MIKE GETS A CALL from Jack the Bagman at 12.30 pm. ‘Do you still want that dance with the devil, son? Because Deputy Commissioner Sorensen is going to be down your way this afternoon. He’s having a few drinks at the Silver Fish for a friend’s birthday. Maybe you want to pop by?’
‘You going to be there, Jack?’
‘You never know your luck. Just remember what I said, be on your best behaviour. And you tell that minister of yours that he owes me one. That’s the only reason we’re talking about any of this.’
‘I take it I checked out?’
‘That you did,’ says Jack. ‘I gotta say, I’m actually a little impressed. To a man, they all told me the same thing.’
‘Yeah, what’s that?’
‘That you’re a devious little prick. I hope it’s true, knowing where you’re headed.’ Jack hangs up.
Mike immediately gets back on the line, punching numbers.
The God Minister answers. No secretary, no assistant. Mike briefs him.
The minister huffs at the mention of Jack and the Queensland Police. ‘Use every means possible.’
‘I will,’ says Mike.
‘I’ll take care of you if it turns ugly.’
The Silver Fish restaurant is on the fifth floor of an Esplanade high-rise down on the Strip. It’s upmarket: tan tablecloths and orange carpet. Today, hot sun blasts in through the wall-sized windows, barely restrained by the aircon. The place is almost empty. Recession vacancies, all the way.
The lack of customers doesn’t stop the knob at the front counter asking Mike for his name twice. Mike coughs it up and gets nowhere. Not on the list. The knob scurries off and returns with Allan Watts.
‘Well, well, well,’ says Allan, making a show of considering Mike. ‘Far be it from me to turn away God’s only son. Come on, then.’
They make their way through the tables.
‘Is this one of your spots?’ asks Mike.
If Allan hears it, he doesn’t bother answering. ‘You better not embarrass me with these fellas. Just a warning, they’re in a fucking mood.’
Allan takes him to a secluded corner table. Seated around it are a dozen men in suits, all wearing them like plainclothes coppers. As he seats him, Allan makes introductions, just the lower-level stooges. Mike feels a short, sharp flicker of fear creep in. At the end of the table are the big boys, in the flesh: Police Commissioner Terry Lewis, deep in conversation with a young male aide. Next to Lewis is Inspector Harry Bower—known to everyone in Brisbane as the Old Bloke, a notorious CIB powerbroker—and across from Bower is Deputy Commissioner Arthur Sorensen.
A hand clamps down on Mike’s shoulder. ‘What a nice surprise,’ says a familiar voice. Mike jolts around to find Jack the Bagman grinning at him. ‘Didn’t know you were in town, mate,’ he says, with a wink. He leans in, beer-breath in Mike’s ear. ‘Here we go, Mister Big Shot.’
Mike laughs, like he’s hearing a joke from an old friend.
‘Softly, softly,’ says Jack, and moves on.
After a round of beers and prawn cocktails, one of the nearby detectives swaps seats to get next to Mike. ‘We’ve met before, right?’ he says. Mike has already forgotten the man’s name, but he’s about Mike’s age and looks a little out of his depth as well. ‘I think it was at a party in West End,’ the detective says.
Mike flags down a waiter and motions for another. ‘Did I behave myself?’
‘Not one bit. We were on the …’ and the detective taps his nose.
‘Right.’ Mike leaves it alone. He tries to join another conversation, but the other cops around him have absolutely no interest in him. They mainly talk about casework. They’re all bent out of shape about the Commonwealth Games. The city is awash with drunken brawls courtesy of the temporary late-night drinking hours. There’s road closures and the Aboriginal protests. As the lunch lurches on, beers become bourbons and the social order loosens a bit. The men stand up and move around.
Mike spots Jack talking to Sorensen and Commissioner Lewis and makes his move. He sidles up. They all give him the nod, polite enough, but nothing more.
‘Jack here tells me you’re working for the minister?’ says Commissioner Lewis.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What does he have you doing, apart from spying on me?’ Lewis says gently, all smiles.
Mike laughs and takes a quick look at the other two. ‘Well, ah …’
Sorensen leers, gorging on the awkwardness of it.
Jack plays dead.
‘It’s all right, son,’ says Lewis. ‘We’ve all been there.’
The feigned kindness makes it worse.
Fighting every urge to back away, Mike swallows a mouthful of beer and does the opposite. He steps closer to the trio and comes right out with it. ‘The minister wants Fantasyland back on track. I don’t know why. But he has me down here, sniffing around the coast to help out.’
‘And it brought you to us?’ says the commissioner.
‘Yes, sir, it did. All roads lead to Rome.’
Lewis looks away, giving Sorensen his turn. ‘Tell me more about these roads?’
‘Maybe it’s all talk?’ says Mike.
‘Maybe it is,’ says the commissioner.
Jack points across the room. ‘Sorry to interrupt, fellas, but …’
A girl in a gold lamé bikini weaves her way towards them. In her hands, she has a large brown cake with dark chocolate icing. The thing is shaped like a police truncheon.
Commissioner Lewis looks on serenely. ‘Pity the premier isn’t here. He’d have loved this.’