Sharp Shooter

by Marianne Delacourt

  I practised observing the things I learned from him on everyone in my life, particularly my parents, Bok and Smitty.

  Smitts promptly told me if I was going to treat her like a guinea pig then I had to babysit once a week for her while she went to Pilates.

  Grumblingly, I agreed. But in actual fact, babysitting the Evans clan was one of the highlights of my life, and – the way my love life was – possibly the closest I’d ever get to having a family. The boys, Jo and Xavier, were little blond bundles of naughtiness. Their older sister, Claire, was . . . Claire – mature and serene, as kids with chronic illnesses often are. That is, of course, until she had a good old eight-going-on-nine-year-old girl’s hissy fit.

  The Evans’s lived in a mostly renovated, stylishly decorated thirties cottage in Mosman Park – the next suburb along from Euccy Grove.

  ‘When are you going to do some real exercise?’ I shouted after Smitts, as she ran for the door on the evening of her first class.

  ‘Kids are fed. Your dinner’s on a plate in the fridge. Don’t let Bones in. If he sheds on the new Persian rug Henny’ll have a coronary.’

  The door slammed.

  ‘The cat got sick on it last week. Henry nearly cried,’ said Claire coolly.

  ‘You mean “Dad”,’ I corrected.

  ‘Whatever,’ she said, and picked her schoolbag up off the floor. ‘I’m going to do homework.’

  This was, of course, code for I’m going to talk to my friends on MSN. I’d give her half an hour before I started hassling.

  That left me with the boys. Xave was plugged into the PS3, sitting between two stacks of games, Joe was mucking around at the breakfast bar on his Wii.

  I headed for the fridge, marvelling over the ‘connectedness’ of the modern kid. The next generation would no doubt be born with USB ports under their nails and scroll-option fingers.

  The microwave had ten seconds left on the timer when I felt a tap on my thigh.

  ‘What’s up, Joe?’ I hunkered down to his level.

  ‘Got a problem,’ said the quieter of the twins.

  ‘Hang on a tick.’ I grabbed my plate and a fork and slid down onto the floor so we could talk eye to eye. Beef in black bean sauce and coconut rice. Yum! ‘Shoot,’ I said.

  ‘Jamie Snell pushes me.’

  ‘How come?’ I shovelled in some food and waited. Joe often took a while to think things through.

  ‘’Cos she can.’

  ‘You told the teacher?’ I asked.

  Joe shrugged. Then nodded.

  ‘Told your mum and dad?’

  More shrugging. More nodding.

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Mummy says jus’ ignore her. Says she’s just a tenshun seeker.’

  ‘What about Xavier?’

  ‘He’s in d’udda class.’

  Smitts had made sure the twins were separated so Joe didn’t live in Xavier’s shadow.

  ‘What would you like to do about it, Joe?’

  ‘Mummy told Daddy that you punch as good as a man.’

  I followed his line of thought. ‘You wanna know how to punch?’

  A great big grin broke over his serious little face.

  ‘Now hang on a minute, Joe. I just asked. I didn’t say I’d show you.’

  He grabbed my little finger and held on. ‘Pleeeaaassse, Aunty T.’

  He delivered it with such heartfelt need that I was sold.

  The kid had to be able to defend himself.

  I jerked my head. ‘Outside. And don’t tell Mum and Dad. Deal?’

  He wagged my little finger up and down.

  We adjourned to the porch so no one could see us, and I instructed Joe on the art of a good punch. His plump little fingers made a fierce fist while he practised.

  We were having a grand old time, swinging and dodging, when I heard an un-Godly screech. I tore back into the family room with Joe hot on my heels.

  Claire was standing in the middle room, holding one foot in the air. Bones was under the table looking sheepish.

  ‘You left the door open and the dog got in,’ Joe kindly pointed out.

  ‘Claire’s standing in poo!’ shrieked Xavier with delight. He ditched the PS3 and before I knew it, he and Joe were doing a war-dance around her. Bones joined in, barking and jumping.

  Claire began to howl.

  Instead of swinging into action like any half-decent mother would do, paralysis took control of me. Then I started to laugh. I was standing there, tears streaming down my face, when Henny walked into the room.

  ‘What in the –’

  The twins’ war-dance came to an abrupt halt. Joe bumped into Xave. Xave turned around and pushed him. Joe responded with a perfect roundhouse. Xave fell to the floor, wailing.

  Henry snatched Xave up and jammed a packet of frozen peas on his eye. Then he turned to me without a flicker of hesitation. ‘Tara!’

  I dived for the scotch decanter and poured him a large one. While he downed it, I got about cleaning up the worst of the poo.

  By the time Smitty got home, Henny was three sheets to the wind, listening to AC/DC on the stereo while I poured over the Yellow Pages in the vain hope of finding a 24-hour carpet cleaner.

  Smitty listened patiently to several renditions of events, then sent me home with a promise to never help Joe out with problems at school again.

  I headed home feeling wronged, and sank my free time into reading Hoshi Hara’s Kinesics book from cover to cover.

  On the last evening of my allotted twelve-week course with Mr Hara, he produced a slightly grease-stained Level One certificate to authenticate my graduation.

  I felt like I’d won an ironwoman competition as he presented it to me. I turned it over in my hands like I was examining a precious jewel. ‘What’s the black stripe for?’ I asked, thinking perhaps I’d earned a black belt in proxemics.

  ‘Ink run out on printer,’ he said.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You OK now, Missy. You got basics. Just remember to think first. Examine all the possibilities. You can’t have too much information.’

  We parted with a bow and he promised to call me when he had a job for me to pay off my tuition.

  The very next day I placed two advertisements. The first offered group sessions to: Improve Your Social Skills – learn to read those around you in four weeks. The second was for The Tara Sharp Kinesics and Paralanguage Consultancy as specialising in communication analysis and relationship dynamics.

  After a week, I got three enrolments for the Improve Your Social Skills group sessions: Wallace Grominsky, Harvey T. and Enid Bell. Real people – I couldn’t believe it.

  But that was all.

  We conducted our first meeting in my flat, which I quickly converted to a meeting room by whipping a fake tapestry screen (courtesy of the local op shop) in front of my bed, throwing all my clothes behind it, and dropping a couple of cushions on the floor in front of the couch.

  My new students shuffled in shyly within a few minutes of each other. I did an introduction thing and then got them to talk a little about themselves.

  Harvey (he refused to give us his full name or talk about his job!) was a sweet, shy, weedy type with coeliac disease. He said he liked reptiles and owned six different species of gecko. Harvey looked like he rarely saw the light of day – and even that was from behind brick-thick prescription sunnies.

  Enid Bell offered to go next. She was a self-professed potato chip junkie who managed a health food store in the city. She batted her eyes at Harvey, and her bosoms heaved as she admitted to wanting to meet someone and fall in love. ‘The trouble is,’ she said, ‘I say things when I get mad. Bad things. Real bad sometimes. And I get mad easily. Guys get turned off.’

  The last one was Wal – Wallace Grominsky. He had a short wrestler’s build and long, ginger hair that he wore in an untidy plait. It took me less than a minute to work out that he was crazy. Psychiatrist Betsy might have put it down to a neglected childhood, but I was inclined to go w
ith substance abuse.

  Something – maybe the slightly disconnected look in his eyes, or the way he kept nodding off mid sentence – told me I should turn him away from Social Skills Class. But I needed the money.

  Wal told us his hobby was weapons, and that he worked as a part-time roadie for a bunch of local bands.

  ‘Usually, Deadspeaker and The Lead Slippers,’ he said. ‘Prefer Metal meself but I’ll work with most any. ’Cept them cabaret acts. Anyway, it’s hard to meet chicks when you work nights.’

  We did some preliminary stuff, goal setting and problem sharing, and I sent Wal and Harvey away to practise some ice breakers. To Enid, I assigned Mr Hara’s simple technique called Count and Think to help her keep her cool.

  After Los Trios left to wreak havoc on their unsuspecting peers, I sat on my office desk – the couch – and wondered what the hell I was doing. Their meagre course fees would take care of my phone credit, petrol and board, but my visions of a chateau in France and tickets to the NBA finals evaporated.

  I must have dozed off because my phone’s ring jerked me awake. I checked the caller ID; a private number.

  Just for the hell of it I answered in my poshest girl’s school voice. ‘Tara Sharp Consultancy. Tara Sharp speaking.’

  ‘Oh, hello honey –’ Nip this sucker, I thought. ‘Actually, I prefer to be addressed as Ms Sharp.’

  ‘No . . . that is . . . I mean . . . Honey is my name. Mr Honey. I’d like to meet you to discuss a . . . err . . . a . . .

  possible job.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Let me check my diary, Mr Honey.’ I took some calming breaths and counted to ten. ‘Oh . . . how fortunate. I have a cancellation late this afternoon. Do you live in the western suburbs?’

  ‘Yes, Ms Sharp,’ he said, in a ‘who didn’t?’ manner?

  ‘Then let’s say we meet at Latte Ole on Broadway at 5 pm,’ I suggested.

  ‘Yes . . . um . . . that would be suitable. I’ll wait at the table next to the door.’

  ‘Fine. Until then.’

  ‘Yes, Ms Sharp. Until then –’

  I hung up quickly to give the impression I was busy, and hopped around the office with excitement.

  OMG, a client! My first client, my first client . . . What if he hates me on sight? Or wants me to read his sex slave’s body language? What if –

  ‘Tar-ah!’

  Crap!

  The female part of the joint parent entity I thought of as JoBob peeked in the window of the garage.

  Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother to death, but did God have to give her such a la-di-da voice and a Gestapo-esque attitude to manners? She was the mistress of the wounded look and delicate sensibility. Plus, she seemed to have forgotten that I’d lived away from home for ten years and was only back here to ‘regroup’.

  Yes, that’s what I was doing – ‘regrouping’.

  ‘Yeah? Here.’

  ‘You mean “yes”, don’t you, darling? Dad and I are off for a day out with the Wobbies. Will you please walk the birds?’

  The Wobbies were JoBob’s oldest friends, secret allies from BC (Before Children and Christ). Mabel and Arthur Walker-Robertson were two priceless peas in a pod with a jointly wicked sense of humour. In fact, I’d never quite worked out how they hooked up with straight-laced JoBob.

  ‘I can’t, Mum. I’ve got to . . . err . . . meet Longbok.’

  ‘Must you spend so much time with that scrawny Martin creature?’

  ‘Yes, Joanna.’ She hated me using her first name. It robbed her of parental power.

  ‘You have some odd friends, Tara,’ she continued, heedless of my obvious irritation. ‘I do wish you would spend your time with some decent young people, like Phillip Dewar and his crowd.’

  There it was. That name! Phillip Dewar. I stifled the gag reflex with practised ease. Did she know, I wondered, that Phillip Dewar was a blossoming alcoholic? ‘Don’t you think I’m a little too old for you to be trying to choose my friends, Joanna?’

  She released a martyred sigh. ‘The birds need to be walked before dark. Tara, I ask so little from you, the least you can do is this one small thing. I mean, we are providing you with a roof over your head . . .’

  I tuned out about there. Joanna, the Mistress of Blackmail.

  When I came out of my trance, she’d disappeared from the window frame like the vampire you couldn’t see in the mirror, and my phone was ringing again. I picked up the receiver and did it straight this time. ‘Tara Sharp Paralanguage Agency. Tara Sharp speaking.’

  ‘Missy?’

  ‘Mr Hara.’ I broke into a smile. I hadn’t heard from him since the day he’d handed me my certificate.

  ‘Got a job for you.’

  ‘Great. I’ll come over. Be good to catch up again.’ I meant it. I kinda missed our chocolate-smuggling game. And other than Bok (not counting Bets), Mr H was the only person in the world who knew about my ‘thing’. I hadn’t even told Smitty about the really weird stuff. As far as Smitts was concerned I was flaky and lovable. I was just, well, TARA.

  ‘Not catching up, sorry, Missy. Mrs Hara want to go skiing.’ He gave an unhappy sigh. ‘We go to Hokkaido for two weeks. Taxi coming soon.’

  ‘Um, well have fun. So what’s the job?’

  ‘Not sure. No time to check it out yet. You go to Klintoff building on Satin Beach at 6 pm today. Ask for Mr Delgado.’

  I checked the clock – 2 pm. It wouldn’t be a problem making my five o’clock appointment and getting to Delgado by six.

  ‘Fine.’

  There was a pause before Mr Hara signed off. ‘Missy. Only take work if is alright. Job came through a friend of Mrs Hara. Not sure if OK.’

  Mrs Hara? Alarm bells tinkled in my head but I silenced them with well-practised ease. ‘Sure,’ I said airily and hung up.

  I bounced over to the kitchenette and got down to making a triple-decker sandwich: salami, cream cheese and pickle. A pretty damn tough ask when your kitchen consists of a bar fridge, a cupboard pretending to be a pantry, an electric fry pan and a sink.

  Sandwich and I returned to the office-couch and scrabbled underneath the pile of clothes for my second-most-prized possession: my laptop. Taking care to drop the crumbs on the floor not my keyboard, I spent the afternoon doing one of the things that Mr Hara had drummed into me – research. You can’t have too much information.

  Today, though, Google failed me, and I was forced to think outside the screen.

  I did some wall staring while I waited for inspiration to strike.

  Chapter 7

  IT CAME BY WAY of the human web. The great thing about living in a smallish city is that everything and everyone are connected – if you dig a bit. I remembered that my accountant, Garth Wilmot, had kept an office in Klintoff House until they put the rent up and told him he had to have gold-plated toilet-roll holders. Poor old Garth had retired to a less plush suite on the railway side where the rent was much better, though the security screens had cost him a fortune.

  Klintoff House was one of the few high-rises along the western suburbs beach strip. Somehow the owners of the building had snuck their plans through council when no one was looking. These days you couldn’t build anything over three storeys that hadn’t been vetted by every blue rinser, white-shirt, and Louis Vuitton-toting kindy mum in the district. They wanted ambience on their morning jog along the beach, not Gold Coast. I suppose money in plain brown envelopes solved many a problem!

  I searched on the building name and came up with Klintoff ’s table of residents, which included three law firms, two accountants, one judge, a cardiologist and an import– export business front office. I didn’t figure Delgado to be old enough for a judge or anal enough for an accountant. Cardiologist seemed unlikely too. That left lawyer or import– export manager. Lawyer would be my pick.

  This time, my search picked on a Pietro Delgado, a solicitor who’d represented some dubious cases for known criminals. I began to get a bad feeling, so I rang Garth.

  �
��Hi Tara.’

  I didn’t need my newly acquired paralanguage prowess to know he sounded tired and peeved. Garth and I had dated for a while – well before he went bald and got a designer-beer belly. He’d wanted to marry me until he found out that I had no ability whatsoever to keep to a budget. His love seemed to go stone cold as he realised just how fiscally challenged I was. Meanwhile, I realised that I couldn’t bear to spend the rest of my life toting up how much I’d saved by using supermarket petrol vouchers.

  Our break-up was amicable enough for us to remain friends, but niggly enough that we could only handle each other in small doses. I relied on him for ‘sensible advice’. And occasionally, he called me when he needed a hot date for the Accountants Annual Ball or a financier’s dinner.

  ‘Bad day?’ I commiserated.

  ‘Some bastard broke in here last night, took my DVD player and all my reams of A4 paper. Why the fuck would someone want A4 paper?’

  ‘Umm . . . beats me. What about your new screens? Didn’t they work?’

  He sighed. ‘Cleaner left the front door unlocked.’

  I laughed. I shouldn’t have but Garth had that sort of bad luck all the time. Maybe he’d been born under a ladder.

  ‘I might have known you’d be sympathetic,’ he said dryly. ‘What do you want?’

  I cut straight to it. Like Bok, Garth and I didn’t need to beat around the bush. ‘Did you ever come across a solicitor named Pietro or Peter Delgado when you were in the Klintoff building?’

  ‘Pete Delgado! You don’t want to be dating him, T.’

  ‘I’m not dating him, stupid,’ I snapped. I didn’t need Garth being protective. Hell, I weighed five kilos more than him and could run his pants off.

  ‘Then why are you asking?’

  ‘Never mind that. Tell me what you know.’

  ‘He works for Positoni & Kizzick.’

  I knew that should mean something to me but it didn’t. ‘Eh?’

  ‘They handle all the Johnny Vogue cases.’

  ‘Oh.’ My stomach flipped. Johnny Vogue was our wee city’s supremo crime lord. His real name was John Viaspa, but in our fair nation we don’t handle formal or complete names too well.