Tobacco-Stained Mountain Goat, page 14
“Excuse me, sir.”
“Yeah? Nice uniform.”
“Thank you, sir. But perhaps you’re unaware that smoking is not permitted in City Centre.”
“What’re you going to do about it—arrest me? Gimme a break.” I knew the law, but I always lit one up anyway, my own private protest. I noted his name—Tamerlane—embroidered on the upper left of his shirt beneath his badge. Making sure to get my pitch just right, I finished off with a nice, stern, “Officer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can I put it out when I’m finished with it?”
“Sir, as a matter of fact I will be forced to arrest you if you don’t extinguish that cigarette immediately. So please put it out and I’d like you to come with me, if you wouldn’t mind. Now.”
“Actually, my friend, I do mind. I’m cozy here.” I drew in on the gasper. “I’m shopping. I’m here to buy my sister a birthday present, so I’m a customer. Customers always come first, remember? Let me finish my cigarette, I’ll buy that gift, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
“I’m afraid I can’t allow you to do that, sir. Smoking is not permitted within City Centre.”
“So you said. Have a good one.” I turned away from him to continue on my own merry way. Okay, so I was deliberately cracking foxy. To be honest, I had no idea where all this sham bravado was gushing out from, but it felt snug. I guess I had in my mind what one of Bogie’s characters might’ve said and done in this situation. I could hear the footfall of the cop’s boots on the pavement behind me, followed by a call for backup. I could feel my adrenaline start to kick in. I swung back to him. “Is there a problem here, officer?”
“The cigarette, sir.”
Another cop came up from my left, and a third hung back several metres. Backup was here. The Dome was one special place—all three cops were still smiling.
“Would you please come with us, sir?”
“Who’re your playmates?”
“This is Sergeant Dupin and this gentleman is Officer Canning. May we inquire after your name?”
“Reilly’s the name. Doghouse Reilly.”
“Mr. Reilly, if you don’t mind, we just have a few matters to sort out with you.”
“Okay.” I dropped the cigarette and extinguished it with my shoe. “Is everybody happy now?” One of them picked it up and carefully placed it into a small garbage bag hanging at his waist. These guys doubled as cleaners.
“Please, sir. We’d like you to come along with us. Now.” He was a Latino hunk who, with his full lips and dreamy brown eyes, looked like he should’ve been on the cover of some tacky teen mag. The cheaper the set, the gaudier the props, I supposed.
“Easy boys. I think you should see something.” I reached beneath my coat, and as I did so all three officers arced their hands defensively toward their holsters. I very slowly produced my wallet to show them my ID. “I’m from Seeker Branch. Get off your hind-legs, okay?”
The sergeant eased the ID out of my hand and studied it closely. “It looks right enough. You here on business?”
“Nah. I’m here to buy my sister a present.”
“You’re here shopping?”
“Yeah—you think Seekers don’t have families?”
“Shit.”
“Conduct unbecoming, officer. This is the Dome. I’d watch your mouth if I were you.”
“Sorry, sir.” He actually looked truly sorry, as if one of his behavioural implants gave him a light electroshock for his transgression. “Alright, but we’ll be keeping tabs on you, mate. So don’t smoke again in City Centre, or we’ll escort you straight out—I don’t care what you do for a living.”
“That’d put you in solid with your boss, but fair enough. Have a good one.”
“You too, sir.” The three of them actually waved goodbye before turning away and disappearing into the throngs of people.
There was an elaborate multi-storey fountain ahead, where three of the malls met on the corner of Collins and Swanston Streets. Huge screens were suspended high above the Town Hall, the biggest screen spanning about thirty metres square. These ran a non-stop assault of pop stars singing advertising ditties. Clustered around the screens were literally hundreds of small but obtrusive full-colour neons pumping even more product signage. It was a downright abysmal sight.
I noticed a new addition to the clutter: a miniature zeppelin was tethered to the steeple of the old St. Paul’s Cathedral, on the corner of Swanston and Flinders. Of course, it also had a strip of advertising along its length. A large billboard near the church was grafitted over with the message ‘Widerstand leisten’ and an image of an exploding firework. What the hell did that mean? I wondered how long it had been there. I’d never seen graf in the Dome before.
As the traffic lights changed, a crowd of shoppers pushed across the street and around the fountain. They all seemed incredibly self-absorbed, concerned only with their shopping agenda and, in some cases, trophy pets. I found an empty bench round the corner, right next to the ancient bronze statue of ill-fated explorers Robert O’Hara Burke and William John Wills. I needed to zone out all the rich tossers and neons before they did in my head. If I can’t see them they don’t exist, right?
At some point I peeped up towards the mural-covered ceiling of the Dome, where a massive plasti-crystal chandelier (seriously, this hideous contraption deserved to be one of the Nine Wonders just for the sake of sheer gaudiness) hung beside a series of 3D video-boards that boasted the latest in high end fashions. The ceiling ads were actually some of the most expensive advertising real estate in all of the Dome—one loony Parliamentarian once labeled the inner ceiling the “modern Sistine Chapel” during a speech and was applauded.
I felt like another cigarette, but I’d played that card already. The next choice was a drink but that was out of the question here because the nouveau-kitsch bars charged mind-blowing prices for cosmetic cocktails devoid of all but a thimble of liquor.
I got to my feet to continue along the mall—the sooner I was free of this circus, the healthier my sanity. Collins Street had coconut trees and oversized chess-pieces placed randomly along the walkway and forced us peds to constantly dodge and weave. Yet another case where some darling society artist was commissioned millions to throw the whole lot together and stroll away laughing.
I weaved past a three-metre high black bishop and glanced at a window display for a store called PLUTO. The display had glass frosted like snow and carried an array of ridiculously priced necklaces, rings, and other jewelry frozen in rolling blocks of real ice. I guessed that they hiked up their prices in order to pay for the refrigeration costs.
The next shop had a white knight by its entrance. The window featured a pretty impressive display of stylized kitchen utensils arranged around a centrepiece vacuum cleaner that reminded me of an art deco R2-D2. Between that and the store’s name, Nevermore, I was intrigued.
I took a deep breath and plunged into a realm of gleaming bric-à-brac and outlandish household appliances, where form meant gold, silver, and platinum and function was little more than an afterthought. I picked up what I thought to be an alien torture device, then twigged it was an electric toilet brush. A central display featured a silver toaster that looked a bit like it could do your taxes.
I wandered along the aisles in a bit of a daze with no idea and no inspiration regarding what it was I should invest in. I didn’t know what Dorothy had, or what she dug these days. Eventually I stumbled across an egg timer that, to my addled mind at least, resembled a Dalek from Doctor Who. This might work. We’d watched the show together when we were kids and she’d been petrified of the gliding tin cans with the speak-into-a-fan voices. An egg-timer was suitably la-de-dah as well—a ridiculous luxury item given that fresh eggs themselves were super-expensive baubles for the filthy rich.
It would have to do. I was burnt out and needed to get out of the Dome entirely. I picked it up and walked to the counter. The girl behind it looked like she was a mannequin in a window display but her features whirred into life with an artificial smile. “May I help you, sir?” Her voice was pitch perfect saleswoman, but her expression told a different story. They darted from my face to my clothes to the telephone, thereafter to the security alarm switch on the desk beside her—before returning to me with a sense of confidence. She had a diamond encrusted name tag pinned to her blouse.
“Hi. Yeah.” I turned the egg-timer this way and that in my hands, looking for the price. “How much is this, Rowena?”
“Actually,” she said, as she leaned forward in a confidential manner, “my name isn’t Rowena at all. It’s Ligeia. I’m new. They haven’t had time yet to make me my own name tag yet.”
“Well, Ligeia, there isn’t a price on this contraption.”
“Oh. We don’t do that here.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“Allow me.” She reached over to carefully poke her scanner at the barcode stuck on the surface of the device. A number just over three weeks’ pay, before tax, popped up on the screen. “Oh, how lovely. Our platinum egg-timer is on special this week only.”
“Nice price. Huh.”
“It is, isn’t it?” I’d like to believe that secretly, deep down, Ligeia shared my disbelief—but her face was completely impassive.
“On special, you say?”
“Yes. Ten percent discount.”
“If you make it twenty we have a deal.”
“I’m very sorry, sir, but the special is ten percent. Perhaps another store might be more to your liking?” The thought of another minute in the Dome surrounded by people like her was too much for me. I was broken, beaten, and ready to be scrambled so decided my freedom was worth the cost.
“You accept government cash-cards, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“And do you give frequent flyer mileage points?”
“Sir?” I rifled through my wallet and produced a card I hoped just might still have funds left on it. I’d ransacked my savings over the past week of suspended service and was virtually on the nut. The transaction went through smoothly, and I think we were both relieved. As she passed me my card, she glanced at it. “Thank you, Mr. Maquina.”
“Can you wrap it for me, Ligeia?”
“Certainly.”
“Life just gets better and better, doesn’t it?”
plus one
Unfortunately, fate dictated that I end up back in the Dome that very same evening. I’d hoped to meet up with Dorothy at a spot nearer to me, but she was insistant we go to a place of her choosing. She greeted me outside the restaurant with a kiss on the cheek and twisted her arm around mine. She was holding a small package in her other hand.
“You smell of alcohol and cigarettes.”
“Just the one beer, precious. I’m on a wagon of sorts.”
Rather than responding, she led me up white marble steps and through a doorway that had long white velvet drapes on either side. Actually, everything here was white—the walls, the ceiling, the floor, the fixtures, tablecloths, chairs, crockery, and curtains. It was crammed with antiques on white pedestals and paintings in white frames, white sculptures, and white flowers—all of which, thrown together, tipped the place into the realm of must-do for all the wealthy arseholes and celebrity wankers out there.
A middle-aged man, dressed in a white tuxedo and spats, bowed perfunctorily. “Good evening, sir, madam. My name is O’Herlihy. I am your maître d’. Welcome to Holberg’s.”
“Good evening,” Dorothy said.
“Yeah, hi,” I added.
“Could I have your name, please?”
“Maquina. Dorothy Maquina. Plus one.”
A waiter led us down an aisle to a table beside a huge plate-glass window that overlooked Collins Street, the one with the coconut trees and chess pieces. Dorothy carefully unfolded her napkin.
“You know mum would have a field day if she smelt alcohol on your breath.”
“I imagine she suspects something is amiss.”
My sister completely ignored me, her head tilting to the side. She clapped her hands. “Oh, Floyd, I need to take you to the ballet someday. Do you hear what they’re playing? This is by Alexander Glazunov, from the ballet Raymonda—it’s just sublime, don’t you think?”
“Let’s celebrate our good luck with some wine, Dorothy.”
“What am I going to do with you, Floyd?”
“Celebrate?”
“You’re not taking me seriously. This is your problem. Drinking. Mum told me about your suspension. What’s going on?”
“Mum’s the word.” My sister didn’t even smile at the pun. I beckoned our waiter over. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Riley, sir.” He pointed to a white tag on his white vest.
“Is that your first name?”
He looked confused. “Kevin, sir.”
“Okay, Kev, you got any Grange Hermitage out back?”
That seemed to be his cue. He was suddenly gushing through vintages and blends faster than I could keep up, so I looked over at Dorothy for saving. She took the hint and ordered us some wine and champagne. She always was superb at that kind of thing.
After the champagne arrived in a silver ice bucket and the red wine was corked to breathe, I decided to take a peek at the menu. It was hand scripted in French—practically a dead language now—and was completely indecipherable to me with names like pâté de canard and foie de baudroie à crème fraiche. My sister ordered the food, too.
Dorothy was a bit of a recognizable style-icon and I’ll admit to a pang of pride as I sat there with her. Other patrons were clearly stealing glances at her. She was in top form—her hyper-expensive, off-the-shoulder blue silk dress matched her electric blue bob and probably would have cost me a year’s salary at some designer boutique here in the Dome. Her makeup, as always, was just right. I could still remember her when she was just a scrawny kid without the makeup, but to be honest she’d had expensive taste even back then. She always had been cautious and correct. But now, she was the guest at this restaurant, and I was just visiting.
After the entrées arrived, Dorothy carved up a strip of orange salmon that graced a huge white plate along with a sprig of garnish and a single drop of sauce. I have no idea how they could find salmon to serve in this dog forsaken world. After each bite, she’d carefully dab her electric-blue lips with the serviette. She hadn’t even finished her first glass of bubbly, whereas I was finishing my third, wagon be damned.
“What are you looking at, Floyd?”
“The TV news reporter.”
“I’m still learning the ropes—most people still refer to me as the Weather Girl. It’s hard to get past that kind of infamy.”
“All the same.”
“I didn’t know you were a fan.”
“More a distracted admirer. Here’s looking at you, hon. Things are really shaping up.” I clinked my glass against hers.
“Thank you.” She smiled—an honest, disarming gesture. They hadn’t taken that from her yet. “By the way, I brought you a present.”
“You shouldn’t have done that, Dot. It’s your birthday. By the way, here’s your present too. You first.”
Dorothy unwrapped her present and turned the gadget this way and that. “I love it!”
“It’s an egg-timer. At least that’s what they told me in the shop.”
“It reminds me of one of those—” Dorothy started, then gave a puzzled grin before snapping her fingers, “—it looks like a Dalek!”
“Really?” I couldn’t hold back my smile.
“EX-ter-mah-NATE, EX-ter-mah-NATE!” My sister nailed the impression, her eyes growing big and for an instant she was my little sister again, pre-alterations. Of course, it didn’t stick—she immediately caught herself and lowered her voice, “Thank you. That’s so sweet.”
“Glad you like it.” That egg-timer was worth every damn cent I paid for it.
“Your turn.”
I lifted the lid off the box and there was a pair of black leather shoes resting on tissue paper. They were well above my pay grade. “Beautiful.”
“It’s nothing. I spoke to Colman. He said you needed some shoes.”
“And I do. Cheers.”
“Aren’t you hungry?”
“As a horse.” I waved to Kev, who was milling around nearby, then pointed at the bottle of wine on our table. He came to the table instead—the international drinkers’ sign language wasn’t fool-proof, it seemed. I held up the drinks menu and pointed at a cabernet sauvignon I chose soley for its captivating label. He scurried off straight away.
“Lovely, Floyd. I meant food. Why not stay with the champagne—and ease off a little? Besides, cab sav doesn’t really mix with fish, Floyd. You’ll ruin the effect of the salmon, if you ever get around to eating it.”
“I would have preferred some cheap, greasy tucker, now that you mention it. Potato cakes and dim sims swamped in soy sauce.” I pushed around the sparse pieces of coz lettuce and twin cherry tomatoes.
“What—and ruin my reputation?”
“At least it’d put a lining on our stomachs, angel.”
“I prefer my food to be salmonella-free—thank you very much—and I’m not particularly fond of deep-fried cat-meat.”
Kev interrupted our conversation as he carefully uncorked the bottle of red and poured a taste. I motioned for him to just fill it, which he did, before placing the bottle on our table and walking off. I took a sip and grimmaced.
“This wine is crap.”
“Hence the price. It’s better if it’s cellared for four to five more years. Why do you think our waiter looked surprised when you ordered it?”
“I think he would have looked just as surprised if I ordered a proper wine.”
“Point.”
“Wait. So it’s a new wine?”
“Relatively.”
“Where the heck do they get the grapes to make this? Or the sunlight to grow the grapes?”
“I haven’t the faintest.”
“And why offer a wine in a restaurant if it’s supposed to be stuck in a cellar for a few more years? That’s a pretty expensive joke to play on your customers.”
