Good Money Read Free

street. Mounted above the portico in metallic letters was the name PineView .
    I climbed the stairs. As I reached the top landing, she teetered towards me on her noodle legs, feet shod with wooden stilts, blonde hair in a twist.
    â€˜Off to work, Tania?’
    â€˜Yes.’ She clattered down a few more steps, but then stopped. ‘Tonight still on?’
    â€˜Sure,’ I said, and went inside and fell face-first on my bed.
    At about eleven, I woke, showered, dressed, and headed to Buffy’s on Union Road.
    â€˜Bit late today, Stella.’ Lucas started making my takeaway flat white as I entered his café. He was good that way.
    â€˜Worked late last night. Got a White Pages ?’
    He tipped his head in the direction of a sideboard; above it, a couple of phonebooks stood upright on a shelf. I flipped through the A-to-K, while he scalded the milk, until I found my listing: Hardy, Stella J. , followed by my full address and land line.
    I’d been tired last night, and my judgement was impaired. Surely I was mistaken about Adut and his silly schoolbook. I had worked with some very disturbed people in the course of my professional life, and had never concealed my home address. There’d been no threats, no abuse, no unwanted attempts to contact me. No problem ever. The whole address thing was an innocent coincidence — another explanation must have existed that I had not yet thought of. After all, Adut wasn’t a psychopath. He was a smart kid. Not Mabor smart, not academic. But street smart. He’d signed up for all kinds of programs for disadvantaged kids, and left as soon as he got the free backpack or the myki with twelve-months’ free public transport. That was not merely smart, it was cunning.
    God help me. He knew. He knew.
    How could he know? It was impossible. I took a deep breath. I needed to have another look at that book. But I had to be patient.
    I boarded a city-bound tram and scored a seat to myself. I drank the coffee and stared out at the cold congested streets as the tram conveyed me to my place of work. At a stop along Racecourse Road, I stepped off and walked to the offices of the Western Outer-Region Migrant Support — or WORMS. The organisation rented a shopfront on Wellington Street next to the Flemington Police Station. The place was deserted. We’d lost half our staff in two years. Those lucky few who had hung onto their jobs, it seemed, were currently either at meetings or seeing clients.
    I went to brief Boss about Mrs Chol. His name was Brendan Ogg-Simmons, so we called him Boss. Also, he was my boss. He was short and balding, with an accountant wife and two young children. Despite this, he was usually cheerful.
    â€˜Before you say anything, Hardy, you need to put a visit from Pukus in your diary. Next Monday.’
    â€˜ Next as in next week?’
    â€˜No. That’s this Monday — I mean the one after.’
    â€˜That Monday’s a holiday, Boss.’ Public holidays were highlighted in my calendar. ‘The Queen, birthday girl.’
    â€˜Tuesday then.’
    State politics was a bore, but I knew who Pukus was. I’d even met him. He was Marcus Pugh, formerly the Human Services minister, until a recent cabinet reshuffle had put him in charge of the Victorian police force. He used to swan into our program launches, take the credit, drink a cup of tea, pose for a photo with some unsuspecting woman in a headscarf, and then swan out. Pukus , we called him — Mucous Pukus .
    I made a note on my phone, and added a sad-face emoticon next to it. ‘Isn’t he Police Minister now?’
    Boss sighed. ‘Yes. Just when we thought we’d seen the back of him, this time he’s here announcing the new partnership between Justice and Community Services.’
    â€˜Speaking of justice … Mrs Chol, she’s going to need ongoing support. If they arrest someone, she’ll need guidance just to get through the