by Berry, Tony
Lottie closed her eyes again. The slow rocking motion of her body continued. Bromo waited. She opened her eyes and focused on him, still gently rocking. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
‘Then there was Melissa.’
Adriana reached out and put an arm around her, hugging her close. Bromo turned away. He took another look down into the street. Not much had changed. Different people; same familiar pattern. Yet he felt an inexplicable unease. He turned back to the girls.
‘Tell me about Melissa.’
Adriana released Lottie. She straightened her sunglasses and resumed her pose – the Garbo look, enigmatic.
‘I guess it began when we had to submit an assignment, a sort of thesis at the end of term,’ she said. ‘Others in the group decided to look at youth unemployment, mental illness, aged care, several different areas. Quite separately, Melissa, Lottie and I chose to examine prostitution and its effects on society, how we handle it.’
Lottie chimed in.
‘We were all concerned about how the girls in the brothels were being treated. Officially, it’s regulated and controlled. But there’s another side to it.’
Tell me the bleeding obvious, thought Bromo, returning to his seat. He didn’t need a couple of naïve students to tell him the brothels were big and dirty business whose overlords resided deep in the most respectable corners of society while their minions dealt in threats and thuggery – the only currency they knew or understood. He gave them a prompt.
‘Drugs?’
‘Forget it.’
Adriana flicked her hand dismissively.
‘It’s much more than girls working to feed a habit,’ said Lottie. ‘That’s only part of it. A very small part. Anyway, a lot of the brothels refuse to employ a girl who’s a regular user.’
Adriana waved a hand in Bromo’s direction.
‘Sorry if we’re boring you, Mr Perkins. We thought you wanted to know.’
Bromo felt himself colouring up as he stopped the drumming of his fingers on the arm of his chair mid-beat.
‘Sorry. Nervous habit. Hangover from the past. Didn’t realise I was doing it.’
An uneasy silence fell between them. His hand went to his ear, rubbing the lobe – the stress signal, flashing red and giving him heaps. He tried to restore the momentum, put some concern into his voice.
‘Tell me more about Melissa, as much as you can.’
He must have sounded convincing.
‘She got a job in a brothel,’ said Lottie. ‘As a receptionist.’
‘Number 85?’
Sudden turns of their heads towards each other revealed their surprise. Brownie points to him; he was on the case, after all.
‘Yes. And she met this man,’ said Adriana.
‘A client?’
‘We don’t know. We think he was more likely someone to do with the management, even the owner. Melissa didn’t say too much. She became quite secretive. We got the impression she saw him as something of a father-figure.’
Bromo seized on the remark.
‘What, someone much older? How old? Did you ever meet him?’
Again the women exchanged looks. Adriana answered.
‘We’re not sure. It’s just that one day at class, during the morning break, the lift was full with room for just one more. Melissa squeezed in, the last one and the first out. By the time we got out she had dashed off. Next thing was we saw her down the end of Degraves Street, talking to an older man. She gave him a kiss, a real one, not one of those lovey-dovey things all those celebrities do. Then they went round the corner into Flinders Lane and she had her arm in his.’
Bromo looked puzzled.
‘So, you didn’t ask who he was? That’s not like the young women I know.’
Lottie looked down at the desk.
‘Melissa got back late from the break and the class had already started. There was no chance.’
‘But later?’
‘Later? That’s when it all changed. I think we said something at lunch, sort of “was that him?”, but she just smiled and changed the subject. She was always going off to see him but never really told us much about him. He’d hooked her. She was besotted.’
‘Not even a name?’
Adriana laughed – a short, throaty chuckle.
‘We did eventually manage to get that out of her. More by accident than anything else. Her phone was ringing and she said “that’ll be Maurice”. Until then she’d never said his name. It sort of slipped out. After that it was always “Maurice this” and “Maurice that” – never any details but she seemed totally rapt in him.’
Lottie chipped in.
‘Yeah, and it was always Maurice said in the French way, like that old bloke who sings in that old movie, Gigi.’
‘Maurice Chevalier,’ offered Bromo.
‘Yeah, that’s the one. Dad loved it. He used to play the video over and over. Melissa made the name sound a bit poncey, unreal. Why couldn’t she call him Morrie, for God’s sake?’
The mood was lightening. They were relaxing, shifting into girl talk. Snippets of information were dropping from their chatter. Bromo played at rearranging the papers on his desk, letting them talk, almost as if he wasn’t there.
‘That wasn’t Melissa’s style,’ said Adriana. ‘She saw herself as classy, a bit above the rest. She’d had a shit life for the past few years and I think she saw Maurice as a ticket out. Back to where she used to be – the success, the celebrity, but without the booze and the drugs. Liz Shapcott was helping her, but Maurice was something else.’
Bromo stopped shuffling his papers. Adriana made Liz sound more like an acquaintance than someone Melissa had casually mentioned. He wondered about the connection but let it pass. Going down that track would create too much of a diversion. Note it for later – and perhaps ask Liz if she remembered Melissa mentioning someone called Maurice.
He picked up a pen and began drawing on a sheet of copy paper: a circle with rectangular boxes around its rim; another box in the middle of the circle with lines radiating out to the rectangles on the circle’s rim; lines going outwards from the circle to more rectangles, some connecting, others going nowhere; names in all the boxes. Bromo suddenly became aware of the women’s eyes on him. His doodling had done the opposite of what he wanted: they’d stopped talking. Sunshades and deep black almond eyes stared at him.
‘Does that help?’ said Lottie, pointing at his sketch.
‘Sometimes. But it would help a whole lot more if you continued telling me about the mysterious Maurice and in what way he was “something else”.’
She shrugged. Looked helpless. Adriana seemed equally perplexed, one hand going up to finger a chunky necklace of gemstones hanging low down her front.
‘I told you, she was besotted,’ she said. ‘He’d been there, done that. A real Mr Wonderful.’
‘Been where? Done what?’ asked Bromo. ‘Surely she said more than that.’
‘Nothing in any great detail. We didn’t spend so much time together after she’d moved into her own place. We still got bits and pieces, odd remarks, during breaks at college. He’d served in the SAS, gone opal mining, been a radio DJ, lots of other things which seemed to appeal to her. It was as if she was living her earlier life in the spotlight through him.’
Bromo felt a surge of impatience. There were itineraries to arrange, flights to book, clients to be schmoozed. Melissa O’Grady was an intrusion he could well do without, even if it did keep him on Liz Shapcott’s A-list.
‘Maybe you should give me a call if you remember anything else,’ he said.
It was dismissive, and meant to be. Tough about their concern for Melissa, but he’d had enough of their vague hints and lack of hard facts. It was time to move on. He picked up a file from the heap on his desk and stepped across to a battered three-drawer filing cabinet.
‘Sorry ladies, time’s up. Unless you’ve got something really solid to add, I’ve got a living to earn. It’s not much, but it pays for the booze.’
He had his back to them but could sense their icy looks boring into him. Their silence was chilling. They’d been dumped. It was the morning after with one side of the bed empty and the lover of last night nowhere to be seen. Bromo knew the feeling well. He felt for them but had nothing else to offer. Lottie spoke sharply.
‘Is that it?’
Bromo turned to face them.
‘I’m afraid so. To put it bluntly, you’ve told me one per cent of fuck all.’
‘Jude Barton said you’d help us.’
‘Then Jude Barton was wrong. Teachers often are.’
He placed his hands firmly on the desk, palms down, taking his weight as he leaned forward.
‘Let’s get this straight. Melissa O’Grady, in technical terms, may or may not have been killed by a person or persons unknown, and someone equally anonymous may or may not be making threats to the two of you. I won’t accuse you of talking a load of rubbish and I promise to keep an open mind. But until someone gives me something much more positive to go on, there is bugger all I can do.’
The women stood up. Their faces downcast, unsmiling, like lottery players who had torn up a winning ticket. Adriana touched her companion on the arm, urging her towards the door.
‘Come, Lottie. Mr Perkins is right. It’s a wasted journey. He’s just a lousy travel agent.’
She opened the door with one hand and squashed her hat further down on her head with the other. Lottie stepped into the corridor. Halfway through the opening, Adriana turned back into the room.
‘You’re probably a lousy investigator, too. But as the police have washed their hands of us you’re all we’ve got. Melissa was killed, and we’ve got the stuff to prove it. We’ll be back.’
She slammed the door behind her.
THIRTEEN
Bromo waited until he was sure Adriana and Lottie were well clear of the building before locking the office door and venturing downstairs. As he peered cautiously out of the doorway a gaunt middle-aged man in a loose-fitting cream jacket shuffled past, tapping his white cane on the footpath in front of him. Bromo picked the two women out in the distance, the long and the short of it. They were doubtless heading towards the main shopping strip to trawl Bridge Road’s kilometre of discount stores selling every possible female garment along with shoes, handbags, jewellery and extras such as hairdressing, waxing, nail surgery and fake tans.
He took another look around. He was reluctant to place too much belief in Luke’s throwaway comment that his movements were being watched. In other times and other places, taking close note of his surroundings had come with the job. To ignore such simple precautions could mean the difference between life and death. It was not a skill he’d expected to use again. Yet Luke’s warning had stirred up an undercurrent of unease.
Bromo used reflections in the angled windows of shop doorways to check possible trackers as he strolled towards Jimmy’s Bakehouse – a crowded den rich with the aroma of freshly baked loaves and a temple to the pastry cook’s art. He stopped briefly at the glass-topped counter.
‘The usual, please, Dom.’
Nothing more needed to be said. Bromo squeezed between the tightly packed tables and found a stool at the bar running along the window, close to a pile of magazines and newspapers. He thumbed through and found the most recent edition of the Yarra Leader, the local weekly record of the earnest endeavours of the council and the strident protests of its discontented ratepayers. A council plan to knock down a couple of old buildings and develop a patch of wasteland into something more useable and modern was this week’s hot topic. Inevitably, it was the critics, not the supporters, who were most vocal.
Bromo turned to the classified advertisements and the heading Adult Services. From his inside jacket pocket he pulled out a pen and Melissa’s list of addresses. He flattened out the triple-creased paper and laid it alongside the newspaper.
Dom arrived with his muffin and double-shot espresso. As he put them on the bar he peered over Bromo’s shoulder, watching him run his pen down the advertisements.
‘What’s this, Bromo, spicing up business with brothel tours of Richmond?’ said Dom.
Bromo flicked over the sheet of paper, guiltily covering the advertisements.
‘Curiosity, Dom. Doing a bit of research for a friend.’
‘Yeah, pull the other one. I’ll believe you. Anyhow, what’s wrong with a bit of nooky with no strings attached. Saves a lot of trouble. You know, commitment, all that sort of stuff.’
Right or wrong, Dom had him tagged. Denials were useless. Bromo decided to play along.
‘Seems we’re spoilt for choice. Didn’t realise the old town had so many knocking shops.’
‘Been like that for decades. Only difference is now they’re registered and allowed to advertise. My old man’s seen a letter someone sent to the town clerk back in the 1930s complaining about two girls who were using the house next door for what they called “immoral purposes”. They reckoned men were being entertained there until four in the morning – and drinking booze, too. Nothing’s changed.’
Dom leaned further over Bromo’s shoulder and gently pushed Melissa’s paper to one side. His finger hovered over a single column display ad offering ‘body care and full service’.
‘There – Reno Revels. Highly recommended. The boys tell me that’s one of the best.’
Bromo twisted around to look at him.
‘Of course, you wouldn’t be able to speak from your own experience, would you Dom? It’s odd how everyone seems to know someone who’s been but they claim they never go there themselves.’
Dom pulled back and busied himself gathering an empty cup and saucer and running a cloth over the bar.
‘Yeah, well, just letting you know in case—’
His voice trailed off and he made his way back to his station behind the counter. Bromo sipped his coffee and broke open the muffin – floury and fruity as ever. He turned over Melissa’s list and resumed checking the advertisements. Some provided only a phone number. Others displayed their street address. Several of these soon had a tick alongside. Among them was the Purple Lounge, which not only claimed to offer discretion and luxurious surroundings but also “a completely new team of beautiful young ladies for your pleasure”.
Bromo reached for his mobile phone and pressed a speed dial number. She picked up on the third ring.
‘Liz, I’ve found the Purple Lounge. It’s only a few streets away. And the addresses on Melissa’s list tie in with a whole lot of local brothels.’
‘Good work, Bromo. Is this the result of diligent research or personal experience?’
‘Neither. Sorry to disappoint you, but it was simply a matter of reading the local rag.’
She laughed. ‘Too easy, Bromo.’
‘It makes up for being mugged by your tame graffiti artist.’
He heard her gasp.
‘Not Luke.’
The very same. I thought you’d be surprised.’
‘When? Where?’
He told her. An edited version. Kept it brief and to the point. Then delivered the punch line.
‘He’s the one who’s been delivering those messages.’
‘No.’
‘Yes. The good news is that he wants out.’
Dom sidled up alongside, taking Bromo’s empty glass away, raising his eyebrows in a question, keen for business but not wanting to interrupt the phone call. Bromo nodded. Another double dose of caffeine was on its way. He heard the tremor in Liz’s voice.
‘He wants out from what?’
‘Whatever, or whoever, is threatening him. He’s a frightened lad, Liz. For what it’s worth, he’s not enjoying sending you those nasty messages. And he seems to think whoever’s controlling him also knew Melissa.’
Dom delivered a fresh espresso. Liz had gone silent. Bromo sensed her at the other end of the line – trying to make sense of Luke’s attacks on her after all she’d done to help him.
‘He must be really frightened,’ she sa
id tentatively.
‘He is.’
‘Perhaps I should talk to him.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘Thanks. Let me check with his boss first. See what he’s up to. They keep a close eye on him. Look out for any problems.’
She promised to ring back soon, and cut the call. Bromo turned over the pile of newspapers and found an Age with a cryptic crossword one-third completed. He sipped his coffee and took a pen from his inside pocket. He contemplated 3 down: “Irrigator spreading conflict about tree production” and wrote “waterer” in the empty spaces. Too easy. The squares in 17 across were all blank. He filled them in: “gymnasia” – “heartless gay men join our northern neighbour in training rooms”, said the clue. He decided 8 down – “Fails to pay for flats due to restructure” – was an anagram and was jotting down a jumbled mix of the letters when La Donna è Mobile trilled from his mobile.
‘Yes, Liz?’
‘Luke didn’t turn up for work today.’
‘Maybe he’s sick. Inhaled too many spray can fumes.’
‘Unlikely. At least, the being off sick bit is. He’s pretty good about phoning in if that’s the case.’
Bromo looked at the pattern of letters scrawled along the edge of the paper. They suddenly coalesced into a word. He wrote “defaults” in the crossword’s blank spaces.
‘You still there?’
‘Sorry, Liz. A minor distraction. If you’re as worried as you sound, we could check on him at home. Got an address?’
He assumed the Poppies had found Luke somewhere better to live than the dank corner of the factory he and a few other street kids had turned into a squat before the police raid. On the other hand, living rough was sometimes a lifestyle choice. Kids walked away from abusive, alcoholic families and found themselves with nowhere to doss down but alleyways, deserted factories and under the freeways and railway bridges. After a while, they adapted, forged friendships, joined a network and gained strength from the fellowship of similar victims. It was a tough survival course but beat the hell out of returning to an unloving family. Luke may be working, but he could also still be unrolling his swag at nights and sleeping beneath a freeway overpass or in the doorways of the undercroft at the Arts Centre.