we rejoined Royal Parade, Share finally said, “I take it that house was heritage-listed?”
“Governor LaTrobe once kept a mistress there,” I said.
She nodded. “So the Council wouldn’t even permit you to build a dog kennel in the backyard, let alone knock the whole place down and build....” She paused, trying to imagine the atrocity we must have planned. “Fifty-seven brick venereal units.”
“Eighteen units,” Mauricio said, offended. “Top of the range. Master bedroom with en suite sauna and walk-in robes. En suites for the other two bedrooms. Studio/study with sun roof. Security entrances standard. All fittings stainless steel or owners’ choice if bought off of the plan. Which saves on stamp duty, which isn’t getting any less pricey these days, you mark my words.”
“Good Christ. Criminal vandalism!”
“Inner city resurgence. Breathing life into urban decay.”
“Decay? Parkville?” She knew her real estate, did Share, as had everyone who’d prospered in Melbourne in the days of rampant financial lunacy and negative gearing. You might get more per square meter in patrician Toorak, but Parkville was still there near the top of the chart as a den of restorers and gold chip heritage bricks & mortar.
“Structurally unsound, the way it is now.” My former landlord tutted at the public risk he’d just averted. “A menace to passersby. Rise from the flames of destruction like a fee nix. That’s progress, Share.”
We were approaching the wrecked household, but the whole street was blocked by police cars, fire trucks, television crews. More flashing lights than sequins on a stripper’s bra. A uniformed constable tried to divert us, but I brandished my driver’s license complete with bona fide address.
“I live here, officer.”
“Shit, mate,” the cop said, taking in the number. “It’s your house. Be prepared for a shock.” He waved the Cobra up onto the footpath, where we left it standing with its emergency lights flashing, adding its twenty cents’ worth of glitter to the festivities. We proceeded on foot. The driving license got the three of us through two lines of tape with Do Not Cross written in endless sequence. Outside the caved-in front fence and gate a detective sergeant I knew of old was talking to some guys in hard hats. He turned, recognized me.
“Who the hell are you?” Detective Rebeiro said.
“Occupier,” I said. “This is the landlord.”
“Fuckinjesus H. Christ,” Mauricio screamed, “what cunt’s done this to me fuckin property there’s a fuckin Mack parked in the hall fuckin truckies they’re all on pills you know no fuckin sleep for forty-eight we’re talking fifty-six hours straight this cunt probably started in Brisbane and got lost south of Wang and thought he was parking the family wagon in the carport in fuckin Perth these guys are so off their faces I take it the cunt’s dead?”
“There’s no one in there,” Rebeiro said.
“Fuckin truck driving itself?”
“Wonders never cease,” the cop said.
§
“You hungry?” I asked Share. A grinding noise told me the whole front of the mansion wanted to lie down for the night. Half the old places in the street had been turned into moderately upscale offices, used only during the day and for some occasional skulking at night, but those occupied by accountants on the rise and abortionists on the decline were flooded with light from open doors. Half a dozen people stood on the footpath, or nervously in doorways. “Are you mad? I couldn’t eat if I was starving.” That didn’t make much sense to me, and perhaps not even to her, because she added, “What I need’s a stiff drink. Oh, and you can write me out a check for the sable.”
She took a deep breath for some more complaint, and I liked the effect.
“You can be sure my insurers will have the matter in hand on Monday morning,” I said reassuringly. “I’d offer you a double malt, but unfortunately the drinks cabinet has half the staircase on it.” Something rumbled, and more crashings sounded inside. A pasty faced local from two doors up bared his teeth in the flashing blue light, unable to decide whether to go back inside his own place and hope for the best or run for his life. “Let’s retrieve Mauricio and get a bite to eat. I’ll stand you a drink.”
“You are mad.” She peered this way and that. “Where the hell did I leave my car?”
“Probably on the far side of the Mack.” The huge truck’s arse stuck out into the street. She stalked away. I called, “Look, calm down, okay? Stick with us, we’ll go for a drink to steady your nerves, then I’ll bring you back to your car, okay?”
Mauricio had abandoned his conversation with the cop and was now staring straight into the bright lights of a television crew. “The vicious animal that done this has to be hunted down and prosecuted to the full vigor of the law and they’d better throw away the key before the dog ruins any more priceless Australian icons like my property here. It is typical of the gutless wonders of today’s modern criminal class that he runs away from the scene of the crime and doesn’t face the music like a man.”
“Was there anyone inside, Mr. Cimino?”
“Only my tenant, and he’s a harmless Fang Suet Master who doesn’t have an enemy in the world he’s a man of peace and tranquility it’s part of his philosophy.”
I took Share by the elbow. “Come on, we’ll leave Mauricio to it. There’s nothing for us to do here. We can come back for your car.”
For a second it looked as if Share was going to march straight up to the cop with a view to helping him with his enquiries. With bad grace, she allowed herself to be escorted back under the two strands of tape. Silently she opened the Cobra’s passenger door and slumped into the seat.
I had just bumped the car over the gutter and completed a three point turn when Mauricio slammed into the back compartment of the Cobra. “They won’t wait for daylight, they’ve got some heavy haulage tow truck coming,” he said, face theatrically black with rage in case any of the cops were watching, tone creamy with satisfaction. “You won’t be sleeping there tonight, Purdue. I hope you’ve made arrangements.”
I turned my head, muttered directly into his ear, “Shut up, for fuck’s sake.” He ferreted under the back of my seat, fished out his gun from under my leather jacket and casually disappeared it under his suit coat. “Christ,” I said with a certain bitterness, “that was thoughtful of you.”
“Well, I couldn’t very well cart the thing around in front of the cops, could I? C’mon, what are you hanging around for? I could eat a horse.”
“He could probably arrange that for you,” Share said witheringly. I thought, If only she knew.
The cop let me through, and I drove back into Royal Parade, headed north. “No, they still don’t serve horsemeat to humans in Melbourne,” I said. “Raw fish, yes. Anyone fancy sushi? Sashimi? With a bowl or two of hot saki? Just what you need to soothe the nerves after your house has been demolished by a raving lunatic.”
“You’re going the wrong way,” Share said. “The best Japanese is in East Melbourne, Albert Street, opposite the Fitzroy Gardens.”
“That’s
