Maybe the Horse Will Talk Read online

  ‘That’s right,’ said Maserov. ‘She’s entitled not to trust me. I’m not blaming her.’

  ‘That’s big of you,’ offered Eleanor.

  ‘If I can talk to her lawyer I won’t need to bother her directly ever again.’

  ‘What are you going to say to her lawyer?’

  ‘We don’t have to get into that now.’

  ‘Will it be fair?’

  ‘That’s what she’s got a lawyer for.’

  ‘So it won’t be fair?’

  ‘If it’s within my power it will be fair.’

  ‘Do you have any power?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘This is crazy!’ Eleanor said. ‘What do you want me to say to her?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Maserov. ‘You go up to the front door and ring the doorbell. She opens the door and sees you with Jacob in your arms —’

  ‘What! You want me to take Jacob to the front door?’

  ‘Sure, she’s not going to slam the door on a mother holding a little boy.’

  ‘But what if it’s not safe?’

  ‘Of course it’s safe. There’s no reason to think it’s not safe. She hasn’t any history of anything but alleging sexual harassment. She’s unlikely to accuse Jacob. Look, she’s an innocent victim, allegedly, remember? And anyway, her partner or boyfriend is a cop. She told me.’

  ‘A cop!’

  ‘Yeah, a chivalrous cop, apparently.’

  ‘What makes you say he’s chivalrous?’

  ‘Once when I came to the door she asked him to cover her.’

  ‘With a gun?’

  ‘I assumed it was a gun but it could have been a piece of halibut.’

  ‘She asked him to cover her! You’re willing to risk not only my life but Jacob’s life in the quest for —’

  ‘Eleanor, nobody’s risking anybody’s life. You can’t really think I’d send you into any kind of danger. You go to the door. When she sees you’re holding Jacob she won’t slam the door on you. Explain who you are and by all means you can slag me off to get her trust. Talk to her that way you do to Marta.’

  ‘What way?’

  ‘You know, that way, about men. Then tell her you can’t believe I’ve sent you here like this and then get her to tell you how to contact her lawyer, A.A. Betga. It will take less time than it’s taken to talk about it.’

  Maserov watched as Eleanor got out of the car with Jacob in her arms. Turning back towards him she whispered, ‘This is the last time I do something like this for you.’

  ‘Why couldn’t I go with Mummy?’ asked Beanie.

  ‘That would have been overkill,’ said Maserov.

  ‘Overkill,’ said Beanie, momentarily assuaged by his father’s tone rather than by the words.

  ‘Do you want to tell me about your day at school today?’ he asked Beanie, keeping his eyes firmly on Eleanor’s progress.

  ‘Not today, Daddy.’

  ‘Okay, what day would you like to discuss? What about last Tuesday?’

  ‘I don’t remember that day.’

  ‘Sure you do, came after last Monday.’

  Beanie was considering the question as he watched his father watching Eleanor in conversation with Carla on the doorstep in the distance. Carla was talking to her. She hadn’t slammed or even slightly closed the door on her. So far, so good. Maserov was heartened. With good fortune like this there was no question he had a bright future ahead of him, he told himself.

  Carla was holding her daughter to her chest with one hand and seemed to be reaching out to stroke Jacob’s wispy hair with the other. The kid was a success. Eleanor too seemed to be doing well. He wondered what they were talking about. Maybe Eleanor would come to feel invested in the case, in his career? ‘How about that!’ Maserov couldn’t help saying out loud. Carla had invited Eleanor to come inside the house. Eleanor and Jacob were going in.

  ‘Daddy!’ said young Beanie from the back of the car.

  It had been a good idea to get her involved. She’d already spent more time talking to Carla Monterosso than he could have hoped for.

  ‘Daddy!’

  The only other woman he could possibly have asked was Jessica Annand but that would have entailed disclosing the true nature of what he was doing at Torrent Industries. He winced at the thought. Sooner or later she was going to find out and she was going to hate him for it. That was coming, sure enough.

  ‘Daddy!’

  ‘What is it Beanie?’

  ‘I need the toilet.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How about a drink? Have you got your water?’

  ‘I need the toilet, not a drink.’

  ‘Oh shit!’ Maserov swore.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said his son.

  ‘Really? Really now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Standing up or sitting down?’ he asked the little boy.

  ‘Dad, it’s the sitting down kind. I need to go now.’

  A thin veil of perspiration lay on Maserov’s forehead. He told his son to hold on and then walked him to the front door of Carla Monterosso’s house, where the little boy was instructed to knock loudly at the door and ask for his mother when it opened. Maserov moved just out of the line of sight of whoever would open the door and he heard a man open the door and speak to Beanie.

  ‘Hello young fella. How can I help you?’ The surprised man was a slightly rotund but tall uniformed policeman.

  ‘I need the toilet. My mother’s in here.’

  ‘Oh, you’d better come in then. Second door on the left.’

  Beanie ran in before anybody had a chance to change their minds.

  ‘Which way is left, again?’ the little boy called as he ran inside in desperation.

  ‘The side with your watch on,’ Maserov called out to his young son who was unknowingly sacrificing his dignity for his father’s career.

  ‘I suppose you’d better come in too, Mr Maserov,’ the policeman said. He closed the door and led Maserov down the hallway to where Carla Monterosso, holding her daughter, and Eleanor Maserov, holding their son Jacob, were sitting at a wooden dining table of Scandinavian design, staring at him each with a glass of wine in front of them.

  ‘Okay, I understand you’ve got to keep your job to keep your house. And that was a brave thing you did with your boss,’ Carla said to him.

  The policeman leaned in and offered his hand to Maserov, ‘Acting Sergeant Quinn.’ He looked at least twenty years older than Carla and the nature of the relationship wasn’t immediately clear.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Ron, just let him call you Ron.’

  The policeman, now duly berated, nodded his agreement. ‘Ron, then.’

  ‘I can’t tell you where Betga is. I hate the son of a bitch but I’m not the kind of person . . .’ Carla said, resuming her conversation with Eleanor.

  She paused, not quite sure what kind of person she was. ‘Look, I think the sleazy, dishonest bastard was at least once trying to help me so I don’t want to get him into any trouble.’

  ‘He’s not in any trouble, not as far as I’m aware, not from me,’ explained Maserov. ‘I only want to talk to him in his capacity as a lawyer, as your lawyer.’

  ‘So just talk to me,’ Carla offered pragmatically.

  ‘I can’t. If he’s still representing you, I’m obliged to talk to you through him, ethically obliged. Is he still your lawyer, at least for this matter?’

  ‘I don’t have any other matters.’

  ‘Okay, sure, but is he your lawyer in your case against Torrent Industries?’

  ‘Yes,’ Carla said. ‘Yes, I suppose he still is.’

  ‘Well, how can I negotiate with him if I can’t contact him?’ Maserov asked.

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ Carla replied, ‘but that’s your problem. I’m planning on taking this to court.’

  ‘It is my problem but it’s also your problem. I can’t help you if I can’t get hold of him.’


  ‘I’m no lawyer, Mr Maserov, but isn’t it your job to help the people I’m suing?’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be like that; it doesn’t have to be a zero-sum game,’ answered Maserov.

  Carla Monterosso poured herself and Eleanor Maserov each a second glass of wine and asked, ‘It does, doesn’t it?’

  From down the hall came the sound of young Beanie Maserov flushing the toilet.

  ‘It doesn’t, actually,’ said Eleanor. ‘You know, you could do a lot worse than having my husband as the lawyer acting for Torrent Industries.’

  Carla took her gaze from her glass and gave it to Eleanor. ‘You’re a teacher, right, not a lawyer?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘I can’t tell you where he is but sooner or later you’ll find him, or at least someone who might know where to find him . . . at one of two hotels: the Dick Whittington or the Grosvenor,’ Carla said, as though hoping some or other deity would forgive her for divulging this, even if Betga wouldn’t.

  ‘Pubs . . . in St Kilda?’

  ‘Yep, sorry, it’s the best I can do. Don’t tell him it was me. Case the place for regulars and choose one. It won’t be him but they’ll know how to find him.’

  V

  ‘Are you interested . . . in craft beers?’ the man growled haltingly. The speaker had a scar that ran cheek by jowl towards a neck decorated with tattoos of over-endowed women fawning over apocryphal beasts from no mythology Maserov could recognise.

  Maserov was taken aback. Sitting towards the rear of the main bar in the Grosvenor Hotel, the day after his conversation with Carla, this was not how he remembered Betga. What had life done to him, Maserov wondered. Hair colour could be changed easily, yes, but how does one compress a body so much? The man was squat but taut with muscles that insisted on grudging respect if not outright admiration. And Maserov remembered Betga to have been tall and lithe.

  ‘Am I interested in craft beers?’ Maserov asked incredulously.

  ‘Was that right?’ the man asked more fluently in the direction of a third party Maserov couldn’t see. The third party revealed himself only when Maserov turned around.

  ‘Well, you got the words right but the tone was appropriate only if you meant to intimidate him.’

  The third party was A.A. Betga, still tall and lithe, in a crisp white shirt open slightly at the collar and lightly checked pressed trousers pleated in the style of the late forties. This was Betga’s style. No one else dressed like this and yet here he was, carrying it off without ostentation.

  ‘You’re . . . Betga?’ Maserov asked a little hesitantly.

  ‘Yes, A.A. Betga,’ said Betga, shaking Maserov’s hand. ‘And this is Kasimir. Did you mean to intimidate him?’ Betga asked Kasimir.

  ‘No,’ Kasimir replied.

  ‘Then you fucked up. Kasimir comes from a big family with a long, proud tradition, several of them, families and traditions. They were a very big name on the Melbourne waterfront at one time,’ explained Betga. ‘But things went wrong for the family ever since the Costigan Royal Commission into the Painters and Dockers Union in the eighties.’

  ‘I’ve engaged Betga as my life coach,’ explained Kasimir with something approaching pride.

  ‘How’s that working for you?’ asked Maserov.

  ‘Look, he can be a little condescending but I think we’re making progress,’ said Kasimir.

  ‘I’ll accept that,’ said Betga.

  ‘He is one of the best.’ Kasimir smiled at Maserov. ‘I shopped around. He’s a lawyer too.’

  ‘Oh, he knows I’m a lawyer,’ said Betga. ‘That’s why Mr Maserov is here. Do you want to get the two of us a beer? And that’s another one of those questions where the answer is assumed.’

  ‘Ah-ha!’ said Kasimir. ‘I knew that.’ Then, turning to Maserov, ‘I used to misconstrue like a motherfucker.’

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ Betga agreed as Kasimir headed towards the bar.

  Then Betga swivelled around on his seat to face Maserov front-on and without missing a beat he began, ‘You work for Freely Savage. The partner responsible for these files is Mike “Crispy” Hamilton. You answer to him?’

  ‘Everyone answers to him.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Betga. ‘Used to.’

  ‘You worked for Freely Savage?’

  ‘You hadn’t discovered that yet? Man, I’m surprised they’re still paying your way through the nine circles.’

  ‘The nine circles? Oh, right, Dante’s nine circles of hell.’ It had taken Maserov’s mind a moment to transcend Kasimir and the miscellany of craft beers.

  ‘It’s a change to be talking to a former high school English teacher instead of Kasimir over there.’

  ‘How do you know so much about me?’ Maserov asked.

  ‘Your wife told Carla everything. Don’t you remember? I thought you were there.’

  ‘Yeah, I was there,’ Maserov said with a sigh.

  ‘Well, I’m intrigued by what she told her about you and Hamilton,’ said Betga. ‘You’re looking for me because you work at Freely Savage and you’re acting for Torrent Industries, their most important client, as I recall, yet you’ve apparently done a number on Hamilton. Have I got it right?’

  Just then Kasimir returned holding two pots of beer.

  ‘Good work!’ said Betga. ‘What did you choose?’

  ‘I can’t say the name. It’s from Czechoslovakia or some shit.’

  ‘That’s not a country anymore, but don’t worry. You go home and I’ll see you next week. Did you tell Keith to put the beers on my tab?’

  ‘Yeah, he said you don’t have one.’

  ‘Well, that’s wrong. He’s wrong. That’s a . . . That’s an administrative error. I can fix that. Ignore it. Okay, take it off what you owe me for this month. Don’t lose your temper between here and home and, if you do, don’t express yourself with your fists or your feet. If you have to defend yourself try sarcasm. It’s scalding but leaves no injury that can be picked up by an X-ray, CT scan or any other imaging device. And it’s not illegal. Not yet, anyway. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Kasimir, I’ve got some business to discuss with Mr Maserov here.’

  Betga returned to where he’d left off before he’d accepted the free pot of Czech beer.

  ‘What did you do to Hamilton?’ he asked Maserov.

  ‘You’re the lawyer of record for Carla. Why aren’t you admitting that you’re representing the other three plaintiffs?’

  ‘Who says I am?’

  ‘I’m not quite as stupid as I look,’ said Maserov.

  ‘Someone needs to get you a mirror.’

  ‘Hey, I’m not the Supreme Court Prize winner who’s now Kasimir’s life coach.’

  ‘The two aren’t mutually exclusive.’

  ‘That’s debatable.’

  ‘I’ve got to ask you, Maserov, are you fucking with Hamilton?’

  ‘I’m just trying to survive. Why are you so interested in Hamilton?’

  ‘Why were you so interested in finding me?’

  ‘I wanted to talk to the lawyer representing the women suing Torrent Industries.’

  ‘They’re not going to settle.’

  ‘They’d be insane not to and you know it . . . For the right offer.’

  ‘Do you have the authority to make an offer?’ Betga asked. Maserov suddenly realised he didn’t know the answer to that question. ‘You don’t have that authority, do you?’

  ‘I’m not the client,’ answered Maserov after his momentary hesitation.

  ‘Exactly who are you, Maserov?’

  ‘I’m a Second Year at Freely Savage who’s trying to get to the bottom of these Torrent Industry sexual harassment cases.’

  ‘You want to make them go away.’

  ‘Preferably, otherwise we’ll win them in court but it will be ugly . . . for everyone.’

  ‘A Second Year; they wouldn’t . . . Hamilton wouldn’t normally let a Second Year anywhere near this. What the hell happened to Fea
therby?’

  ‘What happened to you? Seriously, Betga, I mean no disrespect but when I was at law school, just as you were finishing, people were paying good money for your notes; Betga on Contracts, Betga on Trusts, Betga on Tax. This isn’t a negotiating tactic. You’re right, I’d need instructions from Torrent Industries before I could make any kind of offer and, anyway, technically you don’t have the authority to be negotiating on behalf of any of them other than Carla and she’s got a problem with you that’s at least the size of any my wife has with me. But I want to know . . . as someone who admired you from afar. What the hell happened to you?’

  Betga took a sip of his Czech beer, licked the foamy residue off his top lip and stared downward in the direction of his brown brogues in a manner Maserov could already tell was uncharacteristic of him.

  ‘Hamilton,’ said Betga.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hamilton,’ Betga repeated.

  ‘What about Hamilton?’

  ‘You asked what happened to me. The answer is . . . Hamilton.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  Betga sat for a moment without speaking, looked around the room and sipped his beer again.

  ‘I tell you what,’ Betga began, ‘are you able to come back here tomorrow night?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘If you can get authority to negotiate on behalf of Torrent Industries, you come back here tomorrow night at eight. Then we can talk. You tell me what you did to Hamilton and I’ll tell you what he did to me.’

  VI

  Maserov was back in his Torrent Industries office. There were both an email and a text message waiting for him from the Freely Savage Human Resources department. The message, innocuous in itself, was to the effect that Bradley Messenger, the head there, was waiting for Maserov’s data from his survey of Second Years’ attitudes towards ‘hot-desking’. Maserov had forgotten about that obligation and the reminder was unsettling since the task would be both a complete waste of time and intensely unpleasant. Having successfully shut it out of his mind he had instead been preoccupied with his attempt to solve Malcolm Torrent’s sexual harassment problems.

  Maserov of course knew he’d need Malcolm Torrent’s authority to make a deal with Betga on behalf of the four women suing the company. But each contact with Malcolm Torrent, however necessary, was also daunting, first, because he found any interaction with a man of such power, renown and unimaginable wealth to be intimidating no matter how well their previous meetings had gone and, second, because despite their agreement, Maserov could never quite believe or trust that Malcolm Torrent was going to take his advice, back him against Hamilton should the need arise, or even remember that they had an agreement. In fact, Maserov wasn’t confident that Malcolm Torrent would even remember who he was.