Harold Wilde gazed at Mac appreciatively. He couldn’t see the waiter any longer, which was disturbing, but he was on the Honey Bear, where everything was available at all times, so he was relatively relaxed. Waiters needed to know their business, which was to bring sustenance to honest, hardworking citizens and then clean up afterwards, just as he tried to help people in his capacity. And indeed, sometimes, to clean up afterwards. But to have a host like Mac, who understood the basic needs of man, who was more than a hardworking citizen, a veritable towering colossus of business, and the arts apparently (something Harold hadn’t known before), and a friend of the Prime Minister apparently (something Harold couldn’t forgive himself for not having known)-well to have a man like this still able to appreciate the small things, like food and drink-it was a blessing for society.
‘And Harold, I happen to know one of your favourite restaurants is right on that wharf in front of us. Am I right?’
A greedy smile crept over the flabby folds around the senator’s various chins. ‘Oh, it’s true, Mac. I can’t deny it. I do love the Capricorn. They are so welcoming to me and their food is so beautiful. And a wonderful cellar.’
It was true also that the owners of the Capricorn Ristorante were never so pleased as when Harold Wilde lowered his vast posterior into one of their leather chairs. It was certain that, over the next four hours, those dishes and wines that all restaurateurs pray will be ordered would be so ordered. Not that Harold ever paid a bill, at the Capricorn or anywhere else. A senator’s pay was meagre and he had a family to feed. Not that he ate often with his family, affairs of state prevented it, but, metaphorically, the responsibility was onerous.
‘So here’s the menu, Harold. What’ll you have?’ The plasticine-like consistency of the skin enveloping most of Harold’s features did not allow a great number of subtle expressions to shine forth, but surprise overcame these impediments. ‘Are we going ashore, Mac? I thought we were dining aboard. Please don’t incur any trouble on my account.’
Mac smiled. ‘No trouble ever, Harold, to plan a pleasant evening for friends. We are dining aboard. The Capricorn awaits our order, our tender will be at the wharf as soon as we ring it through, it will be on board in three minutes and served by one of their own waiters. Take your time checking the specials while I get Bonny and the others into gear.’
When Mac returned from the saloon-where Bonny and friends, along with Maxwell Newsome and Shane O’Connell, were playing charades-he noticed an outsized glass of white wine by Harold’s side. Either the whale was capable of raising itself under its own power, which he doubted, or it had somehow sent a telepathic message to the waiter.
‘So many delicacies, Mac. They have the truffles again. Marvellous, pungent little things, the Tasmanian ones. Some say not as good as the French. I say give me both and I’ll let you know, hey?’ A laugh of sorts shook the jelly mould under the white garment covering Harold’s upper body. ‘But they also have the local mussels. I love mussels. And mud crabs are in season. Oh, I love mud crabs.’
Mac interrupted before the entire menu was broadcast in a symphony of love. ‘Yes, it’s all great. But they’re not quite ready for us to order.’ Harold’s face managed an attempt at crestfallen. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t be long. There’s something I want you to do for me.’
Reluctantly, Harold placed the menu where a lap would normally be and took up the wineglass, but its trajectory was interrupted.
‘I want you to ask a question in parliament for me.’ Asking questions in parliament was exactly what Harold Wilde did not do. Ever. They were bound to offend someone, even if it was only members of the Opposition, and intelligent senators were not in the business of offending. They were there to serve, even if it was only members of the Opposition.
‘Of course, Mac. How can I be of assistance?’ It was excellent wine; French, he thought. Perhaps a chablis. Very dry anyway. Lovely.
‘It’s a simple inquiry, Harold. I just want you to ask how the government’s review of the application of Australian Prudential Standards to foreign insurance companies is progressing and how quickly the new rules will be introduced.’
Harold’s small eyes narrowed, which meant they virtually disappeared into the folds of skin surrounding them. ‘Is there such a review?’
‘There is indeed.’
‘I’ve not heard of it before.’
‘Exactly. That’s the point. We want people to know. People should know it’s underway.’
Harold shifted again, but it was a half-hearted effort. ‘Yes, of course. And will anyone be surprised to learn of it? I mean, is it known in the higher circles of government?’
‘As high as you can go. Everyone wants it known before it gets too far down the track. But the government doesn’t need to make a big deal of it and frighten off foreign investment. You see the point?’
Harold wasn’t sure he did see the point, but nor could he see any means of escape which would still enable him to enjoy the comforts of the Honey Bear, the loss of which was too painful to contemplate. Particularly with the menu resting comfortably below. ‘You don’t think someone more distinguished than myself, Mac? I’m really not all that familiar with these matters.’
Mac beckoned the waiter to refill the glass. ‘You’re the man, Harold. I wouldn’t trust anyone else. I’ll send the exact wording to your office on Monday, and I’d like you to do it first up when the Senate resumes on Tuesday. Now let’s get that order in.’
When the guests had been despatched, or slurped in Harold’s case, into a fleet of chauffeured cars, and the Honey Bear had slipped away to the quiet bay off Clifton Gardens on the harbour’s north shore, Mac lay beside the perfect contours and mounds of a fragrant Bonny, listening to the even, relaxed breathing of a fit, young body full of grilled vegetables and peach juice. His body was full of a very different brew of gnocchi with four cheeses and spatchcock with bacon and a chocolate slab that seemed to be made of pure cocoa and was now swimming for its life in a sea of chablis and shiraz. Topped with a little cognac. He felt terrible. Inside and out. That was the disturbing part. He wasn’t exercising anymore. There was no punching at Bonny or skipping in the park-or anything much. Ever since she hadn’t been invited to the party of the year, privileges had been withdrawn. It was the old ‘power of the pussy’ trick. Well it wasn’t going to work on him. He’d ride it out until she relented. Still, he wasn’t riding at all at the moment and no one was coming anytime soon. And he was developing those handfuls of flab at the extremities of the waist that ordinary mortals of his age carried around. It was distressing. He wasn’t an ordinary mortal.
The real problem was, however, the banks didn’t seem to understand that. Ever since the HOA share price had tumbled, now an unpleasant memory long in the past, they’d been asking impertinent questions. Just because it had seemed for a while that a margin call might require speedy liquidation of a few of Mac’s assets, they were now poking around trying to get a fix on precisely what those assets were, and where they were. It was unprecedented, unnecessary, impertinent. They’d virtually thrown the money at him in the first place, fallen all over themselves to grab the biggest slice of debt, never asked for any security except the HOA shares, lunched and massaged and arse-licked their greasy noses into the Big Mac pie, and now they wanted to cover themselves. It had been the presidents and the chairmen and the CEOs who’d been swanning around in the selling stage. Now, suddenly, he’d been called to a meeting of the syndicate-they’d formed a fucking syndicate, for Christ’s sake-and he’d had to sit in some nondescript building in a crappy little room with no view and one window and answer questions asked by a bunch of schoolboys. Fucking children they were, asking him, Mac Biddulph, Big Mac, what he owned and owed. And the coffee, if you could call it that, was served in a paper cup. A paper fucking cup, for Christ’s sake.
Still. The problem was that even though none of them had reached puberty, or if they had their voices were never going to break because their tiny balls had disappeared up their tiny arses, despite this and their synthetic shirts and cheap ties with fake symbols, the questions were very specific. The questions were grown-up. Someone else had obviously written the questions and handed these little shits a list of instructions. But they were quite good at improvising. And they seemed unimpressed by bluster and evasion and bullying. Some of them didn’t even seem to know who Mac was. There was one slant-eyed little prick from a bank in Hong Kong who didn’t even appear to know what HOA was. He’d kept saying inane things like, ‘It’s our shareholders’ funds we seek to protect. We must have adequate security or return of the funds.’ And the others had followed his lead. Next time the yellow turd arrived at Sydney Airport, he’d be told to hop it back home for a bowl of noodles, Mac would see to that.
Still. The problem was, Mac couldn’t answer the questions. He had the assets, of course he had the assets. But proving he owned them, that was another issue. They were tied up in companies whose whole frameworks had been established to prove he didn’t own or control them. For obvious reasons. But not reasons that could be made
