The Fix by Nick Earls Page B

he threw a ball of paper at me. It bounced off the glass and landed in the corner, near a filing cabinet. It was a forced gesture, a fake, and we both knew it.
    Selina put the call through as I got to the door of my office.
    â€˜I’ve looked at everything you’ve sent us and it looks like our kind of thing,’ the producer said. I hadn’t caught her name. ‘I’m happy to go to a production meeting with it. Who else can you get us apart from the medallist? Could we get other people who were involved? Maybe some family? A mentor?’
    Yes, always yes. Keep them on the hook. ‘We’ve got plenty to choose from. I can line them up for you. There’s people at the firm for a start. A couple of the partners. I can get you the partner Ben reports to, who was in the building at the time. And the one who got hit on the head. He’s still got a scar.’
    â€˜A visible scar?’
    â€˜Sure. He’s got practically no hair.’
    â€˜Excellent.’
    â€˜Harry Potter at fifty. That’s what people have said. It’s a jagged sort of scar going back from his forehead.’
    â€˜We like that,’ she said.
    By the end of the call, I had another ‘PROBABLE’ to write up on the whiteboard. I turned in my seat to write it, then swivelled back around to find Max Visser in my doorway in sky-blue lycra bike shorts, genitals like a pressed pigeon.
    â€˜Hey, good work,’ he said, looking at the board, the stink of exertion starting to infiltrate the room. Sweat ran from his chin and his elbows and dripped onto the carpet. ‘Australian Story, hey? That’s the TV show?’
    â€˜That’s the one.’ I pushed and rolled my chair back behind my desk and away from his anatomically correct crotch. ‘If it works out they’ll probably wantyou and Frank, so maybe we could have a talk. Once you’re . . . ready.’
    â€˜Ready? Oh, yeah.’ He looked down at the vibrant Gatorade shirt that stuck damply to his stomach, pink flesh showing through the white parts of the lycra. ‘One of my kids is sick, so I started off the day at home. There’s a shower at the other end of the floor. Did they tell you that?’
    â€˜No. Well, I don’t want to keep you from it.’
    â€˜Yeah, right. There’s a place near here where they make great coffee. Why don’t we go there once I’m decent and I’ve checked there aren’t any fires needing putting out?’ He retreated, leaving a dark damp patch on the floor.
    Ben was still the issue. I could line up all the interviews and prep Max and the others without a fuss but, without getting Ben worked out, I had only trouble ahead. I put the cap on the pen, held back from the next call.
    Selina was waving her hand in front of her face as I approached her work station.
    â€˜Phew, man sweat,’ she said, as if it was still coming back at her, like a disturbed hive of bees. ‘How is it that it’s okay to wear that stuff, just because there’s a bike involved? Allegedly. Sometimes I turn round and, there it is, a face full of package. I swear he sneaks up on me. How do men think that, just because it’s got the name of some European bank across it, it’s acceptable? Blog about that some day, would you? He’s also got a totally white pair. Is anything more wrong than white lycra? Does anyone look good in white lycra? Brazilian dancers don’t look good in white lycra.’
    â€˜You should see my floor where he sweated. It’s like I just got a puppy.’
    She laughed. She pushed her chair away from her keyboard, and turned so that she was facing me. She had three photos on her desk, two of fluffy white cats and one featuring her, probably drunk, hugging a man with a shaved head and thrusting her hand towards the camera to show off an engagement ring with a splinter of diamond. The thrust put her hand out of focus, and the diamond was