WITH THE OFFICIAL PROCEEDINGS dispensed, the party goes up a gear. Mike is in the zone: sinking beers and talking shit. He collects gossip and factoids. He sets up callbacks and makes intros. He knows people. There are entrepreneurs and politicians, media people and shonky cops. A few athletes and film stars. Mike gets into the ear of some of the bigger players. Buddy Winters invites him to lunch. Dennis Benson, a local yacht builder, gives him a light in a dark corner, asking if Mike is the minister’s new man. Benson’s a square-john-looking bastard, neat as a pin. While they’re talking, he’s joined by another big fish: Allan Watts. Allan owns a few Surfers Paradise hotspots and he’s the opposite of Benson: loud, shirt open, sweating like a glassblower’s arse.
‘Argh, fellas!’ screams Allan, giving them each a hug. He takes Mike around the shoulders. ‘How’s the minister’s sore foot, mate?’
Mike deflects.
Over in the DJ booth, the Steve Miller Band cross-fades into ‘If You Want My Love’ by Cheap Trick, and the volume grows thunderous and reverberant.
‘Can I ask you two a question?’ shouts Mike.
The men are all ears.
Mike looks around. ‘How would you fix this mess?’
Both smile.
Allan puts a hand on his shoulder and says, ‘Mate, do you fancy a bump?’
They do the coke in a large washroom by the unfinished merry-go-round. The drug loosens Allan up even further, but Benson just sits on a closed toilet pedestal and takes it all in, as stern and intent as ever.
‘So, fellas, let’s get down to business,’ says Allan. ‘Or did you two lure me back here to fuck me?’
Benson adjusts his glasses. ‘Steady on.’
Allan moves his jaw around. ‘So, ah, Mike, what does the minister want with this flaming mess?’
‘He’s looking to get it back on track.’
‘I didn’t think he had a piece?’ says Benson.
‘I don’t know the details.’
Benson stares into space. ‘And it’s your job to do what, exactly?’
‘Whatever I can. What do you blokes need?’
‘A fucking miracle,’ says Allan. ‘This is not a warning, mate—well, not from me anyhow—but you need to go very lightly with this stuff. I don’t know if this is something someone like you can just waltz into. No offence.’
‘I can be pretty resourceful,’ says Mike.
‘Not if you’re fucking dead, mate.’
‘Christ,’ says Mike. ‘What are you talking about?’
Benson finally looks at him. ‘The last one the minister sent disappeared.’
‘He was a cunt,’ adds Allan. ‘Jason Hooper. You know him?’
Mike does. ‘I thought he was on long service leave.’
‘Oh yeah, he’s on leave alright. He’s having a long spell from walking around,’ says Allan. The man moves closer. ‘We like you, Mike. You should have stuck with Roger Pearse.’
‘I can still hook you both up with Pearse, but …’
‘But what?’ says Benson.
‘Bring me further in on this, and I can be even more helpful. I need to look busy, and you both know the minister will just send someone else if I blow it.’
Benson gets up. ‘He’s got a point.’
‘It’s your funeral, mate,’ says Allan.
It’s all lies.
Bluster and lies.
Everyone hedging their bets. In Mike’s experience, you can never come in the front door on stuff like this. You have to look like you’re barely trying.
‘Let’s go.’ He grabs Allan’s coke baggie off the sink. ‘Can I set you up for this?’
‘Keep it,’ says Allan, standing in the corner. He’s staring at a folding contraption, something he’s lowered from the wall. Allan squats, looks at the levers under it. ‘What the hell is this thing?’
‘It’s a change table,’ Benson says. ‘For babies.’
‘A baby can’t reach this high,’ says Allan.
‘It’s for the mothers.’
Allan shakes his head. ‘If you say so.’
Halfway back to the dance floor, Benson asks if they’re coming to the afterparty.
It’s news to Mike. ‘I thought this was the afterparty.’
Allan whistles. ‘Oh boy.’
Hours later, deep in the thick of it, Mike finds himself wandering around another part of Fantasyland. The afterparty is on the rooftop of a moulded fibreglass mountain, some giant prop for the log ride that towers over the rest of the park. At the summit, the mountain is partially cratered and open to the night sky; the maw paved with timber decking. Down inside, the afterparty rages. ‘Welcome to the mouth of the volcano,’ says some pissed idiot.
It’s a wild scene. Open kegs and a naked string quartet. Half-dressed hookers every which way. Flesh jiggling, loud laughing, some strange industrial sound from below, cranking away, gushing water. People fuck out in the open. Mike spots Sadie from the train getting fingered by a local footballer.
It’s getting late and it’s all pretty hazy to Mike.
Nothing feels real.
He spots something going on down the far end of the deck. A crowd stands around watching some guy dressed up as Ned Kelly in flagrante with Princess Di from Royaltyland. Mike spots two women standing off to the side of the spectacle, fully clothed. One of them—a bright redhead in a short black dress—has something in her hand. Mike’s not sure what it is, but it sparks something in him that cuts through the booze. He circles round. ‘What have you got there?’ he says.
The redhead smiles. ‘It’s just my smokes, darl,’ and she holds up her pack.
It’s not a brand Mike recognises. Up close, the woman is beautiful. Crisp blue eyes set against porcelain skin. She’s a little older than him: mid-thirties, maybe early forties in better light.
‘I’m Mike.’
The woman doesn’t give an inch. ‘How are you enjoying the party, Mike?’
‘Bit much for me, if I’m honest.’
‘You do look a bit hot and bothered.’
‘I am bothered. I’m here for work and, ah, I don’t feel much like working at the moment, let me tell you.’
‘Do you like my friend?’ says the redhead.
The woman beside her smiles.
‘She seems nice,’ says Mike. ‘Bit young for me.’
‘You like older women?’
Mike figures he should just go for it. ‘I think you’re the most beautiful one here.’
‘That’s very flattering,’ says the woman, taking a drag on her smoke.
‘It’s meant to be, but I’m not lying to you.’
‘I can see that,’ she says. ‘Oh, well.’ The redhead sighs, murmurs something to her companion, then she takes Mike by the hand, leading him away. They walk along the deck and then down a steel service stairway to a thin gangway that hugs the contour of the mountain. Around the way, out of sight, the redhead leads him to a secluded bench. Fantasyland sprawls out below, a half-moon in the clouds.
‘This is nice,’ says Mike.
‘Shut up.’
She unzips his fly.
The rest doesn’t take long.
When it’s over, the woman gets off him and straightens out her dress. She slips a missing shoe back on.
Mike takes a minute to recover. He’s still sitting there with his pants around his ankles when he hears a little click. He looks over and the woman has her cigarette packet held up to her face like a camera.
‘What’s that?’
‘Oh, darl, just a little souvenir. Nothing to worry about.’
And with that, she’s gone.