The sky was ablaze with weird geometric shapes in brilliant colours, vaguely reminiscent of a cubist painting. Somewhere in the Domain or the gardens surrounding the Museum of Modern Art, lasers or other devices of illusionists and magicians were creating shifting pictures on the clouds, as the human interest swarmed in through the portico. The women were in full plumage. The invitation had read ‘Party’, not ‘Cocktails’ or ‘Reception’, and the starting time was eight, rather than six-thirty or seven. There weren’t so many real parties nowadays-maybe there’d be dancing, mixing, darkness, happenings, scandals, gossip… In the forecourt, beautiful young women in dinner jackets were strolling about with peacocks on leads and a tall, muscled black man, also in a dinner jacket but with no shirt, just a bare chest and a white bow tie, stood motionless with a brightly coloured parrot on his shoulder. Strange, discordant, but not unpleasant, music wafted through the evening air from time to time as the guests queued to enter, and there was a disturbing, musky, vaguely sexual fragrance around. Waiters flitted about the queue with trays bearing champagne flutes and martini glasses filled with a milky viscous substance. When they were asked what the cocktails contained, they just smiled their pretty smiles and shrugged, as they’d been trained, and watched the women take the cocktails anyway, giggling nervously.
By the time the guests had entered the Biddulph Gallery there was expectation, almost danger, in the air.
The new gallery was pristine. Not a single picture interrupted the stark white walls as they swept up to the domed roof with massive skylights. The only adornment was the inscription THE BIDDULPH GALLERY on the entrance wall, not quite as high as it had been when Archie Speyne had made his pitch, and not in the black lettering of the dummy run. The bold sans serif script was built up with gold leaf-less obvious but so much more elegant. Although wisps of smoke whirled lazily through the vast space from time to time, not like the substance from a theatre smoke machine but more ethereal, almost like breath on a cold day, the gleam of the Biddulph name glinted always above the carefully groomed heads.
Everyone was here. Seven hundred and fifty people, everyone hand-picked, the crcme de la crcme, a perfect potpourri of business and political leaders, arts scions, artists, socialites, actors, a sprinkling of legendary sports figures-not too many because they never dressed well- and just the right dash of wankers. No one had declined, no one. Well, those who had were nobodies now. When the invitations went out-unusual in themselves, just a card with the whole of one side covered with a full-colour depiction of a strange painting labelled ‘The Tiger, Franz Marc 1912 (Stadtische Galerie im Lenbachhaus)’, and on the other, in gold, the briefest details of the party, people were clamouring to get on the list, ringing Archie Speyne, the chairman of the museum, Mac, anyone who’d ever been connected with HOA. Women were berating their husbands with, ‘I’m telling you, John, if you can’t get us to that party, after all I’ve done for this city, after what you’ve done for-whatever, we’re finished. I’m not helping anyone anymore, I don’t care who they are, they can stick all their charities and museums and whatever wherever they want. That’s it.’
It was difficult to find a target to aim all this venom at. Archie said, truthfully, that he wasn’t in control of the list. Mac said, mainly truthfully, that it was the museum’s party, not his. The invitees smiled, smugly, and refrained from asking friends and acquaintances if they were attending until at least two minutes into any conversation.
Mac stood at the far end of the gallery, champagne flute in hand, and gazed around with deep satisfaction. Who would have thought old tight arse Laurence Treadmore could get together a show quite like this. Sure he’d hired someone, but at least he’d known who to hire. Mac would have to look after him. Christ, he was already looked after well enough. Probably even creaming something off the top of this event. But no-he was too smart for that, was Sir Laurence. His arrangements would be buried deep where no one would ever find them.
Mac winced inwardly as he felt Edith’s hand on his arm. Not because it was Edith’s hand, but because it reminded him that Bonny wasn’t here. There were occasions and there were occasions. One didn’t hide these things but nor did you flaunt them when the conclave of wives was in session. It would cost him plenty. So what. He was already enjoying his night immensely. He had no idea what was about to unfold and he didn’t care. It felt right. It had the makings.
Mac felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find the wide smile of Maxwell Newsome a few centimetres from his face. ‘Fantastic, Mac, absolutely brilliant. Betty was just saying she hasn’t had so much fun for years and the party hasn’t even started yet.’
Mac shrugged a humble shrug. ‘Evening Max, Betty. It’s not really my party, you know, I’m just a guest. Ask Edith.’
There was little point in asking Edith, as everyone knew, since Edith seldom spoke at public functions other than to laugh and nod, which had to count as speech. Maxwell Newsome smiled a knowing smile. ‘Sure Mac, we believe you. If the museum board could stir themselves to put on a show like this, we’d be here all the time. It’s usually cheap wine and sixties-style savouries, not all-this.’ He gestured at the myriad waiters sliding in and out of knots of people with trays of tiny morsels. Everything was tiny, Mac thought, even the waiters. The lamb chops were barely the size of a forefinger. The bloody lamb must have been slaughtered three weeks after it was born. Bastards. Still, they were terrific lamb chops. There were tiny hamburgers barely bigger than a thumbnail, tiny lobster pieces on tiny blinis, delicious wee morsels dropping down surgically tightened throats all over the Biddulph Gallery.
Mac drew Maxwell Newsome to one side, leaving the wives to chat. ‘Max, a moment if you don’t mind.’
‘On a night like this, Mac, no one could deny you anything.’ He winked. ‘And with the rising share price, why would anyone want to?’
‘Yes, that’s what I want to talk to you about. I’m thinking of selling a few shares, to balance up the portfolio.’
‘Hmm. It never looks good, Mac. A director. A major shareholder. Tends to spook the market a bit, just when everything is back in splendid order. You see what I mean.’
‘That’s why I’d prefer it wasn’t public-to protect the interests of the other shareholders.’
‘But you know the ASX rules. As a director, you have to advise the market immediately when you buy or sell. You don’t even get much grace these days. They’re very strict about that. And the newspapers publish those trades each week. There’s no way around it.’
‘I know the goddamn rules, Max, but how does that help anyone? They’re stupid rules, made for shonky types and start-up companies. This is HOA, one of the biggest companies in Australia, and I’ll only be selling a small percentage of my holding. The shares aren’t even in my name-some company owns them. We don’t want the share price to drop for everyone else just because I’ve sold a few shares, do we?’
Maxwell Newsome stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘It’s really not a question for me, Mac. The individual director is responsible for reporting the sales. Of course, if you don’t control the company that owns the shares, you’re not required to report. I’m sure Laurence could advise you.’
‘Naturally I always value his counsel. But I wouldn’t want any leaks from any other source.’
‘I’ll handle the matter personally, Mac. No need to worry there. But I must stress the responsibility to report is yours.’
‘And I’ll stick to the letter of the law, Max, you know that. Come on, let’s join the girls before they get completely smashed.’
It was a night for intimate and productive conversations. Jack and Louise stood quietly in a corner on their own watching the passing parade. ‘It’s rather nice to be out, lover boy. Invitations have been rather thin on the ground lately.’
It was true, Jack thought. They used to sit together after dinner with their diaries open comparing dates, deciding where to go, where not to go. There was still a wad of corporate invitations to boxes for sporting events or nights at the opera, but few to the real society bashes. Louise hated business commitments, hated being invited by strangers who she knew had no interest in her, or Jack really, except to fill a space at a corporate table and try to grease their way into some HOA contract. A tall good-looking man in a beautifully cut dinner jacket approached.
‘Good evening, Jack. And this must be Louise.’ Jack shook hands. ‘Darling, this is the Pope-I mean Clinton… ah, John, Normile.’
Louise raised her eyebrows. ‘Good heavens, Mr Normile, you are a man of many names. Are they aliases, do you change them by days of the week, or were your parents just a little confused?’
‘I think it’s Jack who’s confused. John is fine and it’s a great pleasure to meet you.’
She liked him immediately. The room seemed full of people with angles, with Janus faces and cubist poses like the shapes projected on the walls. This man stood straight and square, looked her in the eyes when he talked, not away to see what he was missing somewhere else, and his smile was distributed evenly across the mouth, unlike the lopsided smile of sarcasm or contempt. Jack was called away by a beefy, red-faced business type, leaving Louise and the Pope together.
‘I understand you’ve been a great help to my husband.’
‘Not yet, I’m afraid, but we’re hoping to be.’
‘Who’s we, Mr Normile?’
‘Just some friends. We’re trying to keep it all low key and anonymous.’
She looked at him with her direct, uncompromising stare. ‘You need to understand we work as a team when the chips are down. Sometimes I step forward if he steps back, you understand?’
He held her gaze and, without realising it, reached out one hand to also hold her arm, as if to steady her. ‘I do.’
‘Then there might come a time when you or someone else will need to call me. And I’ll need to know everything. Play your Boys’ Own games in the meanwhile, but not when the time comes.’
They could see Jack returning to them and the Pope released her arm gently and moved away. She watched his tall spare figure weave its way through the crowd with a nod here, a wave there, as Jack reached her side. ‘He’s a good man to have on your side.’
Louise smiled. ‘Yes. When this is all over, I’d love to have dinner with him and his wife. Does he have a wife?’
‘I think so. At least he had one. He’s always been a bit of a mystery. And in the group we don’t really talk about our personal lives.’
They moved from their corner into the melee, arm in arm. As they reached the centre of the throbbing mass, the unusually excited voice of Archie Speyne could just be heard over the hubbub. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. Friends. Ladies and gentlemen.’
It was to no avail. Silencing this crowd, fuelled with adrenalin cocktails, would require more than Archie’s entrails. A cell phone rang in someone’s pocket. Then another, and another, and within a few seconds scores of tones and tinny music grabs and feeble fake bells were bleating all over the room. People began to laugh and fumble to switch off the offending gadgets, but the number added to the cacophony outgrew the few that were stilled, and as conversation ceased and at last subsided the buzz of the electronic locusts grew louder. A spotlight now framed Archie and the small round podium he was standing on rose a couple of metres higher. Suddenly, a massive amplified bell tolled and, as it did so, all the cell phones stopped their buzzing simultaneously. There was silence for a moment, and then scattered applause.
‘Who said you can’t silence an art crowd?’ Archie waited for more applause and laughter and, unusually, it came. ‘Are we going to ruin this night with speeches and auctions and other boring function features? We are not. This is not a function. This is a happening. This is the Biddulph Gallery.’
As the last words rang out in Archie’s most dramatic tones, he disappeared into blackness. The spotlight and every other light in the space was extinguished. There was complete darkness for a few seconds and only the weird music swirled louder and louder around the bodies packed together in their designer gowns and La Perla underwear. Lasered shapes reappeared on the walls, merging and drifting apart and then, unexpectedly, coalescing into the image vaguely recalled from the invitation. The crowd could feel rather than see the wisps of smoke thickening around them as the music morphed into more natural sounds, birds perhaps, or the wild calls of some unknown beast, or running water, or was that a roar or the snarl of a predator close by, in the room almost, disturbing, almost frightening, and yet amusing, because this was a party.
A shaft of light strobed into a section of the gallery where, strangely, there appeared to be no people. A shape moved into the flickering light, a human shape, a female shape surely, almost feline in its careful stepping, but difficult to decipher in the gloom. There was something in its hand, a rope, a lead of some kind, yes it was leading something, an animal perhaps was slinking in behind. My God what was it-now, you could see it, see the great black stripes, see the eyes, almost the whiskers, some said later they saw the whiskers, but it was there, the tiger, there was no doubt. There were gasps, squeals, nervous laughter, no screams, yet, but they were coming, they were building-and then a second of complete blackness followed by a blinding light. The dresses and dinner jackets almost stumbled into one another for a moment as dazzled eyes tried to refocus. There was no woman, there was no tiger. Just dresses and dinner jackets. But there had been, hadn’t there? They’d all seen it-or had they? Applause and laughter and chatter broke out around the room and slowly they began to focus on the small but brilliantly illuminated painting in the middle of the main wall. It was only about a metre square but it was unmistakably The Tiger by Franz Marc.
Mac was as stunned by it all as anyone, maybe more so.
People were wandering by almost shyly, as if he were holding court, saying ‘How amazing,’ ‘Congratulations, great party,’ ‘No one else could do it,’ and he was nodding modestly, not speaking, just letting the parade of supplicants pass by. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find the Prime Minister of Australia standing beside his knight of the oblong table, Sir Laurence Treadmore.
‘Great night, Mac. Wonderful gesture of yours. We need more of this sort of thing. Philanthropy, I mean, not parties-although a few more like this wouldn’t go astray. Beats rubber chicken at the bowling club, which is what I usually get.’
The scent of power and success, of perfumed women, of the perfect white gardenia on Sir Laurence’s black silk lapel, the musk of rising sap-it was a heady potion Mac knew well, usually used to his advantage, but tonight he was reeling from its effect just a degree or two. He was about to click into gear with a witty response to the Prime Minister who, although he’d never had a real job, had risen effortlessly through the political arm of the labour movement and then into local government, state parliament, and on to his present comfortable seat, who was a crass idiot in Mac’s view, a hostage of the unions, committed to taking from hardworking successful people and giving to layabouts who’d never worked a day in their lives, but was nevertheless the Prime Minister. Before Mac could fashion his witticism, the crass idiot spoke again.
‘Was that really a tiger? Might get me in terrible trouble with the animal liberationists or women against fur coats or something if it was.’
The Prime Minister peered down at Mac, smiling, but not so much. He was a tall, handsome man, especially in his own opinion, with a dense shot of crinkled black hair that gleamed unnaturally in the harsh lights.
Mac stammered a response. ‘I’m honestly not sure. It’s not really my party. I mean it is, but I didn’t organise it. Well not all of it-not that bit.’ How to take credit for the great night without accepting responsibility for any difficulties had Mac’s stick cleft very deeply. ‘Laurence did some of it. He might know.’
Sir Laurence dodged this pass as neatly as if it had never been thrown. ‘Mysteries of the night. I’m sure no one will ever know the answers. Everyone here will be much more interested in your new foreign investment policy, Prime Minister.’
There was, in fact, no one in the gallery who was even vaguely interested in such a policy at this moment, other than the Prime Minister, who was always fascinated by his own pronouncements and assumed a similar reaction from other citizens, and Sir Laurence, who never raised any issue without a clear purpose. It was, he believed, discourteous to do so. Mac knew he should be interested, but was still struggling to remember why as the Prime Minister spoke again.
‘Yes. Could strengthen our hand enormously. Financial markets don’t like it so much, but how many votes do they control? What do you think, Mac? Good for the insurance industry?’
It was coming, the cogs were turning and clicking, he just had to stall for a moment and it would be there, Mac knew it. The answers always came, it just took a few seconds longer these days.
‘Mac’s probably too polite to say it, Prime Minister, but it has always seemed unfair that some of our leading competitors, being foreign companies, do not have to comply with all the regulations we do.’ Sir Laurence turned to Mac as the novice turns to the guru.
‘Well, that’s true. I’m not one to complain. We’re happy to take on anyone. Certainly not afraid of fair competition. And happy to comply with all the regulations the government thinks are necessary to protect people. After all, that’s what we do in insurance, isn’t it. Protect people.’ They all nodded wisely. ‘But everyone should be subject to the same rules. You know, a fair go. That’s Australia.’ Mac wondered fleetingly if he had gone too far with the ‘That’s Australia’, but he’d forgotten he was talking to a politician.
‘Absolutely. We all want the old cliche, the level playing field. I like old cliches, actually. People understand them. So Mac, why don’t you get your people to put something together and send it to my chief of staff. We don’t want our honest citizens at the mercy of foreign pirates, do we?’ A wink accompanied this remark and then, immediately at its disappearance, a frown. ‘Private remark, not to be repeated. I must go and do my duty, the only opening I’ve ever done where I don’t have to make a speech. Just pull a lever or something apparently. Good to see you, Mac, Laurence. Keep up the good work.’
As he strode off into the crowd with his minders trailing, Mac and Sir Laurence watched thoughtfully, respectfully, determined to indeed keep up the good work, whatever that might be. Finally, Mac turned to his chairman. ‘Laurence, I have to thank you. You’ve absolutely excelled yourself. I’ve never seen anything like this. I don’t think anyone in Sydney has. It’ll be talked about for years. How did you do it?’
Sir Laurence was beaming, although low beam was the height of his illumination. ‘Thank you, Mac. I’m delighted you’re enjoying it, but I assure you there’s a great deal more to come. I, of course, am merely the facilitator. I’ll introduce you to the woman who organised most of it later. I think you might have met her once before.’
Sir Laurence wandered away as Mac was claimed by more admirers and there, champagne flute in hand, eyes glassed over (but not, tonight, by the champagne, more by the wonder of what she’d created), was the very woman he’d been referring to.
‘Popsie, my dear woman, what a triumph. You’ll be famous once it leaks out, as these things inevitably do, that you had a hand in organising this.’
There was no chance of it leaking out that she had ‘had a hand’ in organising the party as Popsie Trudeaux knew very well, since she’d already informed everyone that she’d talked to, which was a great number of people, some of whom had turned out to be waiters, and one of whom was obviously the Prime Minister’s security man since he was wearing an earpiece and couldn’t hear her, although she was talking very loudly into his other ear, that she was the sole driving force behind every single facet of this mind-blowing, once-in-a-lifetime event.
‘I’m just so grateful to you, Laurence, for asking me to do it. I mean, I’ve only ever done my own parties, and not one of those for a while, so you were very brave to give me the job. I knew I could blow them all away, but how did you know?’
The thin mouth curled delicately. ‘You just trust people. Pick the right person and trust them.’
‘I don’t know how I can ever repay you. It’s been such an exciting experience.’
‘Dear lady, you don’t have to repay me. And besides, I think your experience is just starting. Everyone’s going to want you and only you to do their parties after this. You could build a real business. If you want to, of course. I realise money isn’t relevant, but I can see you might enjoy the challenge.’
Popsie thought she might. She was almost certain she would. Archie Speyne had already offered her a contract for all the museum’s functions, and one of the Prime Minister’s people, not the one with the earpiece, had asked for her card. Laurence was right, they’d all want her. Oh, to be wanted, and to be paid for it.
‘I’m terribly grateful, Laurence. I promise I won’t forget it.’
‘Please, my dear, we all help one another where we can. Now I’m sure you have more surprises in store for us all, so I shall just drift away.’
And drift away he did. Popsie followed his path, wondering. Why had he taken a risk on her? He’d always been distant with her before, polite but distant. And then this solid gold gift. Who cared? She’d made it her own and now she could fuck the whole town anytime she wanted.
Maroubra peered nervously through the shrubbery at the Botanic Gardens. He didn’t like gardens, their neatness, their artificiality, their suggestion of rules, of places to walk and places not. He liked the bush, where tracks appeared because animals had found a path to water or because the ground fell evenly for padded feet. The only cut grass should be on ovals where rugby or cricket were played, where rules were necessary so crafty people could break them with a cuff to the ear or an elbow on the stomach. But no eye gouging or biting. And definitely no fingers in orifices where they didn’t belong, like that disgusting rugby league oaf had done a few years ago. Many disgusting oafs played rugby league, whereas gentlemen, like Maroubra and his son Gordie and various other men of character, only played rugby union. Somehow he felt the eyes on the back of his neck and he turned with a start to find the Pope a metre away.
‘I fucking told you none of that Mafioso crap with your fucking lowlife mates. I told you everything had to be clean, kosher. Again and again. How many fucking times do I have to tell you?’
The Pope threw a newspaper down on the park bench, but Maroubra didn’t look at it. He’d never heard the Pope swear before. He always spoke directly, definitely, and never with a vocabulary that was anything but specific and spare.
‘It wasn’t us, I swear to God. I heard it on the radio just before I got your text. None of my people were in it. No way.’
The Pope remained in attack mode. ‘Coincidences aren’t my thing. Here we are searching around for stuff on Mac Biddulph, very specific stuff that’s not in the average file drawer, here you have a brief from me to get it, then someone breaks into the Biddulph home while he’s at the party of the year and it’s not you?’ Maroubra returned the angry stare in kind. ‘Okay. I’ll accept you didn’t order it, but obviously one of your people got overzealous. Who the hell are they all, anyway?’
‘You don’t want to know. And no one got excited. I checked the lot on the way here. We’re not involved. One hundred per cent.’
The Pope searched his face, nodded slowly and held out his hand. ‘I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have doubted you, but-Christ, what does it mean?’
Maroubra shook the hand. ‘No problem, mate. When I heard it this morning, I thought the same thing- someone’s jumped the fence.’
They sat together and read through the newspaper story. On the front page was a large photo of Mac and the Prime Minister accompanied by a gushing story on the party that had run in all the editions-only this late edition had a small box on the breakin. According to the scant details, nothing appeared to have been taken.
‘That’s why I thought it was you.’ The Pope folded the paper. ‘When it said there was no real burglary.’
‘There was; they took a computer and a printer, but left the more valuable stuff lying around everywhere.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Friends. You don’t want to know. But it definitely wasn’t anything other than pros looking for the same sort of stuff we’d be after.’
They stared out at the harbour for a while.
‘But we’re supposed to be the only ones looking. We’re running the game. Mac’s our target. Who the hell else is out there?’
Maroubra shrugged. ‘How can I know? You tell me the parts you want to tell me. I don’t know where they fit in the jigsaw and I don’t want to.’
The Pope closed his eyes, tried to see the patterns in the red-black. He was a chess player, he could see patterns before they formed. He could see where the pieces would rest before they arrived at their destinations, the positions people would take before they realised themselves. It was the skill of his life-not just of his business success, but his whole life. When he was a young boy, nine or ten, the chessboard had become a defining world of challenge, of fascination, of intellectual stimulation and, not unimportantly, of conquest. He learned from his grandfather. They would work together in the terraced vegetable garden that sustained the old man in his declining years, not with vitamins and minerals, but with the nourishment of usefulness. His grandfather would weed and prune and mound the soil, and he would follow with a hessian bag full of dead leaves and cuttings and the flat cane basket for the picked crop. When the basket was full and they were sitting together with ginger beer gazing contentedly at the neatly balanced pile of carrots and leeks and crisp pea pods, the gnarled old hand would hug his shoulder and the voice he loved would say, ‘Keep the wolf from the door, hey?’
It was only three years before he could win the chess contest some times and then most times, and then, because he could see the patterns of life, not just those on the board, deliberately lose enough to sustain the other’s dignity. Someday, maybe, his grandson would humour him this way, or some other and he wouldn’t know, the brain cells or the synapses or whatever wouldn’t register the subtler tones of life anymore.
But not now, surely. And yet there was no emerging pattern in this dilemma. What unseen hand was at work in the puppet show of which he was the supposed master? A breakin at Mac Biddulph’s, a stolen computer? There was another predator in the hunt, a grey shadow running fence lines, skirting waterholes, hiding in hollows and rock piles, taking small prey, waiting for something more. He had to flush it out. Apply pressure, beat the bush. He opened his eyes and was surprised to see Maroubra still sitting quietly beside him.
‘It’s not all bad news. I’ve got something for you.’ Maroubra handed him a fat envelope. ‘I don’t know exactly what it means but there’s a lot in there on the Beira Company and a flow of transactions to a Swiss bank. No doubt you’ll work it all out.’
The Pope took the envelope. ‘Thanks. But I’m not sure I will. I think it’s time we got some fresh minds on this. I don’t like the feeling I’m about to lose a game before it’s started.’