Black Glass (17 page)

‘Right.'

‘You continue to prove yourself here, to share this good fortune of yours …'

He waited.

‘And when we know each other a little better, provided all goes well, I will take you on a personal tour of that particular facility.'

‘Thank you,' Milk had said. ‘That's reassuring. I appreciate your trust.'

A knock on the booth door makes him jump: he's asked not to be disturbed. He gives the room below a last sweep, leans over and swings the door open. A young waiter stands there with a drink on a fancy tray.

‘Compliments of the lady,' says the boy. Milk tries not to look annoyed. He's told Madame Krane he doesn't drink. He glances over his shoulder at the monitors.

‘It's non-alcoholic,' says the waiter apologetically. ‘She insisted. Said you might be thirsty.'

Milk is thirsty. He takes the glass and sniffs: a fizz of fresh ginger, mint and lemon zest. No booze. He smiles: a good choice. The boss clearly wants to keep him onside.

‘Thanks,' he says, taking the glass and retreating, ‘but I'd rather not be interrupted while I'm working.' He shuts the door and locks it.

He has a sip and smiles, and turns his attention back to the room laid out below him.

[Exterior billboard, Dreamtime Travel Agents, Commerce Zone: Tally | Blue]

‘There, look, told you: right in the middle of my country. Those bastards. Minga mob, bloody ants.'

‘They just tourists. See, they all got cameras.'

‘Those dumb terrorists climb all over that big rock. Walking round, taking photos. No respect for that place. It's not for walking on.'

‘Why you living way down here then, if that's your place?

‘—'

‘Blue? Why you not up there instead?'

‘Can't always be where you want. I'm going back, though. I'm saving up.'

‘For what?'

‘To go back. Drive back into town on my own wheels. Straight up the Stuart Highway, stereo full bore. Just turn up:
Heyyyy …
'

‘You saving up for a car?'

‘Ute. Sleep in the back, carry some water, no worries.'

‘Where's your money? And your licence?'

‘Never you mind, Sherlock.'

‘Blue you can't drive with no licence.'

‘I can drive alright.'

‘You got no papers.'

‘So what.'

‘And you got a black face.'

‘You got chicken legs.'

‘Fuck off.'

‘Fuck off yourself, chicken legs.'

[—]

‘You want half this last apricot?'

‘Alright.'

[—]

‘Your birthday. It's April fourteenth, right, Blue?'

‘Yep.'

‘That's winter.'

‘Autumn, start of winter.'

‘Reckon you'll still be here then?'

‘Reckon I don't know, Sherlock. You tell me.'

CHAPTER 7:
THE LOOKOUT

[Foyer, Prime Talent Agency, Commerce Zone: Tally | receptionist]

It's mine of course what a question to ask, Jesus whose else would it be? I'm a photographer. For my birthday, from my grandpa. Cos I'm looking for someone that's what I want to ask you about. Can't I just show you this photo? Don't worry about my feet please, I swear this is a million times more important please. Just look at this, have you seen this girl — You sure? Well it's a bit blurry, but that's on purpose that's the effect I was going for. No. It's the only one I got. Her eyes are blue, light blue without the sunglasses, she just got them that day they look pretty cool don't you reckon. Her hair comes down to about here, she's kind of tall and real pretty, like a model like someone in a movie. She sort of walks like this, watch: like this, see? … Are you sure? Jesus alright alright, I'm going.
I'm going
. Thanks for giving a shit, lady, no really. Thanks for giving a whole lot of shit.

[Room 14, Legends Hotel, North Interzone: Grace/Violet | Macy]

Grace was amazed by the tricks make-up could play. The first time Macy did her face, she sat on a swivel stool in front of the mirror, watching the transformation — like that CGI effect, where one face blurs into another so smoothly you forget the original. She'd worn make-up before, but Macy was a professional: under her sure fingers, as lines were drawn and edges blended, Violet appeared painlessly from the clean face of her predecessor, like a photo coming into focus.

‘It's easy,' Macy had said, as Grace faded away. ‘Soon you'll be able to do it yourself.' Macy had picked up her wineglass and stood back. ‘Wow. Not a bad scrub-up.' And now, she said, she had a surprise for Violet; she turned her away from the mirror and pinned her hair up on her head. She rummaged through some boxes, lifted out a droopy black shape, settled it on Violet's head and fussed with its shiny strands. ‘Okay,' she said finally. ‘Now you can turn round.'

It had given her a jolt, becoming someone else so fast. The woman who looked back at Violet — and it was a woman, she realised with a twinge, not a girl — was only faintly familiar. The false lashes and smoky shadow gave her eyes a new shape, bigger and more knowing; her face seemed thinner, the cheekbones sharper, her mouth rewritten as a red curve against pale skin. (‘Garnet,' said Macy. ‘Classy colour.') The wig was 1920s style, a shiny black bob cut sharp to the chin. Violet turned her head to watch it swing in the light.
Back straight
, she heard the director say.
All quiet on set.
This would help — it really would. She could be a different person, start again.

At rehearsal last week Merlin had made a comment: her red hair was beautiful, but the colour could prove distracting for the audience; she was only meant to distract them at certain pre-ordained moments, not the whole time. They were meant to be focused on him. Peep, always blunter than the old man, had simply demanded, ‘Hey, doll-face, why not just dye it brunette?' Violet had looked around her at the dried-out mops and old bleach bottles, the basement where they practised their routine. She'd tried not to think about what Peep had said, but now here was a solution that didn't involve dye.

‘Well?' broke in Macy. ‘What do you reckon?'

‘I reckon that's better,' Violet answered. ‘Much better. In fact I might just wear it all the time.'

‘Star material,' Macy had said. ‘You look at least twenty. Now don't get weepy tonight or you'll wreck my masterpiece.' She'd held both glasses under the wine cask, filled them to the top. They drank a wordless toast to the miracles of paint.

[Table 9, Belladonna Cafe, North Interzone: Damon]

Twenty minutes since he'd walked out of that meeting and Damon was still shaking. He'd kept it together, of course, at least until he got outside on the footpath. Then he plugged in his headphones, jammed on his shades and walked and walked, trying to calm down. Great tracts of the city passed beneath his feet before he found himself hunched in the back booth of some dimly lit diner, drinking stale brewed coffee. Only when the waitress gave him a funny look did Damon realise he was still wearing his shades.

He reached up to touch his hair: sculpted neatly into place. One thing at least, he thought glumly, that he had under control. It's just a glitch, he told himself.
Toughen up, mate.
This was no game for thin-skins. Happens to everyone, can't please all the people etcetera. But it didn't help.

This last newsclip hadn't been his best work, he'd known that, but still he'd felt it had a certain charm. So far he'd filed a run of great stories, real hard-edged stuff, and the feedback had been positive — they'd loved the story on the brothel guy, especially that interview with the little kid. But they'd asked for a mix. Why not lighten the mood? A puff piece on a local stunt rat, a rising star on the international action-movie scene … it seemed like a good idea at the time. But as the end scene rolled, as the rat parachuted down slow-mo to land on a polystyrene bomb shaped like a giant cheese, he'd felt a twinge of doubt.

There was silence for a moment before George spoke. ‘What a crock,' he said. ‘This one's not going to fly.'

Damon felt his stomach lurch.

Rochelle, usually his ally in these briefing sessions, was doodling carefully on her notepad.

‘I have to agree, Damon,' Brian said. ‘I just don't see the news value here. Has this rat been involved in some controversy? Did it attack a co-star, or rescue a small child? Did it walk away from an on-set explosion completely unscathed?'

‘It's just a rat,' offered Diana, almost apologetically. ‘It doesn't even seem that smart. Any rat could do that.'

For once, Damon was stuck. ‘I thought it would work as a nice light segment,' he ventured.

Brian frowned. ‘You saw the last poll. Viewers have been loving the harder stuff: crime, corruption, all that. That number you did on the subsonic cannon thingo, the prototype, with the guy getting knocked down — that was a gutsy piece. But this one …'

‘I guess what we're trying to say,' said Diana, ‘is that the gritty, topical stuff seems to be your forte.'

Damon couldn't look at them. From the corner of his eye he could see the other journos on his side of the table, heads down like they were deep in prayer. Alice had filed a piece about vitamin-infused biscuits. They were pink. Where was the news value in that?

One of his co-journos, a pimply young guy called Adam, lifted his head briefly to give him a sympathetic look. Last week Adam's clip about a termite invasion in Subzone 6 had been ditched on the basis of poor visuals. But this was different: this was content.

‘We're going to have to can this one,' said George. Trying to hide his inward cringe, Damon did some rapid calculations: bad news on the bills front. Bloodhound covered access costs and basic expenses, and the pay per broadcast clip wasn't bad, but there were no kill fees for stories that got spiked.

‘I'm sorry,' Damon managed. ‘I guess I was trying to push the envelope a bit.'

‘Well, push it back,' ordered George. ‘Don't fix what ain't broke, and other applicable clichés.'

‘It's not a disaster, Damon,' said Rochelle at last. ‘Your other stories are fine, all the underworld and Polbiz stuff. Maybe focus on those and leave the curiosities to Alice.'

‘Can do,' Damon had replied. ‘Sure.'

But he wasn't sure. Things could change so quickly, he thought. You're only as good as your last story. And other applicable clichés.

Now he really had to dig deep, regain ground, come up with some infallible material. He looked down at his notepad. Under the heading
ongoing story ideas
, he'd written:

Dead Meat: health dept raid beef-packing plant (16 March). Spk to fixer, confirm live access.

Proj. Streamline: draft dots for L. Find cool angle. Slashing crime? City of tomorrow? City that reads your needs? No more traffic jams? Jesus …

Vandal Scandal: billboard ads insurance scam, chase up w disgruntled staffer (N-Vision Branding)

Cage Fights: confirm dates, sort out disguise (grow beard?), pay X for access

Blood Racket: track down leads — not just rumours. Follow up poss. sources.

Summit Protests: gain trust, get booze budget, get sources on record. Think up cool story title. Power Play? Street Clash? Home-Grown Terror? Note: run angle past L. Keep her happy.

Hidden Persuaders: Moodies — subliminal ads, biz-manip, crowd control. (Angle/peg??) Follow up w Frank at casino for bckgrnd.

The Robot Diet: nuts-and-bolts slimming or deadly scam?

He cursed, crossed out the last entry and sat there staring at the page. It wasn't a long list, and hardly Pulitzer stuff. This job … it relied on an endless supply of human folly and greed, criminality, bad luck and exploitation. But what if the city should have a quiet week, if nothing bad happened? Already, it seemed, he'd typecast himself:
Damon Spark, your inside man on the mean streets
. It had its benefits — that woman in the post office, for instance, the one who'd started giving him that sidelong smile, he was pretty sure she recognised his face — but all this dirt-chasing could wear a person down. No wonder he'd resorted to a quirky animal story.

There was stuff going on right here, no doubt, in this immediate neighbourhood — he just had to keep his eyes open. This was the north end of the Interzone, the haunt of all that teetered on the edge of wrongness. Damon looked out the window: a run-down fried-chicken joint, a dog chewing a squashed cardboard box, two kids tagging a wall. A frumpy middle-aged woman walked along carrying a lamp. A heavily tattooed skater rode by. A wizened old man in black stovepipes teetered past. Was it innovative, or desperate, to just pick someone at random and follow them? The question hardly mattered, he decided: at this point, all that counted was results. He swilled down the last of the bitter coffee and made for the door.