Good Money by J. M. Green Read Free Book Online Page B

around, no one would dare vault the gate and rampage around the building.
    Bowl-cut phoned upstairs while I hung around the foyer, studying the cop miscellany in a trophy cabinet. After a while, I sat on a bench and read a copy of yesterday’s Herald Sun . According to the weather forecast, it was rain and wind for Melbourne, with more snow expected on the mountains. Lake Mountain had opened its toboggan trails. Having scant feeling for snow, I turned to the celebrity news under the headline: EYE ON THE GLITERATI . My eye was drawn to a photo of a man and woman, arms around each other, both looking at a tall man with a moustache.
    â€¦ Prominent Perth socialite Clayton Brodtmann and his wife, Crystal, with South African mining tycoon Merritt Van Zyl appreciating the champagne at last night’s opening of the new Asian fusion restaurant at Crown, The Crouching Tiger …
    Mr Van Zyl was an odd fellow, judging from his outlandish, striped jacket and trilby. The moustache was circa 1970s Australian cricket team.
    I didn’t like the choice of name for the restaurant — Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon was in my list of top-five favourite movies; the Lord of the Rings trilogy, of course, took up the top three. I looked at Bowl-cut, he was staring at his computer screen. Just as I was considering leaving and trying my luck tomorrow, the security gate opened and she came strolling into the foyer. She wore a white shirt and navy slacks, and was kitted with her spray, cuffs, and revolver. I had to admit I was nervous to see her after all this time. She smiled and extended her hand. I nearly guffawed. Did she really expect us to shake hands?
    â€˜Chào bà,’ I said. ‘Chúc mừng năm mới.’
    She blinked; a crinkle appeared in the serene forehead. ‘It’s July.’
    â€˜Is it? Dodgy bloody calendar.’
    She snorted and dropped the cool act. ‘Happy New Year to you, too,’ she said, laughing. Not the gasping, desk-thumping, purple-faced fit of laughter my bad Vietnamese used to bring forth. Instead Phuong looked like she always did, like she lived on a diet of macrobiotic organic roughage and jogged ten kilometres a day. A complexion so radiant it made me physically ill.
    â€˜Coffee?’ Phuong nodded towards the café across the road.
    My headache tablets were wearing off; I was hungover, and buzzing, and lethargic all at the same time. There was a ringing in my ears and an odd tingling in my hands. More coffee would be ideal.
    The café was the size of a walk-in wardrobe, with little kid tables and stools. Phuong ordered lattes and the guy flicked the switch on a coffee grinder. In the tiny space we waited, side-by-side, listening to the grinding. Probably the thing to do was to make some observation of the weather or the footy or the price of microdermabrasion these days, but my small talk was backed up like a dodgy sewerage system.
    Phuong finally went with ‘How’s work?’
    â€˜Ah,’ I closed my eyes — it felt nice, I was pretty tired. ‘Okay.’
    At last the guy put two glasses on the counter. I fished in my bag, but Phuong shelled out. ‘We’re taking these upstairs,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring the glasses down later.’
    â€˜No worries, take your time.’ The guy practically curtsied at her.
    We went up in the lift, and I followed Phuong through a warren of partitioned workspaces to her cubicle. She patted the spare seat and I lowered my bottom onto it. By now, my vision was speckled, and either the air-conditioning was about to explode or I had developed tinnitus. ‘Nice office, at least you get a window.’
    â€˜Building’s already obsolete. We’re moving to a mega cop-shop in the Docklands. So I’m told.’
    â€˜Why’d you transfer from Footscray?’ I asked.
    â€˜Sat the test.’ Phuong flashed her inscrutable smile. ‘I’m with homicide.’
    I