by Lisa Walker
‘Me? I could never go to the dark side.’ Raising my leg, Ninja style, I kick him in the shins. ‘Ha.’ Too much sugar always makes me emotional.
‘Ow,’ Rosco hops, clutching his leg.
I have a flashback to the last time I kicked him. It was ten years ago, when he told me he didn’t want to play Star Wars with me anymore. ‘The horse was never with you,’ I yell, as I did back then.
Jumping the last few stairs, I burst onto the street like a Jedi starfighter escaping a death star. It’s only when I get to the car and look in my rear-view mirror that I see the chocolate smeared all around my mouth. My hand shakes as I wipe it off.
I start the car. This appalling day isn’t over yet—date with the American Bloke to contend with, I still have.
19
Back home, I tell Jacq and Nan I’m going out for work again, as I did for my previous date. It’s easier than explaining why I’ll be wearing a blonde wig and a push-up bra and they have to call me Anna.
Obviously, I don’t tell them I’ve quit my job. Still, every time I think about Rosco, fury rises like a tsunami fuelled by a Mars Bar sugar explosion. It’s probably a good thing I’m going out on a date. I won’t have any tooth enamel left if I don’t keep my mind on other things.
My phone rings as I’m getting ready. I don’t recognise the number, so I let it go to message bank—I’m too angry for conversation. If it’s Rosco, calling to apologise, I’d possibly be open to that I suppose. If it’s a good apology.
But it’s Luna. I recognise her high-pitched voice straight away. ‘Hey, we’re having an action tonight for whales. If you want to come along and help, give me a call?’
Whales? Is that the same as Women Against McSushi? In either case, pass.
I parade the second outfit from my ‘femme fatale’ bag—black fake-leather pants and a spaghetti-strapped lycra top with ‘sexy’ written on it in some sparkly stuff. It’s not unlike the outfit Olivia Newton John wore when she shed her goody goody image in Grease back in 1978. In fact, judging by the little moth holes on the top, which you can hardly notice, it may even be the same outfit. I saw the stage production of Grease in Brisbane a couple of years ago and it was so much fun I downloaded the music on Spotify afterwards.
‘You look like Barbie,’ says Jacq, looking up from her dinner. Knowing her feelings about Barbie, it’s not a compliment.
‘You look very nice, Olivia,’ says Nan. Considering Nan’s taste in clothes, this is also not a compliment.
There’s a knock on the door and Nan opens it. She eyes the American Bloke and looks back at me in a way that says she’s onto me. ‘Your date’s here … Anna.’
Jacq spikes her fish finger hard enough to bend the fork prongs and mutters, ‘He looks stupid.’
In a strange serendipity, the American Bloke, who is called Brandon, looks like John Travolta in Grease—tight jeans, white T-shirt, slicked-back hair. He seems okay.
On the street, Brandon opens the door of his spotlessly clean old Holden for me.
I flutter my eyelashes at him. I never know what’s going to happen when I put on my disguises, it’s almost like they’re enchanted. Off come the daggy clothes and, voila, I’m someone else. Considering my current circumstances, it makes a nice change.
Brandon’s booked a table at a Mexican restaurant. Usually I hate Mexican, but tonight, it turns out, I don’t. Hot Tamales specialises in funky ‘New Mexican’. The food isn’t bad—not as heavy on the cheese and beans as usual. It’s a nice contrast to the Mars Bars.
‘It’s hard to find places in Australia that do good Mexican.’ Brandon sips his margarita.
I stick with water. I don’t want to add alcohol to the volatile mix already in my system. ‘We’re spoiled rotten in America.’
It turns out he’s an actor and a dancer—I might have seen him on Dancing with the Stars? I haven’t, but am impressed nonetheless. ‘I love Dancing with the Stars,’ I say.
He goes a bit vague when I ask him what he’s working on at the moment and mumbles something about ‘resting’.
I tell him I’m a law student. Come to think of it, that might be the truth. As of today, I need to reconsider my options. I don’t want to think about that now. ‘Why’d you go to speed dating?’ I ask.
‘I’m into speed. My take is, something good can only be improved by doing it faster. To be honest though, it was awful. Can you believe those laminated questions? I did meet you, though, so it wasn’t all bad.’
After dinner, he asks me back to his place for a coffee.
I hesitate. Going back to guys’ places is not my thing. In fact, I’ve never done it before. I’m about to say no when he speaks again.
‘Just for dancing.’ Brandon smiles.
Dancing sounds harmless. I could do with some fun after the wreckage of today. I have pepper spray, a phone with triple zero on quick dial and a super-loud emergency whistle in my handbag if required. ‘Okay. Why not?’
Brandon lives on the twentieth floor of a Surfers Paradise apartment—Casa Del Rio. There’s a lot of that Mediterranean thing about. As we whiz up in the lift I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My blonde hair is tousled and my lipstick smudged. I take my high heels off at the door.
‘Take a seat.’ Brandon gestures at the couch and vanishes into the kitchen, returning with two cups of coffee. His eyes twinkle as he hands me a coffee.
It’s lucky I’m in an adventurous mood as things quickly turn a little strange.
‘I’ve got a treat for you.’ He slips a record on an old-style vinyl record player and leaves the room.
The music’s familiar. Grease. What a coincidence.
As ‘Greased Lightning’ starts Brandon reappears. He is now dressed in black leather pants and a black singlet. Striking a pose, he tosses his head back, John Travolta-style, moving into a hip-thrusting dance number.
I bite my lip to stop myself giggling. But it’s kind of cool. He’s a great dancer. After a few moments, he puts out his hand and I stand to join him. He twirls me and dips me so effortlessly, it makes me feel like I can dance.
As the music fades Brandon dashes from the room. A 1950s-style bikie, complete with bikie cap, dances in for ‘Summer Lovin’’. My participation doesn’t seem to be required for this one so I watch from the couch and sip my coffee. Brandon winks as he struts from the room at the end of the song. The grand finale is Saturday Night Fever and I’m not surprised to see him emerge in a white suit.
Brandon smiles as the song ends, his legs spread wide and finger pointing to the ceiling. ‘You like?’
I giggle. I do like. ‘You’re a John Travolta impersonator.’
Brandon nods. ‘Among other things.’ He struts towards me, peeling off his white jacket. He has no shirt underneath. ‘You’re the one that I want,’ he sings. ‘Oo, oo, oo.’
My pulse goes faster. ‘It might be time for me to—’
But he reaches down, slips his fingers under the front of my wig, and rips it off.
‘Ow.’ I rub my forehead.
‘Much better. You have beautiful hair. You shouldn’t hide it.’
I’m disconcerted, but he’s smiling. ‘How’d you know I was wearing a wig?’
‘I’m in the biz, babe. I know a wig when I see it.’
The biz? He’s a PI too? ‘What biz?’ I try to sound unconcerned.
‘Showbiz. What biz did you think I meant?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘So why were you wearing a wig?’
‘I … I wanted to make an impression at speed dating. Then I was stuck with it.’
Brandon looks into my eyes. ‘You would make an impression dressed in a sack.’
My face burns. ‘I think I should—’
‘No, don’t go yet. I’ll get us something to eat.’ He nods towards the balcony. ‘Why don’t you check out the view?’ He heads to the kitchen.
I debate whether to leave, but he seems harmless and I wouldn’t mind a snack so I go out onto the balcony. The
twinkling lights and dark sea give the Gold Coast a beauty it doesn’t have at ground level. It’s calming looking out at gleaming blackness all the way to the horizon.
Brandon comes out with a plate of cheese and biscuits. He’s put the white suit coat on again, which is good.
‘You’re an amazing dancer,’ I say through a mouthful of cheese and cracker, wiping the crumbs from my mouth.
Brandon shrugs. ‘Dime a dozen.’
‘Do you live here by yourself?’ It’s a nice apartment for such a young guy. Especially one who is ‘resting’.
‘Yeah.’ He leans on the balcony beside me. ‘I get a pretty sweet deal.’ At that moment, his phone rings and he pulls it out of his pants. ‘Yeah, yeah. Okay,’ he drawls into the receiver. ‘You what?’ There’s a pause before he abruptly turns the phone off. When he turns to me the mood has broken.
‘Something come up?’
Brandon gives a forced smile. ‘Yeah, it’s my agent. Turns out I’ve got an early start in the morning—an acting gig.’
I take the hint. ‘Right, I’d better head off; I’ve got an early start too. I’m taking my sister to Ocean World for her seventh birthday.’
Brandon blinks. ‘Ocean World? You know there’s a roller-coaster there that’s the fastest in the Southern Hemisphere?’
‘Thanks for that. I know to avoid it now.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about the waterski show; I hear it’s pretty bad,’ he says.
‘Right. Hot tip.’ My wig lies on the coffee table like a dead silky terrier. I pick it up and stuff it in my handbag.
Brandon calls me a taxi. ‘We’ll get back together soon?’ He kisses my cheek, but his heart doesn’t seem to be in it.
I nod vaguely. It’s not a definite commitment.
I check my phone on the way home in the taxi, but there’s still no message from Rosco.
It looks like we’re having a Mexican stand-off. I replay our stair-corridor showdown. It’s possible that I may have overreacted, but I’m not going to be the one to apologise first. That would be setting a bad precedent.
20
‘Witness the dolphins’ amazing agility and grace as they interact with their trainers at Dolphin Cove …’
Ocean World is a lot of fun at first. It’s good therapy. I’m too busy to check my phone every few minutes to see if I’ve missed a call from Rosco. He is, however, still on my mind.
There’s no way I’m going to apologise. He’s the one who acted like a jerk, concealing the McSushi case from me. Not to mention having lunch with Brooklyn, when he was supposed to be having lunch with me. But I don’t know what I’m going to do with my life if I can’t be a PI. And maybe I wouldn’t have kicked him in the shin if I hadn’t eaten all those Mars Bars. Too much sugar does terrible things to my judgement. I heard someone pleaded diminished responsibility in a murder case once, due to eating too much chocolate. I can understand that. Anyway, all things considered, I’m open to the idea of a grovelling apology. From Rosco, that is. Not from me.
In the meantime, there are the dolphins. The way they burst from the water, spin and leap, it makes my blood sing.
‘Dolphins have always been a source of wonder for humans,’ says the announcer, a girl with long burnished hair, as one of the dolphins does an effortless backflip. ‘There are many stories of them rescuing people from shipwrecks or driving away sharks.’
I’ve always been a sucker for dolphins—me and everyone else, I guess. As I watch the dolphins race around the pool, I wonder what’s in it for them. The crowd loves it, the dolphin trainers are ready to explode with excitement, the dolphins—well, they seem to be having fun, but how would you know? The trouble with a permanently smiling face is that nobody knows when you’re sad.
Jacq is hooked from the first second. ‘How do you get to be a dolphin trainer?’ she asks me, adding it to her career dreams. I imagine most of the kids in the crowd are asking the exact same question. From the look of the trainers, being young and good-looking are pre-requisites. Maybe a PhD in animal psychology ranks a close third.
It begins to rain as we move on to the waterski show but it doesn’t dampen our spirits. Brandon was right, though; it’s a pretty weak act—lots of girls dressed as meter maids and boys dressed as bikies. I wander off for a cup of coffee while Jacq watches the show, riveted.
The trouble with theme parks is, they don’t know when to stop. It’s not enough having dolphins, polar bears, dugongs, seals, waterskiers, penguins and pelicans; they have to have rides, 4D movies, junk food, rides and more rides. I defy anyone over ten to face a day of this without becoming crabby. It can’t be just me. By mid-afternoon I’m ready to karate chop any penguin who gets between me and a lie down.
My watch crawls gradually towards five o’clock. Closing time can’t come soon enough. The constant drizzle has turned to rain. People in plastic ponchos mill around like cut-price Lord of the Rings extras. Nearby, a family in sodden Gold Coast T-shirts pose in front of a dispirited polar bear.
We’ve done the Waterski Wipe-out, the Quest for the Golden Seal and the Dolphin Show. We rode the Pirate Ship until I was green and staggered from fairy floss to hot dogs to ice-cream. This has been the longest birthday celebration of my life.
‘Thank you for visiting us at Ocean World. The attractions are now closed. Please make your way to the exits. Gates close at five-thirty,’ coos a woman’s voice over the loud speaker.
Oh hallelujah, praise the Lord. ‘Time to go, chook.’ I pull up the hood on Jacq’s poncho. Jacq has the deranged look of an overstimulated child. Her cheeks are flushed and there’s a stubborn set to her chin. Tears may come at any time. As I steer her over the bridge spanning the shark pool she digs in her heels and grasps the handrail. ‘Look. Look there. The shark’s swimming funny.’
I look down, sighing. I’ve already seen sharks swimming funny. Oh yes, and seals jumping funny, dugongs looking funny and kids throwing up funny. I’m pretty much over funny. Plus, I can barely see through the raindrops plastering my glasses. Lighten up, Scrooge, I tell myself. It’s your sister’s birthday. Go the distance.
I take my glasses off, wipe them on my damp T-shirt and replace them, focusing on the pool.
In the unnaturally blue water below us, a large shark seems to be doing the cha cha to an unheard rhythm, its body wiggling from side to side. We aren’t the only ones to notice. Others pause, keen for one last smidgen of excitement.
‘Maybe it’s going to have a baby,’ says Jacq.
It does appear to have a bulge around its midriff. With one last frantic wiggle it opens its mouth. The crowd hushes as a whitish object floats from between its jaws.
‘It’s a baby shark,’ Jacq squeals.
I shake my head. ‘Might be a fish.’ I didn’t do high school biology for nothing.
The woman beside me screams through a mouthful of ice-cream. ‘It’s an arm.’
My stomach contracts as I peer more closely. Floating on the water’s surface is a hand and part of an arm. It rolls palm up with the current, revealing a tattoo on the wrist. I pull Jacq away as a gentle wave of water washes over the black outline of a man cross-legged in lotus pose.
21
‘Stand clear of the shark pool. Please stand clear of the shark pool.’
News spreads quickly across the theme park. It’s like someone has yelled ‘free beer’. The exiting crowd rushes back to the shark pool, pushing at the fence like a wave against a breakwall. Mayhem ensues.
After a few minutes of mob rule, the Ocean World staff take control of the situation, moving the shell-shocked crowd away. A girl in a blue T-shirt and shorts touches my arm.
‘Miss? We’re trying to clear the area.’
‘I’d better stay,’ I say. ‘I know that arm.’
It doesn’t take long for the R to arrive. They tape off the shark pool while Jacq and I watch, huddled under a cafeteria umbrella. The rain is falling heavily now, cascading off the points of the umbrella and splashing onto our feet
. The Ocean World girl points at me and one of the cops swaggers over.
I know as soon as I see him we’re not going to get on. He’s about fifty, ruddy faced, his stomach straining at the buttons of his blue shirt. His mouth is set into a suspicious scowl. I bet he’s one of those men who get off on power.
‘Why don’t you check out the underwater tunnel, Jacq, while I talk to the policeman?’ I point at the viewing area opposite and Jacq trudges off. In retrospect, it’s not the most sensitive place to send her. Still, she can’t afford to develop a morbid fear of aquaria if she’s going to be a dolphin trainer when she grows up.
The cop slides a notebook out of his tight back pocket. He takes my details and narrows his eyes when I tell him how I know Ajay.
‘Bit of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say? We’ll have to talk to your boss.’ He consults his notebook. ‘Mr Ledger at Gold Star Investigations?’
‘I don’t work there anymore.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since yesterday—I resigned.’
He fixes his washed out eyes on me and I feel as guilty as hell. ‘Hm.’ He makes a note. Hopefully Rosco will vouch for my innocence. ‘Do you have any thoughts about who might have done this?’
Where to start? I tell him almost everything—McSushi, the whale meat, Luna and her group, the rats, the Georgia Hansen photograph. There’s only one thing I leave out: Luna’s call to me last night.
I’m not sure why I don’t tell him—an instinct to protect her, or at least give her a chance? It’s too damning. We’re having an action for whales tonight—and next day the arm of Ajay, who promotes McSushi with whale meat in it, turns up in the shark pool. Sending this guy after Luna feels wrong. It would be like sending a pit bull terrier after a tiny fluffy dog in a hemp jacket. Or something like that.
The cop pulls a card out of his back pocket and gives it to me. ‘We might need to talk to you again. Give me a call if there’s anything else you want to tell us.’ Again his eyes drill me. Either he knows I’m keeping something back or that’s his standard technique.