we’ve got no money,’ wailed Lemon. ‘We can’t support ourselves here.’
‘You can’t support yourselves with us either,’ said Chris. ‘So it simply comes down to whether we’d prefer you in the car or out of it.’
He raised his hand.
‘I say out.’
The others looked to Robbie, all being aware it was his car and that he therefore had the casting vote.
‘I’ll give youse a head job,’ said Lemon.
‘What?’ cried Tim, as Chris snorted beer through his nose.
‘I’ll give youse both a head job if you take us all the way to Ord City … and buy us some food and drink.’
‘I don’t want a head job,’ said Robbie, but Chris was laughing.
‘A Habal Tong head job,’ he laughed, ‘from a chick who’s reached the human pinnacle. I could really get into that.’
‘Lemon,’ objected Tim, but she glared him into silence.
The steak sandwiches arrived at the table and Chris launched into his with gusto, with Lemon and Tim watching every bite like dogs waiting for scraps. Robbie picked up his own feeling momentarily awkward, but the toast was hot and crisp and the steak so perfectly tender that he managed to forget about their passengers, until the haggling.
‘Okay,’ said Chris, ‘we’ll take you to Ord City for a head job … but that’s all.’
‘I don’t want a head job,’ repeated Robbie.
‘Food also,’ said Lemon.
‘What are her headies like?’ asked Chris, of Tim, who continued to stare at the table.
‘How would he know?’ laughed Lemon. ‘My HJs are the best.’
‘Alright,’ laughed Chris, ‘I’ll get you a packet of Twisties.’
‘I want a steak sandwich,’ said Lemon. ‘And a bourbs … ’
‘A ride and a packet of Twisties,’ insisted Chris. ‘Take it or leave it.’
‘Two packs.’
The deal was struck, with the further details that Chris was not allowed to touch her and it had to happen in the dark so he couldn’t watch her.
‘I do have my fucking dignity,’ insisted Lemon, one paw stuffed in a Twisties bag.
Robbie was more than a little embarrassed, mostly on Tim’s behalf, and when he arrived back at the table with three beers, Chris was too amused by the prospect of his HTHJ to notice or comment. Tim gratefully sipped his beer and muttered a voiceless thank you as Chris and Lemon started giggling, negotiating further small details of their transaction and clearly on much friendlier terms than they’d been just minutes before.
Chapter 10
Thirteen is Lucky
At 5.35 on Saturday afternoon, Conan walked up to Gate C of Rinehart Stadium. There were only a handful of people around, this far from kick-off, but in an hour or so the place would be a sea of yellow – with hundreds of FENG 9 shirts among the many thousands of fans.
Conan laughed at himself and shook his head. Life would have been so different if he’d just closed the library that day. Of course he’d replayed the incident asynchronously and had been able to follow the bloke a lot better when he’d not taken his eyes off him. But even then there was margin for error when the bloke had turned into a tunnel and joined with hundreds of other fans. The camera coverage hadn’t been perfect as he swung from a stairwell into the tunnel and the bloke’s appearance was so middle-Asian neutral. He did have a fairly distinctive triangular mole pattern on the part of his face that was visible, but after the tunnel there’d been no shot he could use for a close up. FENG 9 was long gone, with his download of the NBN Node specs.
Conan managed to dismiss that old problem to focus on the present. He’d had another fruitless day. His mother had called again to hassle him for money he didn’t have, and he’d tried to confront Loongy about the cleared out flat, but Loongy had just shrugged and said the case was declared closed. When Conan pressed the matter, Loongy had simply said,‘Why do you care, Tools? Fuck off back to Sydney and go for a ferry ride. Fuck off back to Sydney and buy real estate!’
‘Why the fuck was I sent up here if no one wants me to look into the case?’ he wondered, for the hundredth time. ‘And why did Ronny Kwai invite me to the football?’
At Gate C he was just behind a deeply sun-tanned couple, both in khaki shorts and Hawaiian shirts. They also asked to see Ronny Kwai and were asked for their names.
‘Jen Khataten and Richie Farr,’ said the young woman, who looked like she’d just stepped out of the pages of Vogue, despite her bogan chic attire.
‘Conan Tooley also,’ added Conan, to the beautifully lacquered Chinese girl with a clipboard, checking off names.
‘Come this way,’ she bowed to the three of them and they were ushered into a lift.
‘Jen and Richie?’ asked Conan, and they smiled at him.
‘Conan Tooley, but call me Tools.’
The lift moved so smoothly they were barely aware of it. Conan found himself staring at the woman and being a little jealous of the man. Conan would never get within coo-ee of such a stunner and, despite being inside a lift, left on his sunglasses to preclude an accusation of perving.
‘I hope you’re not perving, Tools,’ said Jen. Conan knew he’d blushed, but thankfully the lift had reached its destination, so further embarrassment was suspended.
They were received by yet another beautiful Chinese-looking girl in a similar outfit to her colleague downstairs and taken down a short corridor to a set of double doors which were open wide. Above the door was a golden plaque inscribed with “Private Suite A2 – Mr Ronald Kwai”.
Ronny Kwai himself could be heard laughing within and Conan felt his mood lifting. He had decided not to worry too much about the case, seeing as no one else was worried about it. He was just going to enjoy himself, and maybe flirt a little with Jen Khataten if he could get drunk enough to lose his inhibitions.
Conan was just behind the other two as they entered the large room and felt a different kind of jealousy as he made out the magnificence of the place. The room (or suite of rooms) was like a large city apartment, with a seated balcony overlooking the stadium, right on the halfway line. It was on the top level and like something Caesar might have owned if still swanning about in the twenty-first century.
‘How does a journalist afford this?’ wondered Conan as he stared about at the hors d’oeuvres, the sushi and cold seafood in trays of ice, the well-stocked bar and the army of white-jacketed wait-staff. In the centre of the room was a large, round dining table set for thirteen with white table cloths and gleaming silver. Even the light was expensive. There was some quality of the light that seemed to sparkle and glow with money and Conan knew he would never again rub so closely against the lives of the rich. Another reason to get stuck in and make a total cunt
