MIKE NICHOLS WATCHES THE Gold Coast tilt and turn from the back seat of a helicopter. His stomach churns, but it’s all down there. The dream. The diamond life. Paradise in the making. Seeing it at scale, ranging out from the edge of the ocean, brings a hint of euphoria out of his hangover.
The pilot puts them down in an airfield in Coolangatta. There’s a car waiting. The car takes him to a tall apartment block on the foreshore of Point Danger. ‘It’s the penthouse,’ says the driver.
Mike finds the intercom, hits the biggest number on there.
‘Who’s that then?’ says a voice.
It’s a voice Mike has heard in a hundred interviews. The nasal whine of the Queensland north filtered through private schooling.
He plays it safe and straight. ‘It’s Mike Nichols, sir. I have a ten o’clock appointment with the minister.’
‘That’s me. You’ll have to let yourself in when you get upstairs.’
The gate buzzes open.
The penthouse is all windows, and the windows are filled with the ocean and the sky. Against this backdrop, the minister is sprawled out on a chaise lounge like a long, thick slug. In the backrooms of parliament, they call him the God Minister. The all-knowing one. He has a huge portfolio. He sees all, but he’s no benevolent deity. The God Minister strikes his fist into the earth all the time.
Today, the minister is dressed for the office, despite the fact his right leg is plastered from the knee down. The Courier Mail reported that he fell from a ladder, but the rumour mill says he took a spill down the back stairs of a brothel up in the city. ‘I’d offer you a cuppa,’ he says, ‘but this fucking thing.’ He waves at his leg. ‘It’s a damned nuisance. Itches like the clap.’
‘I’m fine without, sir.’
‘Good, good. Sit down, you’re making the place look untidy. Now Roger Pearse tells me you’ve been bringing in a lot of big fish lately.’
Mike nods. His gazetted role is Public Liaison for the Queensland National Party. It’s a wining and dining gig. Lots of late nights with big business, lots of getting everyone in the mood and greasing the wheels of industry. In reality, he’s a party planner and a bagman for the state government.
‘I want you to come work for me,’ says the minister.
Mike takes a second. ‘I have a few projects for—’
‘Fuck Pearse. Do you wanna hang out with the big dicks or not, son?’
‘What do you have in mind?’
‘Tell me what you know about Fantasyland.’
Mike clears his throat to give himself a moment. ‘I only know the gossip, sir.’ Fantasyland is a half-built amusement park about half an hour’s drive inland. The place is owned by Noah Winters and his family. Cement magnates from Townsville.
‘What might that gossip be, son?’
The minister looks over his glasses and waits.
A test.
‘It’s behind schedule. Way behind. The talk is that the whole thing is getting shaky. Money trouble left and right. Noah Winters is the one driving it into the ground. They reckon he’s lost his mind.’
The minister shifts his gaze.
Passed.
‘It is behind schedule,’ the minister says. ‘They keep telling me it’s the bloody recession, but my gut says otherwise. Lots of people I know are up to their eyeballs in it, invested to the hilt, so I want you to look after it. The official opening needs to be announced in the next couple of weeks. Make sure it opens on time. You reckon you can handle that?’
‘How much discretion do I have?’
The minister laughs. ‘I think you’re going to have to get your hands dirty on this one, son. Go with the Lord. If you can do this for me, there’s a sizeable drink in it for you.’
Mike knows enough to make the ask. ‘What sort of drink?’
‘Twice what Pearse is paying you, and that’s just the beginning. Show me what you can do and we’ll talk more.’
‘When do I start?’
‘There’s a site visit tonight. You’re going in my place.’ The minister scratches at his leg with the end of a plastic ruler, then slides it down into his cast.
‘That looks painful, sir.’
The minister grins. ‘It is.’ He scratches some more and says, ‘She wasn’t worth it.’