10
Keith Babacan came to the ticket window. It was just after five-thirty on Monday afternoon and Mrs Lonsdale was helping Wolfgang count the day’s takings.
‘I can see I’m in the wrong business,’ Keith said.
Mrs Lonsdale looked up. ‘Good afternoon, Keith. You’ve missed your daughter, I’m afraid – she left half an hour ago.’
‘It’s your assistant I came to see, Shirley. Can you spare young Mulqueen for five minutes?’
Wolfgang followed Audrey’s father out into the car park. Young Mulqueen. Had he found out Wolfgang’s age? ‘I ... um. How was your Christmas, Mr Babacan?’
‘Good, good. And yours?’
‘Yeah, it was okay.’
‘Good, good,’ said Keith, loosening his Homer Simpson tie. He was wearing a pink long-sleeved shirt with sweat-rings under the arms, fawn trousers and shiny brown shoes. He must have come straight from Furniture Kingdom. ‘Hot enough for you?’ he asked. ‘Let’s sit in my car.’
It was a moss-green Mercedes parked illegally in one of the disabled parking spaces directly outside the entryway. The interior had a faintly chemical new-car smell and was pleasantly cool. Keith started the engine and made an adjustment to the airconditioner.
‘How much do you make in a week, Wolfgang?’
‘At the pool?’
‘No, at university,’ said Keith, then laughed his Furniture King laugh – Heh! Heh! Heh! Heh! – to diffuse the sarcasm. ‘Of course I mean the pool. What’s your take-home pay?’
‘It depends how many hours I do.’
‘Give me a ballpark figure.’
Wolfgang shrugged. What business was it of Mr Babacan’s? ‘Around three hundred dollars.’
‘Three hundred dollars.’ Keith drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘How would you like to take home four hundred, hmmm?’
The car’s engine whirred, a distant, gentle vibration through Wolfgang’s feet. ‘Are you offering me a job, Mr Babacan?’
‘That I am, Mr Mulqueen. Four hundred dollars a week – cash in hand – right through till you go back to university. Interested?’
Of course he was interested. But there was one problem: he went to school, not university, and school started in the final week of January. Still, that left him five weeks to work for Mr Babacan. Two thousand dollars.
‘What exactly is the job?’
‘Before we go into that,’ Keith said, ‘would you mind if I asked you a personal question?’
‘I guess not.’
‘Do you have a girlfriend?’
Wolfgang blushed. What sort of question was that? ‘I, um ... yes,’ he lied. After all, he was supposed to be at university. And he wanted to sound mature – mature enough to earn four hundred dollars a week. ‘But she lives down in Melbourne. She’s doing the same course as me, actually. At the uni.’
‘Does she get up here much?’
‘To New Lourdes? No, hardly ever. Mostly I drive down and see her.’ Drive, Wolfgang heard himself say. Shit. ‘Dad lets me borrow his car.’
Keith looked him in the eye. ‘She’s not the jealous type, is she?’
‘I guess not,’ Wolfgang said. He was sweating now, despite the airconditioning. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t really know – I’d never do anything to make her jealous.’
‘Do you think she would mind if you spent a bit of time with Audrey?’
‘How do you mean, Mr Babacan?’
‘Keith,’ said Keith. ‘It’s simple enough. I want you to – what’s the expression you young people use? – hang out with my daughter.’
Wolfgang ran his tongue over the groove in the roof of his mouth. Slowly this whole conversation was beginning to make sense. A crazy kind of sense. ‘Is that the job?’ he asked. ‘Looking after Audrey?’
‘Not looking after her, Wolfgang – keeping her company.’ Keith watched a group of girls coming out of the pool. ‘She doesn’t have any friends. Her mother and I, we think it would be good for Audrey to spend a bit of time with someone her own age.’
Wolfgang was watching the girls, too. One of them was Naomi Weston. He’d asked her out once. ‘What would I have to do?’
‘That’s up to you. Hang out with her. Be her friend.’
‘What if it doesn’t work?’ Wolfgang asked, following Naomi out of the corner of his eye. ‘Are you kidding?’ she’d said, loud enough to be heard by nearly everyone in the quadrangle. ‘I mean, she mightn’t want to be my friend.’
‘She seems to like you,’ Keith said. ‘But, yes, I realise this is a bit of a gamble. Women are fickle creatures at the best of times, and the Babacan women are worse than most.’ He laughed again – Heh! Heh! Heh! Heh! ‘So here’s my proposal. Give me that briefcase, will you?’
A fat leather satchel lay on the floor between Wolfgang’s feet. He passed it to Audrey’s father, who flipped open an outer flap and withdrew a white envelope. Unsealing it, he removed a bundle of fifty dollar notes, counted off two, folded them in half and slipped them into his shirt pocket. The rest he returned to the envelope and handed to Wolfgang.
‘Four hundred dollars,’ he said. ‘All I’m asking is you talk to Audrey, exert that old Mozart charm. If nothing’s happening after a week, forget the whole deal.’
‘And keep the four hundred dollars?’
Keith gave him a sly look. ‘Yep. Even if you do absolutely nothing, I won’t ask for it back. But I pride myself on being a pretty good judge of character, son – I think you’ll give it your best shot. Bernadette and I were both very impressed with you the other night. And Bernadette says she’s seen you at church.’
Wolfgang turned the envelope over, tracing the slim outline of the notes with his fingertips. If he was a good Catholic boy, would he be taking this money? It felt wrong to be accepting payment to be someone’s friend – to pretend to be their friend.
‘Does Mrs Babacan know about the money?’
‘No, son. This is strictly between you and me. Men’s business.’
The airconditioner hummed. When two boys came out of the pool and walked past the car, Wolfgang hid the envelope from view.
‘What about my job here?’ he asked.
‘Carry on as normal in the meantime,’ Keith said. ‘Obviously, even if you and Audrey do become friends, you won’t be spending all your time together. And she’s here every day anyway, I take it.’ He winked. ‘Perfect opportunity to get to know her, hmmm?’