29

ANOTHER DAWN. I was getting sick of mornings, and existence in general. I was seedy and raw and broken-hearted. Rather than face the day, I listened to the radio in bed. An ecstatic voice announced that this was the first day of the Victorian Racing Club’s annual Spring Racing Carnival, and therefore, Derby Day. The carnival revolved around the Melbourne Cup, always scheduled for the first Tuesday in November. Derby Day kicked off the party on the Saturday, with ladies in black and white; morning suits for the men, with the traditional cornflower in the lapel. I wanted to vomit. The announcer read the weather: another warm day on the way, with higher temperatures expected in the coming days. Cup Day was predicted to be in the forties. A glass of warm spumante would console some, I imagined.

I breakfasted on toast. Then, in need of proper coffee and some supermarket essentials, I dressed in jeans, a clean white shirt, and flats. I was going to make kaddu bharta.

The traders in my part of town were deeply invested in the racing carnival, positioned as we were between the race tracks of Flemington and Moonee Valley. The very path beneath our feet was emblazoned with the names of former Cup winners. Being mid-carnival, the place was busier than usual, the street was as hyped as a toddler on red cordial. A lot of people were out buying last-minute party supplies, and the warm weather had stirred a vigorous trade in hair removal.

Despite my low mood, I skipped into Buffy’s with faux élan. ‘The usual, my good man.’

It was not Lucas beside the machine but a clear-faced new girl. A stranger. I hesitated.

‘What’s your usual?’ she asked pleasantly.

I went blank.

‘Strong flat-white,’ said a voice behind me.

‘Lucas, thank Christ.’

‘I’ll make it, Delores,’ he said, with a wink at me.

I picked up the paper and held it up to him. ‘And this.’

He frowned. ‘You alright, Stella? You look wasted.’

‘I feel fantastic, never better.’

‘What’s your secret?’

‘Hypnotism,’ I said, without hesitation. ‘Special Vietnamese hypnotism.’

The person he called Delores guffawed. ‘For real? Sorry, it’s a con.’

I turned to Lucas, one eyebrow raised.

‘Delores lived in Hanoi for a while,’ he explained. ‘Teaching English.’

My other eyebrow joined the first. ‘Is that so? Did you come across any hypnotism?’

‘You read about it in the English-language papers,’ she was saying. ‘Someone calling themselves Doctor So-and-So sets up a school of hypnotism, making outrageous claims. People pay a fortune to learn this stuff, but it doesn’t work of course, and then they’re angry so the doctor says it’s their fault and they have to take another class. Usually, people want their money back — but when the authorities get involved, the good doctor skips town.’

‘So it’s complete bunkum?’

‘Well, it is to us. But it goes back a long way there. I think it has links to kungfu. There’s reports sometimes of hypnotism-related crimes, people are completely convinced they’ve been hypnotised by a random stranger. He looks into their eyes and they give the guy their wallet or whatever. Or the robber walks right into a shop and starts hypnotising the salesperson, who then hands over the cash.’

I thought about Cuong. I pictured him at the races, in a morning suit with a cornflower in the label, adorably gloomy. But I couldn’t help wondering, too, about the strange goings-on of last night. For instance, why the cops approached only the woman and not Cuong. I hated to admit it, but on reflection Phuong was right — Cuong and the woman clearly knew each other. They were about to speak when the cops moved in. But they left Cuong alone. Almost as if he wasn’t even there.

But why did he refuse to speak about it? Phuong knew about his gambling; what was so bad he had to keep from her? If he was involved somehow with the passport thing, then how bizarre was that?

Lucas was laughing. ‘No hypnotic tricks, Hardy.’

‘Tricks, ha ha. No.’ I placed some shrapnel on the counter, hoped it was right, and started to walk out.

Lucas came around and placed a takeaway cup in my hand. ‘Mate, take it easy.’

‘I’m fine,’ I lied.

I walked up the street, drinking my coffee, and paused at the entrance to the supermarket. The entire Cuong episode was none of my business. Phuong, on the other hand, was my bestie. I needed to clear the air with her. Then I thought about how she’d discouraged me from raising the Corpse Flowers’s behaviour towards homeless children with the police. Other than her. Usually, I’d trust her judgement, but not this time. A cab ejected a gaggle of women outside a hairdresser, and I leapt in. I gave directions to the purple tower in the Docklands.

I asked the driver to wait a few minutes while I ran into the foyer. No one answered the buzzer this time. Perhaps he was still unwell. I took out one of my WORMS business cards and scribbled a hasty note on an old receipt at the bottom of my bag:

Dear Detective Blyton,

Have information that Corpse Flowers are training homeless children in criminal activity. Contact me to discuss.

Regards, Stella Hardy.

A bank of numbered mail boxes lined one wall of the foyer. I located the numbered slot that matched Blyton’s apartment number, then folded my card in with the note and slotted it.

The cab was waiting, metre running. In less than ten minutes, I was returned to Ascot Vale and had re-joined the masses on Union Road. All up, my detour to Blyton’s cost me thirty bucks. When the time came, I’d bill Copeland.

Now, my attention returned to the matter at hand: pumpkin curry. I shopped for groceries like a pro. After choosing a fresh lime, I made a study of the pumpkins, knowledgeably flicking specimens with my finger, smelling the skin, shaking them next to my ear. The results were mixed, and a lot of shaken-up pumpkins. Then I saw one with grey-blue skin, cut in sections along deep ribs, showing golden-orange flesh. The magnificent Queensland Blue it would be. I shoved half a dozen pieces in a plastic bag and grabbed a packet of unsalted butter on my way out.

I made like a Sherpa up the Roxburgh Street incline, carrying two bags of shopping, my coffee, and an entire pumpkin, cut into pieces, in a plastic bag. Remonstrating with myself all the way home. As if Phuong would place a bullet in her own letterbox. What kind of person accused their friend of faking a death threat? Answer: the most horrible person possible, a complete monster. Was that who I was? I didn’t know who I was anymore.

My progress was stopped by a block of granite. A chap, more refrigerator than man, obstructed my path. He wore a cut-off leather vest, over a black t-shirt. I spotted a couple of fabric badges sewn on the vest: a skull, two crossed rifles, a bent flower with ‘CF’ in gothic script. His biceps bulged out of the t-shirt, tatt-sleeve arms. His head was shaved save for a tuft of orange fluff on top, wafting in the breeze. His do put me in mind of those Troll Dolls.

‘Stella Hardy?’

‘No.’

He sighed. ‘But she lives here, right?’

‘I know of no such person,’ I announced, and tried to step around him.

He stepped in front of me, face right up to my mine. ‘You sure?’

I reeled back, one arm cartwheeling. The pumpkin bag slipped from my hand, and sailed up into the air. We watched the pumpkin pieces fly from the bag, spin upwards, pause, and descend. Falling, falling, and hitting the ground. I stood there like a dummy, and all the emotion of recent events got the better of me. Tears spilled onto my cheeks.

The giant troll looked horrified. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I’m a bit clumsy.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ I said idiotically. ‘It’s the bags they give you.’

‘I know, right? I usually take me own,’ he said. ‘Not that I’m judging you; I don’t trust their bags. Give us some sheets of that paper.’

I put down the shopping and pulled out the real-estate section of the newspaper. At the same time, Brown Cardigan’s Shih tzu came trotting out of the foyer of my building. It approached and stopped to sniff the bikie’s bottom as he crouched near the pumpkin pieces. Following behind him was Brown, holding a red leather lead studded with diamantes. I was tempted to make a Paris Hilton joke. Then I realised that if Brown addressed me by name, the jig would be up. I made fierce eye-contact, telepathically imploring him to keep moving.

‘Trotsky likes his morning walk,’ he said, completely failing to catch on.

‘You named your dog after a communist?’ I said, despite myself. Brown was a dyed-in-the-wool conservative.

‘He’s not mine. One of the ladies from bowls died, and I said I’d take him. The name isn’t ideal, but I wasn’t going to grandstand about ideology,’ he said, pointedly.

Brown thought I was a virtue-signalling bolshie. At least, I presumed he did. We represented a microcosm of the country, he and I. Two halves, each deaf to the other, entrenched in our camps, belittling the other, with no consideration of the other person’s reasoning or concerns. Maybe, for the sake of the country, I should make a gesture of conciliation. If he could have a dog called Trotsky, maybe I could get a rodent and call it Dutton.

‘Besides, I like him,’ Brown was saying. ‘He’s quite a cheery fellow.’ Then he tapped his forehead in salute, and went down the path after Trotsky, who’d gone as far as his glamourous lead would allow.

The goon had placed the pumpkin pieces in the newspaper. ‘It’s still good,’ he said. ‘Just give it a wash.’

‘I like your tatts. What’s that on your knuckles?’

I took the paper from him, and he held two fists in front of my face. One hand said BUST and the other said FACE.

‘Very nice,’ I said. ‘I like the lettering.’

‘Thanks,’ he said with a sniff of pride. ‘Better boot. Finding fuckers isn’t easy.’

‘Tell me about it. Thanks for your help.’ My nonchalance act was top-notch.

‘Yeah.’ He coughed. ‘S’alright.’

I retreated to my apartment and paced. He knew my building, but not my flat number. And he didn’t know me. These were difficult times. I lifted the lid on the takeaway cup, swirled the froth, drank the tepid coffee. Alma said: he knows you’re after him. That bikie was not Isaac Mortimer, a man easily identified by the fuck yeah on his face.

So, who was that man? Who was Bust Face, and who had sent him to look for me? Did the ‘CF’ signify a Corpse Flower?

Was I a threat to the Corpse Flowers? I didn’t see how. All I had done was enquire after Mortimer. Why would they care? Why send a goon, some low-level Flower?

It was Copeland’s stupid fault I was in this mess. When this was over, he’d owe me an explanation — a better one than needing Mortimer to testify. And he’d owe me a new pumpkin.

In the meantime, the goon was gone, and I still had one more lead to follow up in the search for Mortimer. I sat down, deflated. What to do?

My flat was a bombsite. I hadn’t been keeping up with domestic affairs. First, I’d tidy up, then I’d make the damn curry.

Then I’d pay a visit to the Talbots Body Works.