Dead and Kicking (13 page)

We’d reached the house and Cartwright led me into an office on the ground floor. It was all wood panelling and heavy antique furniture and looked very last century, apart from the computer on the desk. Cartwright nudged the mouse on the desktop to wake up the computer.

He clicked on a bookmark, and a web page for ANL Fischer Seafoods appeared on the screen. Cartwright clicked through the pages.

‘Lot of boring bumph about the history of the company and what they’re up to. Nothing about fish farming, though. Then I found this.’ He clicked the mouse again. ‘You’ve heard of Jezebel Quick?’

I nodded, trying not to look surprised. ‘I’ve seen her TV show.’

There was a photograph of a smiling Jezebel with her arm around a bloke wearing a dinner suit. He was in his early thirties, I figured, blond-haired and blue-eyed with a demean-our that said private school, rugger bugger, trust fund and I can buy and sell you out of petty cash so fuck off. It was the kind of look that you knew made valet parking attendants want to urinate in the ashtray of his Lotus Elise.

In the picture, Jezebel was wearing a dress with a plunging neckline that appeared to stop just short of her ankles. The caption said it was taken at a charity dinner and auction where Fischer had made a winning bid of fifty thousand dollars for a private dinner with Jezebel, cooked and served by her in her penthouse apartment in Melbourne’s swish water-front Docklands development. The picture was dated about six months earlier.

‘So what’s the connection?’ I asked.

‘I heard she and Fischer became an item after that dinner, so I Googled her.’

Cartwright typed in Jezebel’s name and her website came up –
jezebelshotstuff.com
. The welcoming image was of a smiling Jezebel leaning forward and offering the viewer a plate of succulent deep-fried ricotta-stuffed zucchini flowers and a fantastic view down her cleavage.

‘The lady seems to lead with her tits,’ Cartwright said.

He had that right.

He clicked on a link to her blog named ‘Watch This Space’. This page featured a picture of Jezebel posing in waders and holding a fishing rod. It was next to a short, recently posted item cryptically referring to big news that was coming soon about something that would knock the socks off fish lovers – a great-tasting and affordable farmed fish that was going to revolutionise the seafood market.

‘I heard she was going to be in Saigon, so after I spoke to Peter I figured I might try and track her down and ask a few questions, to suss out if there was a connection between my son and Fischer.’

‘Did you manage to catch up with her?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘The day after my meeting with Peter he emailed me a photograph from the video surveillance camera outside his building, showing two men who had come asking questions. I recognised Jack immediately, but I didn’t know who you were. The smart course of action was to make myself scarce again. It was all getting a bit dicey and I didn’t want to blow my cover.’

‘Unfortunately, it was a bit late for that.’

‘In any case, I figured if Fischer had somehow managed to get his hands on a batch of Project PB fingerlings it wouldn’t take him long to discover the bloody things weren’t worth the risk.’

‘Bloody things’ seemed like an apt description.

‘But I can’t imagine that your son would have turned the results of five years’ hard work over to someone like Fischer,’ I said. ‘Was Peter short of money? Did Fischer have anything on him?’

‘You have any kids?’ Cartwright asked.

I shook my head.

‘It’s always been hard for Peter,’ he said, ‘being a child of one of the invaders from the American War. Military occupations and civil wars both tend to engender bitterness that runs deep and lasts for generations.’

Anyone who’d spent time in the American South could vouch for that. One hundred and forty years on, there were still a lot of people grumpy about Abraham Lincoln and the War of Northern Aggression.

‘And his mother’s death also hit him pretty hard. People handle these pressures in different ways. Some drink or take drugs or womanise. My son, I’ve recently discovered, likes to gamble.’

‘I’m guessing you don’t just mean a few bob on the Melbourne Cup.’

‘Over the past year, Peter has been spending a lot of time in Hong Kong, which is, of course, just a short ride by jetfoil from Macau and its casinos.’

‘So?’

‘I believe Detlef Fischer has a backer behind his recent move into aquaculture, a silent partner, someone in the Macau casino business.’

‘This Playford Peng character? The son of Crockett’s former partner in crime?’

‘Possibly.’

‘This isn’t looking good for Peter,’ I said.

‘He may be in over his head and I’m not sure how to help him. I was thinking of sending him out of the country with some of my people to keep an eye on him.’

‘Could be a smart move.’

I scrolled on through the website and came to a link to a page called ‘Jezebel’s Movements’. I crossed my fingers and clicked, praying it was just about Jezebel’s travel plans. Thankfully it was. Most celebrities bitch and moan about their loss of privacy, but Jezebel was a real fame junkie who wanted everyone to know what she was up to, and the press and paparazzi loved her for it.

The page announced that Jezebel would be on a breakfast TV programme in Hanoi the next day, and in the afternoon she would be making an appearance at the Times Square shopping centre in Causeway Bay, Hong Kong, to promote her new range of cookware.

‘I was thinking about heading back to Australia,’ I said, ‘and maybe I’ll take the Hong Kong route to see if I can connect with this Jezebel.’

‘I’d appreciate that.’

‘Your Project PB and her super-tasty fish do sound like they have something in common.’

‘Don’t put yourself in danger, Alby,’ Cartwright said.

‘Bit late for that, mate,’ I said. ‘But I’ll be okay. I don’t think she bites.’

That wasn’t actually 100 per cent true, but Cartwright didn’t need to know the lurid details of my former relationship with Jezebel. He also didn’t need to know that I’d noticed a comment on her web page which revealed the lady was looking forward to catching up very soon with someone she called Mister Hotlovin.

I thought back to a time long past when Jezebel had called me Mister Hotlovin. I felt so cheap.

The ride in to Hanoi’s international airport with Heckle and Jeckle watching my back was uneventful and the Barry Jones passport got me through immigration with no dramas. Things started looking up when the Pan Oriental Airways’ A330–300 Airbus had been airborne for about twenty minutes. One of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen walked down the aisle and stopped at my seat. She smiled and handed me a neatly folded piece of paper. The handwritten note simply read ‘I suppose a quick shag in the first-class dunnies is out of the question?’

The cabin attendant was tall and slender with perfect skin, exquisite almond-shaped eyes and a face that I guessed might have been Shanghainese. Alby, I said to myself, this is one airline attempting to lift in-flight service to a whole new level.

‘It’s from the lady in 2G,’ the beautiful woman said with another smile.

I leaned into the aisle and in the far-off nirvana that was first class I saw blonde hair and a waving hand.

‘Would you like to gather your carry-on articles and come with me, Mr Murdoch?’

Would I what! Two minutes later I was up in the pointy end, ensconced in the magical domain of the well-trained cabin crew and well-heeled traveller. I took the proffered glass of champagne from the flight attendant and glanced at the passenger in the next seat.

‘She said there was a lady in 2G, but it’s just you.’

‘Pig’s arse, Alby,’ Jezebel said, raising her glass. ‘I’m a fucking lady.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ I said.

Jezebel liked to be comfortable when she travelled, and was wearing black ugg boots and an expensive red cashmere tracksuit. The zipper on her top was at half-mast and I figured we had about fifteen minutes before the pilot discovered who was on board and gave in to an irresistible urge to come and chat to the first-class passengers, or one in particular.

‘I guess I should thank you for the upgrade,’ I said.

She nodded. ‘I saw you hanging about at the gate from the VIP lounge, and I gave them the old famous international photographer routine and suggested economy was probably awful enough without the other passengers having to share it with a miserable prick like you, plus my arsehole film crew.’

‘And I’ll drink to that, too,’ I said, finishing off my champagne and searching out the cabin attendant for a refill.

It was no accident that we were on the same plane. Using Jezebel’s schedule of appearances from her website, I’d looked for the most likely Pan Oriental flight between Hanoi and Hong Kong and booked a seat. Jez had created Pan Oriental’s in-flight menu and she flew with them whenever possible, since she got free flights and knew which meals not to order. I’d figured I’d run into her at some stage, even if it was just collecting our bags from the carousel in Hong Kong, but this was much better.

My fully reclining seat was covered in glove-soft leather, the champagne was vintage and the choices on the extensive first-class à-la-carte luncheon menu were quite tempting.

‘Try the lobster bisque,’ Jezebel suggested, ‘and get them to make you the five-mushroom omelette. Avoid that spanner-crab salad like the plague, which it might possibly give you.’

I ordered lunch and then sat back for a chat. ‘Meeting up with your food tourists in Hong Kong?’ I asked.

She nodded. ‘They went on ahead after Hanoi while I picked up some background footage with the crew. I give ’em the kiss-off after today and about bloody time, too. It’s all questions, questions, questions. They must think I’m some fucking tour guide.’

‘I’m pretty sure that was what it said in the brochure.’

‘Screw you too, Alby,’ she said, laughing. ‘So what have you been up to? Having a good time with that lady copper?’

Jezebel’s preoccupations in life were Jezebel, Jezebel’s sex life and Jezebel’s career, so she didn’t ask any awkward questions about the goings-on back in the market in Saigon. She mainly wanted to know if Nhu had used her police handcuffs during foreplay. Jezebel didn’t think foreplay was worth bothering with unless it involved some rope, a block and tackle, assorted electrical appliances and half a kilo of Normandy butter, preferably unsalted. No bloody wonder I hadn’t been able to hack it in that relationship for more than a couple of months.

There was one of those incredibly thin MacBook Air laptops on the table in front of her. ‘I noticed you’ve gotten into blogging recently,’ I said, changing the subject and leading her where I really wanted to go.

‘It’s a way of keeping in close personal touch with my millions of fans,’ she said, ‘and showing them I’m a caring concerned person. And it also helps me sell a shitload of saucepans and books and stuff through my website. You can even get a tracksuit like this for five hundred bucks.’

‘Sounds like a lot of work. Someone do the actual writing for you?’

‘I bash out the odd post when I have the time, mostly the stuff on my love-life, but my publisher found this gay guy named Preston who can write just like me and he does the day-to-day and vets the emails for anything interesting. Honest to God, Alby, some of the bloody photographs people send me … I tell you, they give the term root vegetables a whole new meaning.’

‘Thanks, Jez,’ I said, ‘you’ve just put me off minestrone for life. But I was reading about a new fish surprise you’ve got coming up.’

‘That’s all very hush-hush, Alby – Detlef would give me a bloody good spanking if I spilled the beans on that one …’

She paused and smiled at me.

‘… Not that that’s necessarily a bad thing,’ I said, finishing off her sentence for her.

Jezebel grinned, and I remembered why I liked her. She might have been tough as nails and full of herself but, surprisingly, she didn’t have a mean bone in that quite amazing body. Exactly what the hell was she doing in the middle of all this?

‘Detlef’s the current squeeze, then?’

She nodded. ‘He and an old school friend put the deal together but there’s one of those very heavy “commercial-in-confidence” contracts attached. All I can tell you is the fish lovers of the world are in for a big surprise. If things go well, yours truly will have her name very closely linked to this finny little miracle and I’m angling to make a motzah in endorsements.’

‘Fish, crab, prawns, octopus? What is it exactly? Are we talking krill crackers, catfish kebabs? Give me the dope.’

She shook her head. ‘No-can-do, Alby. Let’s just say it’ll be bloody delicious and plentiful, and leave it at that. Pretty soon the word barrana is going to be putting the Northern Territory on the map, but for now my lips are sealed.’

She smiled and gave me a look I knew only too well and which still scared the crap out of me.

‘Unless, of course,’ she said, ‘you actually did feel like adjourning to the first-class dunnies for some pre-prandial shenanigans.’

‘Thanks for the offer, but not after what happened last time.’

Getting barred for life by British Airways was not one of my finer achievements. Jezebel smiled again and went back to her writing. I slipped on my headphones and flicked through the hundreds of channels of entertainment on offer on the video screen, while trying to get a handle on our little chat.

The Northern Territory made sense; it was tropical and wet and there was a lot of room for fish ponds. The name barrana was interesting, too, the sort of thing a marketing person would come up with to sell a piranha-barramundi cross. It looked like Cartwright’s Project PB might still be alive and kicking. And a Jezebel-barrana combo could make for an interesting advertising campaign – two man-eaters in the one act would definitely grab anyone’s attention.

‘I’ve been working on some new recipes,’ Jezebel said, looking up from her laptop. ‘Tell me what you think of this: a mélange of late-harvest Spanish cannellini beans slow-cooked to a melt-in-the-mouth texture in a thick, rich organic tomato-based sauce, topped with two Hungarian Debrecener-style paprika-spiced char-grilled Bangalow pork sausages, served over slices of lightly grilled artisanal San Francisco-style sourdough bread and topped with warmed Swiss Valais raclette from the Les Haudères valley.’