Free Good Money by J. M. Green

my concerns about Mabor? It was almost 1.00pm. Phuong was probably already downstairs. Damn, I didn’t have time to change into something more professional-looking.
    â€˜Where’s that copy of the Herald Sun you were reading?’
    He pointed to the sofa. I flicked through to the EYE ON THE GLITERATI pages, found the article and tore it out. Then I put on my coat. ‘I’m going to see Phuong.’
    â€˜Bout time,’ Ben said.
    As I opened the door, I noticed, with a heavy heart, a red blink on my landline phone. She must have called while we were in Tania’s flat. I hit play .
    It’s Mum, love. Tyler’s fortieth birthday’s this weekend. I’m having a little get together for him here at the farm. Making that casserole you like, and a sponge. By the way, that Shane Farquar’s been ringing up here leaving messages, saying things.
    Ben was laughing. ‘Dodged a bullet there, Stella.’

8
    PHUONG ROCKED up in an unmarked Commodore she’d wangled from the Victoria Police maintenance garage. I hopped in and we fanged out of there. Soon, we were merging into the westbound traffic on the toll flyover and navigating the bewildering weave of highway ribbons. Make a wrong turn, hesitate for a nanosecond, and you could find yourself in Geelong or Bendigo, or back where you started. But Phuong was up to the task, and we threaded the concrete needle, an architectural hoax, unyielding and sculptural like a Playtex bra — for lifting and separating lanes — then she sped onto the bridge like those deep-fried spicy ribs would not wait.
    As she passed a thundering P-plater in a ute — we had to be going over a hundred and thirty — she was chatting away. ‘So Ben showed up, did he? How is he, what’s he doing?’ I held the side of my seat belt and concentrated on my breathing. At the Footscray Road turn-off, Phuong slowed to a hundred. I unclenched my every muscle and silently thanked whatever God it was that had allowed me to live to see another day.
    In a lane off Hopkins Street, she parked, with two wheels on the footpath.
    â€˜Very narrow street; this is better,’ Phuong said. ‘Safer.’
    â€˜Pretty certain for a Buddhist. Where’s the doubt? The reticence?’
    She ignored me, and the many misdemeanours happening around us, like the enterprising teenager exchanging goods for money on the corner.
    Footscray was busy — and deliciousness was in the air. That’s when I twigged we were headed for Thien An, on Irving Avenue. As the aromas became stronger, I developed sudden, frenzied cravings: must eat … sugarcane prawn … fried noodle … must have … shaken beef on rice. We took a table and I studied the menu. The place was packed, and everyone was shouting to be heard over the cheesy love song on the PA and the industrial kitchen machinery being used at high revs out the back. When the guy came with the thermos of jasmine tea and the little cups, Phuong ordered in rapid Vietnamese without bothering to consult me. We were back, baby. Old times.
    â€˜I need to ask you about a police thing.’
    â€˜Another police thing?’ She poured out the tea. ‘What did you overhear now?’
    I looked at her without speaking.
    â€˜What?’
    I said, ‘Well, just now I overheard my friend being a total bitch.’
    Phuong had the decency to look chastened. ‘I regret that remark.’
    As apologies went, it was pathetic, but I moved on. ‘It’s about my neighbour, in the flat across the landing; a young woman living on her own. We were supposed to meet today and she didn’t show. She didn’t go to work. She’s not answering her phone. She’s not at home. I’m worried.’
    â€˜When was she last seen?’
    â€˜Last night — I left her place around midnight.’
    She lowered her cup and put an elbow on the table, rested her chin on her thumb. ‘Did you