by Tara Moss
‘No,’ Mak said, laughing.
‘Well, I don’t mind telling you that last night I did four private dances and made over fifteen hundred, cash. My husband and I are saving for a house. Maybe we’ll have it by the end of the year.’
‘Good luck with that,’ Mak said.
Charlotte led Mak out, hand in hand again, with Bogey trailing behind. Charlotte still looked a little nervous about their earlier conversation, but Mak thought she would slide back into character soon, and she did. She left them at the bar and sidled through the crowds of men again to go looking for her next lucrative dance.
Bogey appeared a little awestruck. He had been quiet throughout the dance, perhaps unsure of where to look, or of what could be said, especially in Mak’s presence.
‘Thanks for that,’ Mak told him. ‘You were very helpful. I think I got what I needed—my work is done here. Do you want to leave now?’
He nodded. ‘Your wish is my command.’
After the crowded and somewhat surreal atmosphere inside the Thunderball Club, walking out into the fresh air on Lonsdale Street was a relief. Mak took a deep breath and tilted her head up to the stars. The air was clear, things were quiet, and there weren’t any crowds of men. This was better.
She looked at her watch; it was nearly two in the morning. They had been inside for over two hours.
Suddenly, the tiredness hit her.
Bogey opened the passenger-side door and she got into his Mustang. He shut the door for her and went around to his side.
‘Which hotel are you at?’ he asked.
‘Tolarno, St Kilda, thanks.’
He started up the car and negotiated the dark streets while Mak ruminated over what had happened. She couldn’t believe that all that evasive action by the warden girl was due simply to an in-house rule of not talking about the boss’s private life. It had seemed a bit over the top. Mak supposed the girls might be protective of one another, though. Any swearing to secrecy of personal information in that club would be a good thing, she supposed. But she would have to get all the info she could on Larry Moon.
‘What did you think of all that?’ Mak finally asked Bogey.
He was concentrating on the road. ‘What did I think of my beer, or what did I think of you shouting me an expensive lap dance?’
Mak laughed. ‘That must have seemed a little weird.’
‘No, it’s fine. I understand. You needed information from her and you figured that was the best way to get her to talk.’
‘Yes.’
Despite the light banter, she sensed that they both felt awkward after the experience. Maybe it hadn’t been the best idea to bring him inside. Or, at the very least, it might not have been the best idea to bring him in to that lap dance.
‘Do you feel comfortable in places like that?’ she asked him.
‘Comfortable? Well, I like looking at women,’ he said. An honest answer. ‘Every man does. But places like that aren’t as sexy as they are supposed to be. It doesn’t offend me or anything, I just don’t go for it, that’s all.’
‘Fair enough,’ Mak said.
‘Besides, a lot of those girls are far too young.’
‘Like the bartender?’ Mak offered. She had looked like she belonged on a high-school cheerleading team.
‘Yeah. I felt a bit creepy.’
‘You did? But you didn’t do anything wrong. Most of those girls would have been, what, nineteen, twenty…or in their mid-twenties? You’re in your twenties. They hardly seem too young for someone your age. Did you see all the old farts in there, letching on girls a third of their age?’
He nodded. ‘No, it’s just not my thing. In an environment like that, everything is forced. And the girls are young, just going through the motions. Most young girls are a blank slate. You can impose your own fantasies on them but they rarely have fantasies of their own. When they get older, women know what they want. They have more character.’
‘More baggage,’ Mak added, thinking of herself. Not yet thirty, and she’d already had enough break-ups, brushes with death and run-ins with stalkers to qualify, even if she hoped she wasn’t as neurotic as the tag implied.
‘Baggage is character. Anyone without baggage comes into a relationship with nothing,’ Bogey said.
Mak thought about that. He was right, of course—by one type of thinking, anyway.
‘My baggage comes in being a good coffin-maker and a failed rock star,’ he said. ‘Yours comes in psycho killers and being a smart woman who has been treated like an idiot for half your life. And someone else’s is different.’
Mak’s throat tightened. His comments were so close to the mark, they cut. ‘I think you know too much about me already,’ she said stiffly.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t offend you, did I?’
‘No,’ she said. But his comment had rubbed her the wrong way. It brought to mind all kinds of things she didn’t want to think about. Maybe it was the late hour, or the forced intimacy they had shared in the club, but she found his frank insight confronting. She wanted to get home, and get to bed.
‘You seem older than you are, Makedde,’ Bogey told her.
As Bogey pulled the car into an available spot outside the Tolarno, there was an uncomfortable silence. Neither seemed to know what to do or say to one another.
‘I enjoyed spending time with you, Mak.’
‘Um, thanks again,’ she said, a touch distant, and walked inside. She resisted the urge to look back, but sensed that he was waiting in his car, watching her go and making sure she got inside safely.
CHAPTER 33
Marian Wendell arrived at her office at nine o’clock sharp, seven days a week. The first hour of her workday was taken up with paperwork and chasing the progress of her active sub-agents so she could keep track of them, and keep her clients informed. Makedde’s phone rang at four minutes past nine—first cab off the rank. The phone rang only once before Mak picked up. She had been expecting the call.
‘Good morning, Marian,’ she said, tired but smiling. ‘I can’t believe you come in at nine on Sundays, too.’
‘Investigations don’t stop for the weekend.’
‘No, they don’t,’ Mak agreed.
She lay on top of her hotel sheets in her underwear, slowly stretching and trying to wake herself up. She’d taken her suit out of the closet and draped it over the chair, and then fallen back onto the bed. The previous evening’s adventures at the Thunderball Club had gone late, but she felt that it had been a successful night’s work.
‘What’s the update?’
‘It’s going well so far, I think,’ Mak said. ‘I’m confident I will find Amy Camilleri later today, and she should know something of Meaghan’s private life. She is shacked up with the owner of the strip club she works in. I’m going to pay a visit, but I need a car. Can I get a rental? Can we budget that in?’
Marian paused. ‘I’ll organise for it to be sent to your hotel in the next hour or two. You need it urgently?’
‘No. An hour or two is fine. I have some things I need to do first.’
Like get some more sleep.
‘What are the expenses so far?’ Marian asked.
Mak reached for her investigations notebook, which she had open on the bedside table. She listed the exact hours she had worked and the price of the taxi fares, the club entry fee, and then the cost of the private dance that had brought her the latest information. Marian liked to keep her clients updated as to the precise amount each day of investigation was costing them, so that there were no surprises when it came to billing. Most jobs could be resolved in under a week, but some investigations stretched on for a month or so and could rack up quite a bill. Mak hadn’t been on one of those jobs yet, but she dreamed of it. Being paid handsomely for a long assignment might help her save enough to lease a nice office and some furniture for her practice.
‘Did you say you spent 250 dollars in…private dancing?’ Marian asked.
‘Yes.’ Mak paused. ‘Well, it
was only one private dance, but it was a good one. The dancer is the one who told me where Amy is holed up. I think Jag was right about Amy and Meaghan being very good friends, because Amy hasn’t been coming to work since Meaghan’s murder. The girl last night said that Amy sounded upset.’
‘You have receipts for everything?’
‘I don’t know if you have ever tried to get a receipt for a lap dance,’ Mak said, ‘but it tends not to work that way.’
‘Of course, of course—but you have receipts for everything else?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good girl,’ Marian said. It was a turn of phrase she tended to use a lot and, coming from a woman like her, Mak didn’t mind it. It was as if she viewed her sub-agents as her own children. ‘Don’t spend too much more of this guy’s money down there. It took a little to convince him that you needed to go interstate.’
‘Well, Meaghan’s parents, bless them, didn’t know that much about their daughter’s comings and goings. Amy should, though. I’m planning to be back by late this afternoon.’
‘Okay, give me an update again this afternoon and let me know when to book the flight,’ Marian told her. ‘Your client will be happy to know how long he will have to pay hotel bills for.’
‘No problem.’
Mak hung up the phone and rolled over, burying her head in the stiff white hotel sheets. Her body sank gratefully into the mattress. She slept like that for another forty-five minutes.
At 11 a.m., just as she had returned to her room from a delicious full breakfast and a mountain of lattes, Mak received a call from the front desk to tell her that her rental car had arrived. It was sitting out the front of the hotel. She walked back down to take a look.
To her dismay, the rental car was bright orange.
Nice. That won’t make me stand out at all.
Mak may not have approved of the colour of her allotted rental vehicle, but at least she had something to get her from A to B. The car was a small Hyundai automatic and easy to drive, a good, suburban-looking model. But orange? Mak could not imagine a more conspicuous colour. She did not want to stand out more than she had to. What if she had to watch the house for hours or tail someone? A non-flashy suburban car was perfect for the work, but not an orange one. As it was, she was likely to be driving the ugliest car on the block. Who could fail to notice that?
She changed into a lightweight suit and wore a low-cut black singlet underneath with one of her reliably impressive push-up bras, which she felt might come in handy.
Mak grabbed her supplies and headed out. She cringed as she approached the car, and started it up.
I hope I don’t run into anyone I know…
Larry Moon, the owner of Thunderball, had a residence in the suburb of Essendon. It took Mak only thirty minutes to find it using the street directory. She drove past casually at first—or as casually as an orange car could—and then parked a block away from the address. The houses in the area were mostly stucco or faux Tudor, she noticed, but Larry’s was a fetching brick veneer with fancy stained-glass windows across the front. Though it was on the same size block of land as the rest, the house was huge, looking as if it might spill onto the neighbouring properties at any moment. Without fear of competition, Larry had the most grand and ostentatious home on the block. Through the slim view provided by the front gate, Mak could see that he also had a jacuzzi built onto one side of the house. She imagined him hosting bikini parties with the girls from the club. Mr Moon was making a lot more money than his employee Amy was, that much was certain.
There was movement in the yard, but Mak couldn’t make out who it was through the fence. At least someone was home. Mak approached the house and walked up the tiled driveway to a closed front gate taller than she was, flanked by two artlessly carved stone lions. The gate was electronic, and there was an intercom video system to one side with a small round lens. A high, near-impenetrable fence encompassed the property on all sides. This guy liked his security.
Mak thought about her approach. There was some possibility that Amy would answer, but more likely it would be the club owner, Larry. With that in mind, she took off her suit jacket, slung it over one shoulder, adjusted her top and let her hair out of the ponytail.
She pressed the intercom button.
Okay, Amy. Let’s hope you’re in there…
After about a minute, during which time she heard movement in the yard, the intercom was answered. ‘Yeah,’ came a gruff voice. It certainly didn’t sound like Amy.
Mak smiled and leaned towards the round intercom video lens, which she suspected would capture her from the waist up. ‘Hi, I’m looking for Larry.’ She put her hands on her waist and flicked her hair when she spoke.
‘That’s me,’ came the voice, a lot friendlier.
‘I was hoping we could, uh, chat for a moment…’ she said, with a hint of seduction.
‘Come right in,’ the voice said almost immediately, and the gate swung open.
Yes!
Mak walked through swinging her hips. She wasn’t intending to be dishonest exactly, but she was happy for this guy to think she was there for other reasons. If it helped her get through the gate, that was just fine. She’d figured out long ago that some people were going to see her as a sex object whether she liked it or not, so she might as well use it when it came in handy. It might not seem possible now, but who knew—maybe when she was sagging and grey she might even miss the approaches of sleazy men she had endured over the years? She thought it doubtful.
Makedde walked along the driveway and stopped in her tracks beside a low, silver Maserati, dripping alluringly from a recent wash. Nice. She forced herself to keep moving, taking in everything she could. She noticed that the garden was brimming and well kept, with stone carvings of female nudes set into water features against the fence. The house itself looked even more surreal up close. The stained-glass detail pictured nude women variously reclining over one another or dancing through green fields with flowers in their hands and their pendulous breasts free to the wind.
She arrived at the front door.
Behind her, the gate shut again. She felt a slight ripple of panic.
The brass doorknob turned and the front door opened. An oversized figure loomed in the doorway. It must be Larry.
Larry Moon, owner of one of Melbourne’s most successful gentlemen’s clubs, answered his front door wearing a partially soaked white T-shirt stained with dirt, a pair of green gumboots and red Speedos. Mak saw the square bulge of a packet of cigarettes tucked into his rolled-up T-shirt sleeve, in the style of a young Marlon Brando. But Larry was no young Brando. He was vastly overweight, and Mak thought he looked a bit like Hustler’s creator Larry Flynt, only without the wheelchair.
Oh, my eyes. I think I might be scarred for life. Ugh!
Mak could not imagine any occasion for which Speedos and gumboots would be required, especially on a build like his. But she wrenched her attention away from his damp protruding stomach and the clear line of his cave-like bellybutton to look into his face, only to find that he was appraising her body right back.
‘Hi, beautiful,’ Larry said, continuing to undress her with his eyes. ‘I was just in the garden. I wasn’t expecting you.’
Ah, the garden.
‘I’m Makedde Vanderwall. May I come in for a moment?’
His eyebrows went up and he stepped back with an extravagant wave of his arm to allow her entry. ‘Certainly.’ He closed the door behind them and led her through an entry hall lit in a strange kaleidoscope of colour from the sun streaming through stained glass. When they reached the base of a spiral staircase under a crystal chandelier, he asked, ‘How may I help such a lovely lady?’
Mak smiled with a mix of professionalism and seduction. Now that she was through the gate, there would be no more hair flicking and cleavage revealing. ‘Is Amy around?’ she asked point-blank.
Larry’s smile closed up and he narrowed his eyes.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
>
‘Larry, I’m a private investigator. I’m not a cop. I’m not with the state, or the Feds. I’m not with any collection agency,’ she reassured him. ‘I am just a private investigator trying to figure out why Amy’s friend Meaghan Wallace was murdered last week. I was hoping I could have a quick word with Amy to help my investigation. She’s not in any trouble, or wanted for any reason.’
He paused, eyes still narrowed. ‘What’s in it for you?’
‘It’s a job,’ she said simply. ‘But I have a feeling there is more to Meaghan’s death than the cops think.’
Mak wasn’t really sure what she thought, but her client clearly believed there was more to it, and she figured it sounded good to say.
Larry leaned on the banister contemplatively and reached for the packet of cigarettes tucked in his sleeve. He offered her one, and after she declined he lit one and took a puff. Mak noticed that he had security cameras everywhere in the house, much like he did in the club. This guy was obsessed with both surveillance cameras and security, by the looks of that massive electronic front gate. Maybe he got a bulk deal on the stuff. And he was also obsessed with nudes—not particularly well-executed ones, either. There was a big bronze sculpture of a nude on a hall table next to the stairs. Instead of one of the classic poses, the female figure was on all fours, swinging a mane of hair back, face tilted up, eyes closed and mouth open, frozen in bronzed rapture. A stripper sculpture.
Classy.
More interesting to Mak, there were two pairs of women’s shoes scattered in the entrance hall: stilettos and some pink rubber thongs.
‘She got killed by some junkie last week, didn’t she?’ Larry said, smoke floating around his lips.
So Amy has mentioned it to him.
‘It looks like that might be the case. Maybe…’ Mak allowed room for doubt in her tone. ‘Do you remember Meaghan at all? She worked for you for a while.’
‘Vaguely.’
‘It was a few years ago, I believe,’ Mak said, hoping to refresh his memory.
‘Yeah. She was cute. Blonde, right? Petite. Tight body. She went up to Queensland to dance at Trinity for a while, then back to Sydney. We didn’t have her for long.’