Ecstasy Lake (10 page)

16

The Minister for Mineral Resources and Energy, who was also the Deputy Premier, carried weight, physically and metaphorically. He wasn't obese, but he had substantial middle-aged padding and a fat face. His short, dark hair looked dyed, and he had the air of someone who was enjoying his moment in the sun. Tasso, Fern and I met him and his adviser, a serious-looking man with the complexion of an oyster whose name I didn't catch, at the city's most prestigious restaurant. It specialised in food and wine sourced solely within the state. We commandeered a private room and sat at a round table.

‘Call me parochial,' said the minister, ‘but I think this state has the best food and wine in the world.'

‘That doesn't make you parochial,' said Tasso, ‘just a good politician. But I'll back you up. We eat and drink well in this state.'

The minister patted his belly. ‘You can tell
I
do.' There was some jolly laughter. We studied our menus. I ordered Coffin Bay oysters and Coorong flounder.

‘I know you can't allow me to pay for you tonight,' said Tasso. ‘But at least let me get the wine.'

‘Sure,' said the minister, without looking up from the menu. ‘I'll probably be mainly on the water tonight, anyway.'

‘I've asked the waiter to prepare separate bills,' said Tasso.

‘Great,' said the minister, still not looking up. I was watching Tasso and he winked at me and I cottoned on. To avoid corruption, the minister and his advisor would pay for their own meals—or at least for their modest mains and maybe a couple of bottles of mineral water. Tasso would order everything else and probably double up on a few things. The minister and his sidekick would end up with a sumptuous feed, plenty to drink, and a modest little receipt they could wave around to prove that not only were they above corruption, they were also frugal in their habits. Tasso had the wine list, and he rattled off the names of three McLaren Vale reds to the waiter. He also ordered every entree on the menu and a couple of extra mains. Soon we all had food and wine in abundance. The minister gave up the idea of sticking to water early on, and he assumed a monopoly on a two-hundred-dollar bottle of wine.

‘Hear you were at White Pointer during the brawl the other night,' he said through a quantity of Gawler River quail. Tasso raised an eyebrow. The minister downed his mouthful with the help of a swig of wine. ‘I was police minister for nearly five years and I know the police commissioner well. He lets me know when things happen that might affect my portfolio.'

‘Steve and I were there,' said Tasso. ‘But we left before the worst of it.'

The minister looked at me. ‘Is that how you got the nose job?'

‘I guess it's related.'

‘Well, be bloody careful. You don't want to get mixed up in a gangland feud. They can get nasty.'

‘No doubt. That's what I told the cops. I don't want to get mixed up.'

‘It's all about drugs, of course.' The minister dabbed the corners of his mouth with his serviette and reached for his wine glass again. ‘Drug manufacture and distribution requires organisation, which requires gangs. Gangs spring up, and then they fight among themselves over who controls what.'

‘Sometimes it's personal, too,' said the advisor. ‘Rules are violated, gangs split up, girlfriends swap partners, mates turn on mates.'

‘And we have the best gangs in the world,' said the minister, ‘although that might just be me being parochial again.' We all laughed, the minister most of all. ‘What's your involvement, Steve? Drugs, or personal?'

‘Personal, Minister.'

‘Oh dear.' The minister looked at his advisor. ‘A woman. Fighting over a woman is even more dangerous than fighting over drugs.' The advisor nodded. ‘What do you think, Fern?' The minister had been eyeing her for a while. ‘I suppose you have men fighting over you all the time.'

‘Not really, Minister,' she said. She flicked her eyes at Tasso.

The minister gave a loud laugh. ‘Of course you do.'

‘Perhaps drugs should be legalised,' I said. ‘Might stop a lot of crime.'

‘Ah, don't go there, Steve,' said the minister. ‘It's not going to happen, not in our lifetimes, or at least not until the Americans do it, and that's not likely. Not with the right-wing loonies they have over there.' He made a show of looking under the table. ‘Any microphones around here?' He looked at the advisor, who gave a shrug. ‘I can't say I disagree with you, but it's complicated.'

There was more chat, more eating and especially more drinking. Then Tasso said: ‘Thank you, Minister, for taking the time in your busy schedule to meet with us.'

‘Spare me the crap, Tasso.'

Tasso laughed. ‘I just wanted to meet with you informally to get to know you a bit better. We're not looking for special favours.'

‘Of course not,' said the minister. ‘And none will be granted. But, as you know, my government wants to encourage investment.' He gave a fat-cheeked chuckle. ‘There you are,
I'm
talking crap now. Just let me say, assuming again there are no microphones under the table, I am prepared to do all I can to help you on your way. If it will benefit the state, of course.'

‘Of course.'

‘Not so long ago we were on the cusp of a mining boom here.'

‘So I heard.'

‘Then it all turned to shit.'

‘Just our luck,' said the advisor. ‘Our mining boom was over before it started.'

‘Tasso, you just moved here from WA, right?' said the minister.

‘That is correct, Minister.'

‘So you've seen a mining boom up close.'

‘I have. It was a beautiful thing. Before the bottom fell out of the iron-ore price.'

‘It did the right thing by
you
,' I said.

Tasso grinned at me. ‘It did.'

‘Well, I'm sick of watching my bloody counterparts from Western Australia and Queensland swagger around as if their shit doesn't stink and their dicks are a foot long,' said the minister. ‘Pardon the language, Fern.' Fern smiled in a way that suggested she hadn't been paying much attention. ‘I want my own boom if it's not too fucken late, pardon me again.'

‘Boom boom,' said the advisor, I wasn't sure why.

‘We will do our best to give you one, Minister,' said Tasso. ‘A mining boom, I mean.'

‘God bless you, Tasso.' A waiter flitted in and refilled our glasses. Tasso asked him to bring another couple of bottles. The minister turned to Fern again. He had no fear. ‘I suppose you would like a nice boom, too, Fern?'

‘Not really.'

‘Do you always say no?' An attractive leer was happening on the minister's pudgy face.

She smiled sweetly with a trace of cyanide. ‘Only to boors, misogynists and overweight arseholes.'

‘Be nice,' said Tasso. But the minister was unfazed and his leer was undeflected. ‘Doesn't that rule out just about all men?' he said.

‘Just about.'

‘So young and so cynical. And so beautiful, if I may say so.'

‘You may not, Minister.' Fern gave him another cyanidal smile. The minister turned back to Tasso and waggled his eyebrows at him in what he might have thought was a collegial way. Tasso didn't waggle back.

‘So tell me,' said the minister to Tasso, ‘what's the story with your mate? The one who died, I mean. Everyone is assuming that you and he made some sort of deal.' He belched into his serviette. ‘Sorry he got killed, of course.'

‘Thank you, Minister,' said Tasso. ‘Mick Hiskey was his name.' He repeated the line he had given Tarrant about Hiskey wanting work.

‘No one seems to believe it,' said the minister.

‘I can't help that.'

‘There's a theory going round that Hiskey found something. Something big.'

‘Yes?'

‘Yes. Is it true?' He held his hands up. ‘No, you don't have to answer that. Actually, I don't want to know.'

‘I'm happy to give you an answer, Minister. I'm probably not telling you anything you don't know when I say that Hiskey was a heroin addict. It made him unreliable, shall we say. But he was a friend and I was trying to help him out.'

‘Good for you. And you're right.'

‘About?'

‘You didn't tell me anything new.' He laughed, more loudly than he needed to.

The waiter brought the new bottles, and Tasso signalled for him to give the minister a refill. ‘Let me assure you, Minister, that I'm back in South Australia for the long haul and I'm going to do my bit to make this a wealthy state.'

‘I'll drink to that,' said the minister. We all drank to it.

‘I want to help make this a great city,' said Tasso.

‘I'll drink to that, too.' We all drank again. The minister appeared to reflect. ‘You think this could be a great city?'

‘I do.'

‘The problem with Adelaide,' said the advisor, ‘is water. We don't have any.'

‘And with climate change we're going to have even less,' said the minister. ‘Fucken climate change. What's with the weather this summer, anyway?'

‘Without water we've never had much agriculture,' said the advisor. ‘Therefore, we've never got rich. We're thousands of miles from anywhere. And we've missed the fucken mining boom, too.'

‘Stop
saying
that,' said the minister, shooting him another look. Then he chuckled and winked at Fern. She stared at him without expression.

‘Sure, water is a problem,' said Tasso. ‘But we can solve it. We need to be smart. Smarter, I may say, than we've been in the past. We need someone with vision.'

‘Which is where you come in,' said Fern.

The minister laughed. ‘Touché, Fern, touché.'

‘She's right,' said Tasso. ‘Not to be immodest, but this state needs me. I have the vision.'

‘Well, I'll drink to that, Tasso,' said the minister. ‘And maybe we should have a chat about your vision one day.'

‘Any time.'

‘What makes a city great?' said the advisor.

‘History, architecture, natural beauty, culture,' said Tasso. ‘Any or all of those things.'

‘None of which Adelaide has,' said Fern.

‘Now now,' said the minister. ‘We're working on all three, let's say.'

‘Four,' said Fern.

‘And let me also say this, Tasso.' The minister swayed in his seat, just a little. ‘If you need any help,
any
help with your current venture, juss lemme know.'

‘I will, Minister,' said Tasso.

‘We stand again on the cusp of a mining boom in this state,' said the minister grandly, raising his glass. ‘Not withstanding gloomy dick over here.' The minister waved his hand at his advisor.

‘I hear you.'

‘Actually, I think there's a fifth way a city can be great,' said the advisor, now known as Gloomy Dick.

We all looked at him. ‘Do tell,' said the minister.

‘It's governance,' said Gloomy Dick. He took a sip of his wine.

‘Well,
go on
,' said the minister. ‘Don't leave us all in suspenders.'

‘The way I see it,' said Gloomy Dick, ‘the world is in a long transition, from primitive to civilised. We're still in the brutal stage, you know; we've been in it for the last ten thousand years. Or more. The Romans, the Inquisition, the world wars, the Balkans, Afghanistan, our Aborigines, I could go on. But we're trying to become civilised.'

Gloomy Dick's forehead had a sincere sheen to it. His complexion had reddened from oyster grey.

‘Yes, but what does that have to do with great cities?' said the minister.

‘It's something a city can
do
,' said Gloomy Dick. ‘It can lead by
example
, it can show the world how to be
civilised
. Simply by having a civilised set of laws and a civilised way of governing.'

‘Kind of like a
case study
,' said the minister.

‘Yes, if you like,' said Gloomy Dick, who was being too earnest to spot sarcasm. ‘And it can make a city great. It doesn't need to be a big city, or have a natural harbour or an opera house or three thousand years of history. All it needs is good governance. We're practically a city-state here. We could do it.'

‘Dream on,' said the minister. ‘Having been in politics for,' he paused as he counted in his head, ‘thirteen years, I can tell you it's not going to be politics that makes this city great. Or the nation, for that matter.' He laughed and looked around.

‘No argument here,' I said.

‘No, he's right,' said Fern.

‘I beg your pardon?' said the minister.

‘I think he's right, that's all. Enlightened governance would be a great gift to the world.'

‘It's stupid,' said the minister.

‘Maybe it's not as phallic as an opera house or the Manhattan skyline or a couple of new stands at Adelaide Oval, but it's more important,' said Fern. ‘It's about how we rule ourselves, how we plan, how we bring people together. Where do the people interact in Adelaide? They
don't
. They retreat into their suburbs and their toxic nuclear families and complain about their neighbours. Greatness has no chance. You have to bring the people together, because it is the people who make a city great.' She looked at Gloomy Dick for support. He nodded gravely.

‘Bravo,' said the minister. ‘What do you think, Steve? Got an opinion?'

‘I would say that a great city is more than the sum of its parts.'

The minister blinked and looked at Gloomy Dick. ‘Do you know what he means?' Gloomy Dick shrugged.

Tasso was looking thoughtful. ‘I don't really know what makes a city great,' he said, ‘but I do know a measure of it.'

‘What's that?' said the minister.