,’ I said, tartly. ‘And the thing is, there’s a pattern here. You know that Ox Gorman’s girlfriend is a convicted drug dealer called Philomena Josephine Enright, right? Well now she’s calling herself Josie and she’s acting like she has a saviour complex, making friends with all the kids who deal drugs in Footscray. Then there’s her client, Alma. She’s a damaged, vulnerable child with a massive IQ and an equally massive chip on her shoulder. Some street kids told me Enright recruited Alma to co-opt them into some scheme. She told them that everyone stood to make lots of money.’

Phuong stopped scanning the crowds and stared at me. ‘Doing what exactly?’

‘I don’t know, but it involves a place in Burma. Kengtung. Drug smuggling is my best guess.’

‘Probably,’ she said, and turned back to the blackjack tables.

‘They also told me that your friend, Isaac Mortimer, warned them to keep away from Alma and not be sucked in by all the cash she was throwing around.’

Phuong was nodding. ‘Did they say where he is?’

‘No.’ I took a sip of spritz. ‘They reckon Mortimer comes to Crown.’

Phuong rolled her eyes. ‘Cameras all over this place. He’s not silly.’

‘I suppose so.’ No doubt about it, I was useless at finding people. I had to wonder why she’d asked me to do it in the first place. I had no idea what I was doing. I glanced around the gaming room, wondering if I would even recognise Mortimer if he did show up. The punters were leisurely, watching tables, or waiting for a chair to become available. Except for one woman, who was making her way through the room. Late fifties, dressed like a primary-school teacher, holding a plastic shopping bag up to her chest. It was as if her efforts to avoid notice — head down, shifty glances to security — were what drew my attention to her. That and the look of raw panic on her face.

‘Look at her. What’s she up to?’ Phuong pointed out the same woman.

The woman was heading for the baccarat table, where a patron in a dark suit was now playing. ‘Isn’t that …’

‘Cuong,’ Phuong said flatly, and moved off her stool. How had we missed him?

‘Wait.’ I grabbed her by the arm. ‘Just, wait a second.’

Cuong checked his watch, then turned around, looking behind him — directly at the woman with the shopping bag. He was nodding and smiling. I turned to see her response. She smiled faintly back at him. She was about five metres away from him when, from out of the crowd, a man in a suit came and stood in front of her. He touched her arm and spoke to her, leaning into her ear.

Another man and a woman joined him.

‘Security?’ I asked.

‘Cops,’ said Phuong.

The two men took an arm each, the woman offering no resistance. From my reading, she appeared resigned, almost relieved, as if she had been expecting to be detained. The female officer took the bag from her, and with little fuss, they all walked out.

Phuong pursed her lips.

Cuong didn’t react. The only sign something had happened was a wrinkling of his nose, like he was about to sneeze. He watched the police lead the woman away. In a moment, Phuong was upon him and gave him a burst of vehement Vietnamese. From what I could tell, he wasn’t defending himself — he seemed to be agreeing with her.

She finished her harangue, took a breath, and said in English, ‘You’re leaving with us. Get going!’

He glanced around, and caught me watching. My immediate reflex was a friendly wave, but I hesitated. He put his hands in his pockets, looked down with a resigned sigh, and started to the exit, Phuong keeping close behind him.

We went down the escalators, past all that gleaming gold and the mirrors and water features and ominously placed yin and yang symbols. Other Feng Shui luck remedies and gambling inducements were suspended from the ceilings. And every five metres or so, an enormous poster advertised Cup Day at Crown festivities in the grand ballroom. We passed the cardboard cut-out of a racehorse in the foyer, and went out into the roar of Friday-night city traffic.

Cuong kept walking, heading to Flinders Street, but Phuong stopped him. ‘What the hell was that?’ she said in English.

‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘Like hell.’

‘Believe me, I want to tell you.’

She laughed, shook her head. ‘Can you believe him?’ she said to me.

‘This is a family matter,’ I said. ‘I’d rather not get —’

‘Right,’ she said to him. ‘I’m taking you home.’

She hailed a passing cab. ‘Sunshine.’ The driver nodded. When she was like this, even strangers instinctively knew not to question her.

The La Fonderie building was in darkness, except for two lights: the red candles on Cuong’s balcony shrine, and one flat over, where blue cathode rays flickered. There was a brief exchange in Vietnamese. I gathered we were coming up. Cuong waved a card at the panel near the door; it clicked and he pushed it open. The lift was operational, praise Jesus. We hadn’t made it inside the flat when she started on him again.

‘Tell me the truth for once,’ Phuong said. ‘What was that?’

He flinched. ‘Keep your voice down. You’ll wake the neighbours.’

What neighbours, I wondered.

He ushered us inside.

Phuong walked around, clacking her high heels on the tiles. ‘I come to your rescue in a storm. I hold your hand when you think ghosts are coming for you. I cover for you, turn a blind eye.’

Cuong shook his head, bewildered, or pretending to be. ‘I already said thank you.’

‘But with you, there’s always something worse. The betting rings in Chinatown.’

‘What?’ It was me talking now. ‘Betting rings?’

‘Private games, invitation only,’ Phuong said, exasperated that she had to stop haranguing Cuong to fill me in.

‘Games like what?’

‘Baccarat and mahjong.’

I wasn’t familiar with baccarat, but mahjong was basically pairs, wasn’t it? ‘Really, Cuong, you gamble on mahjong?’

He shrugged. ‘I have to get up early tomorrow. Derby Day at Flemington.’

I’d never been to the races. ‘Who are you going with?’

‘Just me. You can come if you want.’

Before I could answer, Phuong cut him off. ‘Stella is not going to the races with you.’ She started pacing again. ‘You told me you avoid Crown.’

‘It’s not illegal to go to Crown,’ he said.

‘That woman, who was she?’

‘Tâm kinh doanh của riêng bạn.’

‘This is my business. I wish it wasn’t. Detectives took her away. Everyone in the room could see she was about to approach you. Now tell me, who is she? And what were you doing?’

‘You can’t help me. You said so.’ He held the door open. ‘Now can you please leave? I have to get up early in the morning.’

She didn’t move. ‘How do you know her? Who introduced you to her?’

‘No one.’

This was going to take a while. I parked myself on the sofa. I moved a pile of books and magazines, put my feet up on his coffee table.

‘Are you in debt, Cuong?’ Phuong asked.

He shook his head, turned away.

Phuong picked up a book from a pile, turned it around to show me the title. The title was in both Vietnamese and English: Mastering the Art of Hypnotism: control others and get all you want.

‘This is yours, I suppose?’ she asked Cuong. ‘Who do you want to control?’

‘Nobody. It’s for fun.’

Phuong threw it on the floor. ‘What am I going to do with you?’

‘Nothing. There’s nothing going on, stop worrying. Anyway, I cleaned your car. You can take it now. Go home, get an early night.’

She let out a groan and announced that she was going to the bathroom.

Cuong scratched the back of his head. ‘Want a beer?’

I glanced at the bathroom door. ‘One wouldn’t hurt.’

He went to the fridge, flipped off the caps. ‘Japanese beer. On Special.’

‘Canny shopper.’

He handed me a bottle and sat on the armchair, clearly exhausted.

I had a sip. ‘So,’ I said. ‘How’s your day been?’

‘Had better.’ Cuong rubbed his nose. ‘Want to give me your number?’

‘What for?’

‘We can go to the races tomorrow.’

‘I can’t.’ My weekend was full, mainly with digging up a bikie. Possibly, literally.

‘Another time.’

‘Sure.’

In the pause that followed, we listened to Phuong shouting on the phone in the bathroom.

‘Can you really hypnotise people?’ I asked Cuong.

He peered intently into my eyes. ‘Relax, let go now, and totally relax.’

I did as he said and tried to relax; my whole body sank into the cushions. The velvety throw was luxurious.

‘Look in my eyes,’ he was saying.

I stared; they seemed to have their own light in the dim room.

‘You are surrendering to my voice … you are under my complete control … now you will answer my questions.’

‘Go ahead, ask away.’

‘Have you found Isaac Mortimer yet?’

‘No. You ask me, the man cannot be found.’

He sat back and regarded me with curiosity. ‘And when I snap my fingers you are back and refreshed. And also, you will not want a cigarette ever again. And …’ He snapped his fingers.

‘Wow, thanks. I … I don’t smoke now. I didn’t smoke before, but thanks.’

He flicked his hand, like it was nothing. Which it was.

‘Let me try,’ I said. ‘You are getting very relaxed.’

Cuong eased back in the chair.

‘Now you will answer my questions,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I will.’

‘Whose ghost are you afraid of?’

‘What the hell are you two doing?’ Phuong stood ridged in the doorway.

‘And when I snap my fingers, you no longer smoke,’ I said, and snapped.

Cuong seemed momentarily confused, then he beamed. ‘Cigarettes are bad. I don’t want to smoke.’

‘Well?’ She pointed her phone at Cuong.

I hunkered down in the sofa.

‘Just a bit of fun.’ Cuong said, unconcerned.

‘If you’re quite finished, I have information. The detectives we saw at Crown are with OTIOSE.’

I sat up. ‘Really? The public-sector corruption thingy?’

‘Yes. And the woman my cousin knows nothing about is a passport-office employee.’

‘Marcus Pugh said something about a passport scam.’ I recalled him saying so earlier that afternoon, a lifetime ago.

Phuong raised her eyebrows. ‘That blabbermouth? Well, he’s right. She’d been certifying unauthorised passports.’

‘How’d they find out?’

‘A whistle-blower.’

‘Two careers burned then.’

Cuong had been quiet.

‘Last chance,’ Phuong said to him. ‘What are you caught up in?’

‘I can’t say.’

She lowered her eyes to the floor. Nodded once. ‘Where are my keys?’

He tossed them to her. She snatched them out of the air and went out without a word.

‘Bye, Cuong,’ I said.

He took my hands in his. ‘Don’t worry. Everything is under control.’

Cuong was exasperating. No wonder Phuong was at her wit’s end. I said good night and found Phuong in her hatchback in the car park. The graffiti had been removed.

As we hit the street, I glanced back at Cuong’s flat. The altar lights were off.