beautiful child in the bathroom in the sky, her palms open, her neck broken, pulled back and back and back until the man behind her gained the satisfaction he sought.
Lizzie. She looked like Lizzie.
Who was seeing to Lizzie? Not her mother, her mother was feeding a film crew somewhere. Where? What had Corin said? He didn’t listen properly to family things.
‘Certainly find women dead in alleys, minister,’ said Villani.
‘Oh yes,’ said Barry.
‘Druggy sluts,’ said Orong. ‘Good riddance.’
‘Can I tempt you, gentlemen?’ said a girl penguin. She offered a silver tray of tiny puffed pastry balls on toothpicks. ‘Blue swimmer crab with
foie gras en croute,’
she said. ‘But if you’ve got seafood issues, I’ll…’
The minister took two. Gillam and Barry did the same. Villani took one. They would be four dollars a pop.
Orong added champagne to the puff in his mouth, chewed, looked around. The penguin was close.
‘More, sir?’ she said.
‘Yeah,’ said Orong.
He put his glass on her tray and popped puffs into his mouth—one, two, three, four, five, he collected toothpicks. Mouth full, he said, ‘So anyway, you’ve acted responsibly over the Prosilio matter. The premier’s pleased, I can tell you that.’
Without looking at the penguin, Orong held up his toothpicks, a delicate fence between thumb and forefinger. She took them impassively, surgically, put them on her salver.
‘French,’ he said, eyes on Villani. ‘Not the local muck. In a clean glass. And bring the steak thingies, the Wagyu.’
‘Sir,’ she said.
‘You following me, inspector?’ said Orong.
Villani knew why he was there, what was at stake for him, how he should behave in the presence of this shoddy little arsehole, a nothing, no talents, just a political creature who knew how to slime around, how to get the numbers, how to suck up to those who could advance him, screw those who couldn’t, how to claim credit, duck responsibility.
‘Closely, minister,’ he said. ‘Balance.’
‘Balance is the key,’ said Gillam.
‘Oh, definitely,’ said Barry. ‘Balance.’
‘That’s good,’ said Orong, wiped his lips. ‘The boss’s got a saying. Can’t lead unless you can follow. Can’t give orders unless you can take them.’
Villani thought of the people he’d taken orders from. Bob Villani’s army life, had he taken orders from dickheads and arselickers like this man? Did they have them? Was the army different? Was there another Bob Villani, a servile Bob?
‘Being looked after, minister, gentlemen?’ A big man with dense silver hair combed back, he tugged at his double cuffs, small ruby cufflinks.
Orong gleamed. ‘Clinton, yeah, very nice, great. Listen, you know Dave Gillam, Mike Barry…’
‘I certainly do,’ said the man. ‘But I don’t think I…’
‘Stephen Villani, head of Homicide,’ said Barry. ‘Meet Clinton Hulme.’
‘Steve, good to meet you,’ said Hulme, soft handshake. ‘I feel very safe here. So many policemen.’
‘Clinton’s CEO of Concordat Holdings,’ said Barry. ‘Max Hendry’s company. Our hosts.’
‘Just one of them, please,’ said Hulme. ‘This consortium’s so big only Max knows everyone.’
A soft drum roll, a plump man on the small stage, wired for sound, behind him his image on a huge screen. Villani knew he was once a television star, a game-show host perhaps. The amplified voice said, ‘Ladies and gentleman, good evening and welcome. I’m Kim Hogarth representing the AirLine Consortium.’
Through the crowd, Villani could see television crews, still photographers.
‘A great pleasure today to welcome so many people who serve our great city and our great state,’ the man said. ‘And at such a wonderful venue, the Hawksmoor Gallery at Persius.’
Applause, canned.
‘I’d like to offer a special, special welcome to the premier and his ministers and their partners, the leader of the Opposition and her colleagues and their partners,’ said
Lizzie. She looked like Lizzie.
Who was seeing to Lizzie? Not her mother, her mother was feeding a film crew somewhere. Where? What had Corin said? He didn’t listen properly to family things.
‘Certainly find women dead in alleys, minister,’ said Villani.
‘Oh yes,’ said Barry.
‘Druggy sluts,’ said Orong. ‘Good riddance.’
‘Can I tempt you, gentlemen?’ said a girl penguin. She offered a silver tray of tiny puffed pastry balls on toothpicks. ‘Blue swimmer crab with
foie gras en croute,’
she said. ‘But if you’ve got seafood issues, I’ll…’
The minister took two. Gillam and Barry did the same. Villani took one. They would be four dollars a pop.
Orong added champagne to the puff in his mouth, chewed, looked around. The penguin was close.
‘More, sir?’ she said.
‘Yeah,’ said Orong.
He put his glass on her tray and popped puffs into his mouth—one, two, three, four, five, he collected toothpicks. Mouth full, he said, ‘So anyway, you’ve acted responsibly over the Prosilio matter. The premier’s pleased, I can tell you that.’
Without looking at the penguin, Orong held up his toothpicks, a delicate fence between thumb and forefinger. She took them impassively, surgically, put them on her salver.
‘French,’ he said, eyes on Villani. ‘Not the local muck. In a clean glass. And bring the steak thingies, the Wagyu.’
‘Sir,’ she said.
‘You following me, inspector?’ said Orong.
Villani knew why he was there, what was at stake for him, how he should behave in the presence of this shoddy little arsehole, a nothing, no talents, just a political creature who knew how to slime around, how to get the numbers, how to suck up to those who could advance him, screw those who couldn’t, how to claim credit, duck responsibility.
‘Closely, minister,’ he said. ‘Balance.’
‘Balance is the key,’ said Gillam.
‘Oh, definitely,’ said Barry. ‘Balance.’
‘That’s good,’ said Orong, wiped his lips. ‘The boss’s got a saying. Can’t lead unless you can follow. Can’t give orders unless you can take them.’
Villani thought of the people he’d taken orders from. Bob Villani’s army life, had he taken orders from dickheads and arselickers like this man? Did they have them? Was the army different? Was there another Bob Villani, a servile Bob?
‘Being looked after, minister, gentlemen?’ A big man with dense silver hair combed back, he tugged at his double cuffs, small ruby cufflinks.
Orong gleamed. ‘Clinton, yeah, very nice, great. Listen, you know Dave Gillam, Mike Barry…’
‘I certainly do,’ said the man. ‘But I don’t think I…’
‘Stephen Villani, head of Homicide,’ said Barry. ‘Meet Clinton Hulme.’
‘Steve, good to meet you,’ said Hulme, soft handshake. ‘I feel very safe here. So many policemen.’
‘Clinton’s CEO of Concordat Holdings,’ said Barry. ‘Max Hendry’s company. Our hosts.’
‘Just one of them, please,’ said Hulme. ‘This consortium’s so big only Max knows everyone.’
A soft drum roll, a plump man on the small stage, wired for sound, behind him his image on a huge screen. Villani knew he was once a television star, a game-show host perhaps. The amplified voice said, ‘Ladies and gentleman, good evening and welcome. I’m Kim Hogarth representing the AirLine Consortium.’
Through the crowd, Villani could see television crews, still photographers.
‘A great pleasure today to welcome so many people who serve our great city and our great state,’ the man said. ‘And at such a wonderful venue, the Hawksmoor Gallery at Persius.’
Applause, canned.
‘I’d like to offer a special, special welcome to the premier and his ministers and their partners, the leader of the Opposition and her colleagues and their partners,’ said
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