Black Glass (16 page)

‘The surveillance? Cutting down on crime, maybe? That always works.'

‘We thought the word
foresight
or
protection
would work better than surveillance. In fact, we don't want the word
surveillance
used at all. It's becoming very outdated.'

‘
Foresight
could work. It's about filtering and zone regulation, right? So the harmful elements don't slip through.'

‘We don't want to use the word
regulation
either. I'm thinking, the city centre as a protective entity, a healthy organism that resists infection — not that you'd use the word
infection
. No negative terms at all, ideally. I'm just throwing ideas around here.'

‘Okay. I get the sense you'll want final approval on the script.'

‘With this one, yes. We'd appreciate that greatly. You have artistic control, of course. We just need to make sure this psycho-spatial redesign is embraced as a positive thing. And no mention of cost, not in the current climate.'

‘No?'

‘No. I mean economically, the spend makes perfect sense, it's all about priming the pump and so on. But that's too complex a message to embed in this particular story.'

‘Sure. There's been a lot of finger-pointing since the crash. No need to make people nervous.'

‘That's it. Now, if I can just throw some phrases into the mix …'

‘Yes?'

‘… some key phrases we'd like to see included in your coverage:
revitalisation
,
renewal
,
enhance the city experience
,
streamline the flows
,
a new vision
,
vitality
… Are you getting this? I can provide you with dot points.'

‘Feel free.'

‘What else?
Protection
,
smart spaces
,
security
and
harmony
, as you said — good suggestion.'

‘A fit city, a city with a heartbeat?'

‘Well, yes … maybe. But you want to be careful making those bodily comparisons.'

‘Why's that?'

‘Because bodies have their dark sides, their messy aspects. Excrement, for example. Plus, they eventually die.'

‘Okay, Luella. Sounds like we need to dedicate a whole session to this story.'

‘You mean the series.'

‘Yes, the series. I'll draft some dots and schedule a meet-up.'

‘Perfect, thanks, Damon. One other thing. That guy you were talking about, the moodie?'

‘Yeah? Strange guy. Smart though. Top of his game, I'm told.'

‘You interviewed him, right?'

‘Yeah, but that's more of a long-range thing. Haven't quite got the story angle perfect yet.'

‘I'd be interested to see anything you've got on him. He could be useful. Can you connect me, just on the quiet?'

[Remedy, private club, Commerce Zone: Milk | Madame Krane, manager | patrons]

The alleyway behind the club is strangely clean: no stinking bins or stray litter, the cobblestones shiny like they've just been hosed down. The security guard scans Milk's face with a PalmScreen, nods once and stands aside. The back door opens with a discreet bleep. The lift is lined in cherry-dark wood, and it makes no sound at all as it slides towards the nineteenth floor.

At their interview the manager had tried to insist he use the front entrance, a plush foyer ruled by an intimidating phalanx of what appeared to be Russian catwalk models. He spent some time explaining that invisibility was essential in his line of work. ‘I'll dress the part,' he told her, ‘but I prefer to stay out of sight. Going public spoils the illusion.'

She'd given a theatrical sigh and checked her hairdo in the bar mirror. ‘Well, darling, it seems a pity with your talent. But as you wish. Frank from the casino tells me you are a genius, and I never argue with a genius.'

‘Frank is too kind,' Milk replied. ‘I'm just very fortunate to be doing what I was born to do.'

She'd flashed too-white teeth, faked a laugh. ‘Then we will drink a toast to being fortunate. I do hope we will share in your good fortune, Monsieur Milk.'

This is more like it, Milk tells himself. This is where the kudos is; this is legit. Two floors of over-the-top luxury, half upscale club, half speakeasy, nothing minimal about it: flocked wallpaper, gilt-framed mirrors, huge rococo candelabra sprouting from the walls; the buttery glow of genuine candlelight, a general air of high-end velvet. Jewelled drinks twinkle on trays, a mezzanine dance floor hung with flowering vines, and through the huge windows, the city laid out below them like a sparkling map.

And the clientele. At Milk's casino gig the main room draws some real low-lifes, and even the high rollers' sections are a mixed bag: after all, money is the sole condition of entry. But not here. This place is exclusive in another way — not a club where Milk himself would necessarily be granted entry, had his life taken a different turn. Sure, there's no sign of the financial slump inside this room: he can see new money, old money, smart money, a handful of trash money. But there's also an intriguing mix of other elements, not all of them obviously cashed up.

Facial scanning has identified many of the main players. Beneath the central candelabra poses a fledgling Hollywood starlet in a long dress exposing a snow-pale back. Around her hover a constellation of minor luminaries and hangers-on: an Italian design baron, a US record producer, two wealthy local architects who had recently gotten married in a submarine (televised), a tabloid sexpert, some high-ranked arts bureaucrats and the owner of a budget lingerie chain.

A booth below Milk houses a barbecue tycoon, two mid-ranking fashion journalists, a controversial performance-artist couple (both fully clothed), a petite woman with a buzz cut — probably a film or media type — several anonymous good-lookers, and a glamorous mafia lawyer who is never photographed wearing anything but impeccable suits and extremely high heels.

Milk can't scan the faces in the darker booths further back, where much of the night's business is apparently done. This has been emphasised: Remedy might look like a recreation joint, but its true calling is more complex.

‘Many, many important projects are arranged here,' the manager had said, one finger raised like a conductor. ‘Good things, positive things. Millions of dollars and some very powerful people. People we must keep happy.' Her angle was obvious.

‘You don't want any sudden changes,' Milk replied. ‘Nothing disruptive or uneasy, nothing that might translate to a no.'

She had beamed then, and Milk knew the job was his.

‘Perfect,' she said. ‘Shall I show you upstairs?'

This is number three of what will be, if all goes smoothly, a high-paid weekly gig. The DJ is luring people onto the dance floor with a mix of vintage soul and heavy bass. An old guy in a cravat is prancing around like an emu, his silliness loosening the mood. It's always good to have one oddball in a crowd, provided they don't sink too many cocktails and get out of hand.

Milk is aiming for a slow sizzle — mildly seductive, nothing raw — balanced by optimistic notes, a pinch of adrenaline, saturated colour and soft light. So far, it seems to be working.

This time around he's settled on three barometers to help modulate the room; the law of averages, he figures, should reduce the margin of error. It makes sense to pick the mafia lawyer: well connected with brains, business sense and street smarts. His second subject is a clean-cut guy in a back booth, a regular who swings mid-range deals of some kind; he's busy wooing some corporates with the club's second-most-expensive champagne. His third pick is that little film/media chick with the shaved head: she is clearly here on business, and her face has a certain confident inscrutability, a look Milk can't help interpreting as a challenge.

The room is warming up.
So far, so good
. An exchange of nods, a raised glass; laughter, a hand coming to rest on a shoulder.

Then the small woman looks up. Milk flinches: she's not looking into a camera, they're all concealed. Instead, her double-barrelled gaze seems to shoot straight through the glass of his booth, like she's staring directly at him.

Milk feels a prickle of fear. The glass is black, he reminds himself, they can't see anything from the other side. But for someone who's staring into a void, the woman seems to hold his gaze a long time. The illusion is unsettling. He is relieved when she drops her eyes and goes back to her conversation.

Paranoia, he tells himself. Classic Bob Arctor syndrome: he blames that debacle of a concert. Nobody can see him this time: aside from the manager and a couple of staff who'd nodded respectfully, nobody even knows he's up here. Still, he'll pick another barometer: this one is making him uneasy.

The manager likes to mingle and be seen, which means he can keep an eye on her too. She calls herself Madame Krane, but she instructed Milk that as he was entering the inner circle, ‘Ms Krane' would do nicely. She is a woman of uncertain age, her smooth features a result of wealth and constant maintenance. She adopts an Eastern European air and, after several purple martinis, a hard-to-place accent.

But Milk's background research has revealed a different story: Madame Krane is in fact from Geelong, a small, unglamorous satellite city an hour south-west, now little more than a factory-scape thanks to all the chemical spills that have fouled its harbour. Madame Krane's first name is apparently Janine, and her surname has changed many times. But she has a clean record and pays him in cash. He doesn't need to know a whole lot more than that.

Or does he? As he's become more intimate with the room, he's detected a subtle undercurrent at work. It's barely legible, hard to pin down, but it is there. This bothers Milk: knowing a room is his business. There are drugs around as usual, but it's not that. This is something unfamiliar, like a subsonic hum or an unbidden thought.

He's figured out its epicentre: a steel door in a dim alcove in the far corner of the room, almost hidden behind a screen of ferns. No cameras are trained on this portal, and the blind spot immediately drew his attention. Twice on his first night he glimpsed someone's back vanishing behind the greenery, then a slice of light as what looked like a lift door slid swiftly open and closed.

The next week he'd arrived early, before the club opened, and strolled over for a closer look. Behind the plants were two solid steel doors, wedged firmly shut, and a button set into the wall. Nothing else to see. On his way back one of the Russian girls gave him a glossy stare and asked if he was looking for someone.

So at the end of last week's successful shift, after accepting Madame Krane's praise, he decided to be direct. ‘Could I ask — what's through there?' He nodded towards the alcove.

The manager's face clicked into a polite smile and she led him swiftly into her office. ‘That is a separate matter,' she said, placing her purple drink on the desktop. ‘It doesn't concern us here.'

‘With all due respect, from my position, I see it differently,' he said. ‘Whatever happens through that door is linked to what happens in the room I'm responsible for. It's all connected.'

Her face set a fraction harder. He wondered how far to probe. He was a pioneer working in a barely defined realm, but this business with the door looked like a sideline, and sidelines have a way of looping back on you. He needed to know — if not all, at least something.

‘If the club takes clients through that door —' he began.

‘It's not so simple,' she interrupted.

He tried another tack. ‘Ms Krane, you've hired me to shape the ambience of your club, to look after your profits. But if I don't know exactly what I'm underscoring, I'm not working with the full picture.' He was sure she'd be frowning if that was a movement her face could realistically perform.

She said nothing.

‘Okay, I'll ask you frankly — is there a skin-shop through that door?'

She shot him a look of pure disgust. ‘That's what you think?' She made a hissing sound, and he knew he'd overstepped a line. ‘That is a low and tragic industry, and I want no part of it. You must never' — she leaned forward — ‘never imply such a thing to anyone. Quite apart from the question of reputation, it is patently incorrect.'

He back-pedalled, but not too fast. ‘I'm sorry, but I had to ask. I never make moral judgements or discuss my clients' business with outside parties. This is about doing my job as well as possible.'

‘Are you happy with your rate of pay?' she asked.

He nodded. ‘So far, Ms Krane.'

‘Well, I can offer you what you might call a gentleman's agreement. First, you have my word that I run no
skin shop
.' She spat the last two words.