by Tara Moss
‘He’s been hanging round the Cross. He still likes the shows.’
Strip shows. I knew it. I bloody well knew it.
‘And the young girls?’
‘A mate of mine used to work Paper Tiger, and according to him Damien doesn’t appear to be hooking up with the known local traders. He’d have new contacts.’ Paper Tiger was the codename for an operation to bring down the organised crime rings that trafficked ‘sex slaves’ into Australia. Most of the women were from poor villages in Asia. Some were underage, like the Thai girl who had died in the Cavanaghs’ house and had been seen with Damien. The Paper Tiger task force had been disbanded in 1995, but as far as Mak knew there were still numerous active investigations. The problem certainly hadn’t gone away, although convictions were tough to secure because the victims were often deported or wouldn’t testify.
Mak sensed that Pete had more to say on the subject. She waited, and they ate quietly for a while, the restaurant buzzing around them with kids, teenagers and office workers grabbing lunch.
‘I think he has a new guy in the Cross. Some promoter.’
Mak’s eyes widened. ‘Go on.’
‘This guy, James Wendt…he’s the son of some famous entertainer, I can’t remember who. Anyway, he and Damien have been spotted together a lot lately, and this guy has a record. He did time overseas.’
‘Drugs?’
Pete shrugged. ‘Who knows?’
‘Thanks, Pete.’ At least she wasn’t the only one who cared what Damien Cavanagh was up to.
Mak felt her heart speeding up. She wanted to know everything about this James Wendt, and Damien’s movements. If he was back to his old tricks she might be able to get some evidence this time. Better evidence. Enough to lock him away. She tried not to show too much interest, although Pete could surely guess.
‘Be careful, kid,’ was all he said.
Mak smiled. She looked out the window and watched the stream of pedestrians and traffic bustling on their way.
‘Well, look at that,’ Mak said suddenly. ‘That guy. In the hat. Him. I saw him yesterday in St Ives. That is the same guy. I’ve seen him, like, twice in two days.’
A man was leaning against a telephone pole halfway up the street smoking by himself.
‘Are you sure?’
She nodded. ‘St Ives, on the street outside the Murphys’ house. And now. Why is he still standing out there? Why not sit down somewhere?’
‘Well, plenty of office workers come out for a fag.’
‘Not in baseball caps.’ It was more a feeling than anything else. Of course she could not be certain that it was the same man, but it didn’t feel right to her, him standing there smoking in a baseball cap on George Street while everyone rushed past. He didn’t look like an office worker or one of the local rough types. He didn’t look…right.
Pete craned his neck until he spotted the man. ‘Mak, what kind of case are you doing, anyway?’ he asked, sounding concerned.
‘Just a runaway, I’m pretty sure,’ she said. ‘I’ll get him.’
‘I’m sure you will. Nothing else? No other cases? You sleeping with any married men at the moment?’
‘Fuck off,’ she said.
‘I thought not. Well then, I can’t see why anyone would be tailing you.’
Try the Cavanaghs.
‘They ever catch the guy who tried to rob you last year?’ Pete went on.
Makedde had arrived home on her motorcycle and had encountered an attacker in the hallway, an apparent burglar, in a balaclava. The man had been huge, and had a knife. Her motorcycle leathers had saved her. He had tried to stab her, but the blade didn’t penetrate her jacket. That was before Mak had run out into the street, sped off on her bike and gone under a truck.
‘Burglars don’t normally pursue their victims for blocks in car chases,’ Mak said with certainty.
‘Right you are,’ he agreed. ‘Suspicious as hell, that was. And the police didn’t find prints?’
‘Not one.’
Pete crumpled his empty wrappers in his scarred hands, and got rid of their tray. Sitting down again he spoke thoughtfully. ‘The guy out there, he could be a coincidence, or he could be another guy with the same stupid cap. That burglar, though, he was no normal burglar, you’re right about that. Mak, I think you might find yourself a target so long as everyone knows you’re gunning for Damien Cavanagh.’
Mak opened her mouth to protest, but she couldn’t lie. She thought for a moment. ‘I am gunning for him, Pete. I can’t help it. He’s a monster.’
‘I know. You’re probably right there too. Just be careful, okay? If you have to snoop around, be subtle. Watch yourself. Cover your tracks, cover your legal bases, and keep your neck in. Don’t put yourself in danger for anything or anyone, okay? It’s not safe for you. I hope I taught you that much.’
She nodded. ‘You did. I’m not stupid.’
‘I would never accuse you of that.’
She had finished her bottle of water, and she rolled it back and forth across the tabletop, frowning. ‘Can I touch it, Pete?’ she finally asked.
She could only mean one thing. He smiled, and she leaned over and touched his collapsed nose affectionately. Without cartilage it was just like putty in her hands.
‘I should go. I got an insurance case. I’ll have my guy check the database this arvo,’ he said. ‘Maybe your watch and beads will pop up.’
‘You’re the best.’ She blew Pete a kiss as she walked out. The man in the cap was gone by the time she stepped onto the footpath.
Mak arrived unannounced at Marian Wendell’s offices, eager to check Adam Hart’s diary. She’d had an idea.
‘How is my Secret Weapon?’ Marian asked. She was bent over her desk and waved Mak in with one hand.
‘Now, I don’t want you to get cross with me, but I need to make some marks on Adam Hart’s original diary.’
Marian looked up. ‘You what?’
Makedde snatched a pencil out of her purse and held it up. ‘Just with pencil. If it doesn’t work, I’ll try to erase it again.’
By now Marian was frowning. ‘If what doesn’t work? What are you going to do?’
‘Trust me,’ Mak assured her. ‘I stayed up all night reading his diaries. Something was happening to him towards the end. I think he wrote about it, and the pages were ripped out for some reason…by someone.’
‘A pencil rub?’
‘Yeah. It’s worth a try.’
Marian sighed, and handed her the keys to the filing cabinet. ‘Those diaries could end up as evidence if this kid doesn’t turn up okay.’
‘I know. I’ll wear the gloves.’ The cotton evidence gloves were soft and white, like something a gemmologist would use to handle diamonds.
Makedde hoped that by rubbing pencil lead lightly across the remaining blank page, she might be able to make out some of what had been written on the final pages that had been torn out. It was a pretty unsophisticated trick, but it sometimes worked.
‘Let me know if you get anywhere,’ her boss said, and shooed her from her office.
Mak took the diaries into the waiting room while Marian worked the phones, keeping updated on her agents and their cases.
‘Okay, don’t make me look stupid here…’ Mak murmured, opening the last diary to the torn pages and rubbing the first blank page very carefully with the edge of the pencil. Immediately she could see there were a few spots where Adam had pushed his pen hard enough into the page to make an indent, but it hardly made the entire entry legible; rather, the edges of some letters started to appear. By the time she was finished, three strings of letters had emerged.
THEAT
JOU
OVE
Theat, jou, ove?
Mak stared at the letters, willing her brain to find the connection.
CHAPTER 30
The subterranean Visy Theatre in Brisbane’s Powerhouse descended into a hush.
The intimate stage was almost bare, waiting. Eyes were fixed upon i
t. The evening performance was well underway, and the next act would soon emerge. Adam Hart sat grinning in the back row, his heart lifted by a new sense of love and possibility.
And excitement.
In seconds, there was a dramatic whirl of colour as a performer strode across the stage in a splendid Victorian costume of deep burgundy and ebony, the coat long, and the shirt finished with a tie of black lace ruffles. Lucien. As he paused and came into focus, the audience could see that he wore dark eyeliner, and on his right eye lines of black flicked up into stripes like painted eyelashes, right to his eyebrow. The man’s face was sharp, but exceedingly handsome, his mouth delicate and small, his eyes large and dark, framed by exquisitely arched brows and dramatic cheekbones. His hair was deep brown and dishevelled, and worn long around the ears, without any of the shiny falseness audiences had begun to associate with Vegas-style magicians, who seemed always to sport too much hairspray and dyed facial hair, almost as if it were a trade requirement. This man brought to mind the golden era of Victorian magic. In no time he had the small Australian audience in the palm of his dexterous hand.
Lucien the Illusionist.
Silently, Lucien extended a hand from one of his long cuffs, his palm up and fingers elegantly curled, his fingernails painted black. He beckoned stage left where a burlesque-attired assistant appeared carrying a small silver tray. In fishnets, corset and veil, she was an alluring cabaret throwback. Gracefully, she produced from the tray a small, flat object. The magician gripped it carefully between his painted fingers, and walked a dramatic arc along the footlights, holding it up. It was a razor blade, and it glimmered dangerously in the lights. To demonstrate the blade’s lethal authenticity, Lucien beckoned again to his glamorously dressed assistant, who pulled a handkerchief from the top of her corset. She held it in front of her with both hands, pulling it taut. With one swift swipe, the illusionist sliced through it with the blade, leaving it in two pieces. Satisfied that he had proved his point, he stood centre-stage and placed the blade on his tongue.
And swallowed it.
The audience winced and gasped.
Adam Hart did not wince. He had seen this act several times already, and he now sat watching carefully, a man enchanted and awed.
As if eating the razor blade wasn’t enough, the assistant now held out the plate again, placing one delicate hand on her rounded hip, as if to dare the magician to take another. He picked a second razor blade from the plate and placed it on his pink tongue. So convincing was the illusion that Adam actually tasted faint metal in the back of his throat as he continued to watch for the magician’s deceit. You simply could not swallow razor blades and expect to live. Adam knew that. Still, the effect was captivating, and unsettling. He racked his brain for how it could be done. He knew something of the technique, but only from books.
Onstage, the illusionist swallowed, uncomfortably it seemed. He coughed. In minutes he swallowed four more razor blades in the same fashion, stopping halfway to again prove their lethal edge by slicing a dramatic ‘X’ through a paper scroll. When next his burlesque-attired assistant returned she removed her necklace. She handed it to the magician, who held it up to examine it under the lights.
Incredibly, he ate it.
Lucien took a sip of water, gargled, and with a series of motions of his mouth and throat, one hand on his stomach, he reached into his mouth and—voilà!—as he opened his mouth wide, he grasped the end of the necklace. There was a razor blade dangling from it, then another, then another, all evenly placed. The string of blades came out of his mouth with surprising elegance.
He held it up to rapturous applause.
Sleight of hand…sleight of mouth…
Adam applauded with the crowd. Looking around, he saw eyes wide with the wonderment of magic, hands pounding together. Of course the audience logically knew that no one was really able to eat deadly razor blades only to attach them to a necklace within their body and pull them out in a perfect string, unharmed—but they had not picked the method, nor did they really want to know how he did it. It would be like spoiling a Christmas surprise. This was the unspoken contract between magician and audience—honest deceit.
How Adam wished he could one day be on that stage.
Now, Lucien made his exit with a wave of his dramatic cuff. He would appear again to tantalise with more of his illusions later in the program. The intimate theatre plunged into claustrophobic darkness as the curtains closed, leaving the audience with nowhere to look. Immediately the air was thick with conversation about the last act. In their seats couples touched blindly and whispered exclamations of wonder.
‘Did you see that…?’
‘Razor blades! How did he do it?’
Within this cloak of darkness, Adam sat silently, electrified, but wearing a smile. He had no wish to debate the magic of Lucien the Illusionist with anyone there, and he knew better than most what they had seen. He instead turned it over and over in his head like a child with a Rubik’s Cube. He was awed. He’d seen countless videos of routines, but this was truly the best live act of its kind that he had witnessed. He hoped that Lucien would open up to him, perhaps pass on his secrets.
Perhaps he would even invite him onstage.
When Adam watched the show he temporarily forgot his own woes and internal conflicts. It took him out of himself, and Adam Hart indeed wished to be far from himself, far from anywhere he had ever been.
There was activity near the stage.
Bijou.
The next act was about to start.
A familiar warm red glow peeked through the curtains and spread across the crowd. The lush red theatrical curtains were pulled back. The musicians—Lara, the drummer, and the contortionist-guitarist—had reassembled, looking artfully dishevelled in their tatty, old-fashioned tuxedos.
Again, Adam marvelled at how the performers could play so many roles, and show such a range of skills. He could still hardly believe that the troupe had only seven performers; there seemed so many more. And there is about to be one more. He applauded along with the crowd, feeling the soft wings of butterflies building up in his stomach. Much more than the saucy burlesque act, and even more than the master illusionist, the next act was his favourite. It was a classic play of the Grand Guignol, a gruesome tale of love and revenge.
Le Baiser dans la Nuit.
The Final Kiss, starring the most mesmerising beauty he had ever seen.
Bijou, my lover, la femme assassinée.
Adam had to watch the play carefully. Bijou was grooming him for the starring role.
CHAPTER 31
Here we go.
Mak had already worked a full day on barely a wink of sleep. In addition to meeting up with Pete, and pencil-rubbing Adam’s diary, she’d checked out the Théâtre des Horreurs website, following up on the flyer she’d found in the diary. It had some interesting, undated photographs of their performances, but unfortunately it looked like it was not updated frequently. She’d also hoofed around St Ives interviewing Adam’s neighbours, with little result. She’d clocked off at seven to work on her own extracurricular assignment—seeing what Damien Cavanagh was up to. She had again started with her trusty computer, trawling the internet for hits on the man Pete Don had mentioned, and quickly found references to James Wendt and his stint in a Spanish jail for drug trafficking. He had only just been released and was already looking well connected in Australia. She had printed off a colour photograph of him and folded it into her purse.
Waiting, waiting…
Now in a black figure-hugging satin dress and heeled leather boots, Mak was prepared for a night of either continuing to sit in her rental car bored to tears for a few more hours, or following Damien through the sleaziest dives in Kings Cross or to a meeting with the questionable Mr James Wendt. She realised that she so desperately wanted to catch him up to no good, it bordered on perversity. After three hours stuck in the car with an increasingly pained bladder, she was ready to jump at any chance of a lead.
Around midnight, the waiting game was finally over. Damien Cavanagh pulled out of the driveway of the Darling Point house, impossible to miss in his black Lamborghini. He was without a minder. Mak followed him at a distance, wondering what the heir to one of the biggest fortunes in Australia might do on a sleepy Wednesday night. He drove himself into the city and stopped in an alley outside the Metro, a rock venue. Mak rolled the window down, and heard music pouring out. Patrons were still arriving. Two women in tiny dresses and fishnet stockings passed the man at the front door and teetered up the steps inside.
GOOD DRUGS BAD WOMEN, a poster outside the theatre declared, promising international burlesque acts. Mak thought the name of the gig inappropriate for Damien, who seemed more interested in bad drugs and good women—good, underage, innocent women. In fact, the whole gig seemed a little too cool for a spoilt rich kid. But burlesque was sweeping the world with new-found popularity, thanks to Dita Von Teese, and it seemed that even the rich and infamous were interested. She wondered if James Wendt was inside, enjoying the show.
Mak watched from the car as two men rushed down the steps to greet Damien. One took keys from him to park his flashy Diablo somewhere safe. The other passed him a black eye-mask and led him inside.
An eye-mask? Dress-ups?
A vote for anonymity, she expected. Well, she had some tricks of her own. Mak found a park a couple of blocks away, pulled a black pageboy wig out of the glove box, and struggled for a few minutes to tuck her blonde hair underneath it. She lacked the fishnets and Mary Jane shoes that would make the burlesque theme work, but after hiking up her dress a couple of inches and slicking red lipstick across her mouth, she looked like she was part of the scene.
She locked the car and strolled up the street towards the venue, making a show of herself as she approached the bouncer.
‘Hi,’ she purred confidently.
‘Ticket,’ he replied, unaffected.
‘Do I need a ticket?’ she asked, bringing a finger to her mouth. ‘I’m with our friend…you know, in the Diablo. I had to make sure it was parked.’