Sharp Shooter

by Marianne Delacourt

  Delgado grabbed my arm and steered me back towards the ballroom. I didn’t like the way his fingers were digging into my flesh. His face had lost all the colour it had gained from ogling Nick Tozzi’s wife, and was now a furious kind of white.

  ‘Look,’ I said, trying to pull my arm away. ‘I’m not sure I’m the right person for this job you have in mind.’

  ‘Well, I’d think twice before making a decision like that. What did you just hear, Ms Sharp?’

  ‘When?’ I asked dumbly, as we re-entered the ballroom.

  His fingers dug deeper. ‘Don’t bullshit me.’

  ‘N-nothing,’ I said. ‘Nothing. Just a muffled voice.’

  ‘Well, I would stick to that story if I was you.’

  I felt sick. Delgado knew I’d overheard something I shouldn’t have. And now the arsehole was threatening me. For the second time this evening I wished Bok was with me. He knew how to handle even the most practised slime balls. Hell, the fashion industry teemed with them.

  Chapter 14

  I WAS SPARED ANSWERING Delgado because an explosion of uniformed police suddenly piled in the doors, one of them holding the leash of a sniffer dog. A couple of the party-goers tried to bale out the windows but there were more cops waiting outside with torches and tasers.

  I saw Delgado reach into his pocket and dump a dozen or so capsules into the drip tray of the ice statue. With his other hand he punched some keys on his cell phone. From the few grunted words he uttered, I guessed that Johnny Vogue had managed to get clear of the fracas.

  Delgado flipped his cell shut, his mouth set in a grim line. I didn’t need to have ESP to know he was trying to figure out who’d tipped off the cops.

  I searched above the heads of the milling crowd but couldn’t see Nick Tozzi. Lucky for him, he’d left before the cops arrived, and taken his wife with him.

  A cop stood up on a chair and told everyone to quieten down! He then explained that it was a raid – doh! – and that each person would be searched for illegal substances. No one was allowed to move unless instructed to do so. The search would proceed as quickly and painlessly as possible – but no attempts to evade the search would be tolerated.

  Sweat ran down the inside of my LBD. I didn’t take drugs, I didn’t have any drugs on me, and yet I felt as guilty as hell. Maybe it was because I was standing next to a gangster’s lawyer.

  The cops had told us not to move so I was stuck there. The best I could do was turn away from Delgado and study the ice statue, pretending we were accidentally caught next to each other, and I didn’t know him.

  I wondered how many others were trying that one.

  The cops worked their way through the crowd while the sniffer dog ran around the room. When the dog stopped beside me I thought I might faint. It flung its paws up on the ice statue table and began to yelp. In a flash I was surrounded by cops.

  Not only that, but the water around the ice statue was slowly turning blue.

  One of the cops produced a vial and scooped up some of the coloured icy water. ‘Could be trail mix,’ he said, holding it up to the light and peering at it.

  Trail mix? What in fuck’s name was that? I glanced behind me. Delgado had taken advantage of the surge of cops around me and slipped further back.

  ‘Identification please, Miss.’

  I jumped. Dammit! The cop was talking to me. I fiddled in my clutch purse and found my driver’s licence.

  ‘Step this way, Ms Sharp,’ he said, after looking at it.

  Two cops escorted me back to the entrance hall and then into a side room. They told me to stand in the centre of the room and that they’d be searching me as soon as female police officers were present.

  One of them closed the door and leaned casually against it while the other walked around me in small circles. I felt like puking now, and sweat was running down my legs into my shoes. Being caught with my pants off by Whitey was one thing, but being in a drug raid in Millionaires’ Row was quite another. I wondered if JoBob would put up my bail money. Or if Bok would stop laughing long enough to visit me in the clink.

  ‘You like a few party drugs, Ms Sharp?’ said the circler. He was average height – i.e. smaller than me – but solid and muscular, with lips set in sneer mode.

  I shook my head. ‘No.’

  ‘How do you explain that you just happened to be the closest to a puddle of trail mix then?’

  ‘I can’t help where I was standing, and I’ve never heard of trail mix.’ I said it as honestly as I felt it, trying to hold back the irritation that was swinging in counterweight to my fear.

  ‘MDMA and Viagra. Ground up and mixed. Everything you could want for a night out,’ said the door cop.

  ‘If you’re a guy,’ I said.

  ‘“If you’re a guy. If you’re a guy”! What about “If you’re a drug dealer”?’ The circler raised his voice to a shade less than a shout. ‘You’re the one who’s in trouble here, Ms Sharp, so I suggest you start with the truth.’

  Belligerence began to well up. I knew I should stay cool and sweet and do the Yes sir, no sir thing, but my mouth had its own ideas. ‘Why don’t you stop wasting your time on an honest citizen and get back in there and find the real crims.’

  ‘Upright citizens don’t come to parties on Coke Road,’ said door cop.

  Coke Road. Great!

  Door cop left his posse and came to join the Circler. I felt like a drowning swimmer between two sharks.

  ‘Everything alright, fellas?’ came a female voice, halting the sharks. Constable Fiona Bligh had entered the room and was standing with her arms crossed and a hard expression on her face.

  ‘Took your time, Bligh,’ said the Sneer.

  ‘Sarge needs you two out on the driveway. Barnes and Lund will be here in a minute to assist me with this search.’

  The sharks exchanged looks and left.

  Bligh unfolded her arms and slipped a knapsack off her shoulders. Her immaculate bun was dishevelled and she was sweating slightly herself. ‘What on earth are you doing here, Tara?’

  I swallowed. ‘Bad luck I think. And . . . well I can tell you, I wish I wasn’t.’

  ‘You kill a Chinaman or something?’ She took a box out of her knapsack and pulled some rubber gloves from it. ‘If not, you want to think seriously about staying in at night for a while. Sorry, but I’m going to have to do this.’

  Another person entered the room. ‘Tara Sharp?’

  ‘Hi Bill,’ I said. ‘Please tell me Whitey’s not here.’

  ‘He’s out in the wagon,’ said Bill Barnes.

  ‘Come on, let’s get on with it,’ said Bligh, kind of tetchy. ‘Bill, send Constable Lund in.’

  Another female cop took Bill’s place while Bligh did a perfunctory frisk. She didn’t poke too hard anywhere, and afterwards, Bill returned and ran an explosive’s detector over me.

  ‘Thought you were looking for drugs?’

  ‘Terrorism’s a big thing these days.’

  ‘Me. A terrorist? You’ve got to be kidding.’

  ‘Bill!’ Bligh’s voice held a stern warning note as if he’d said too much. She began rifling through my handbag and pulled out the white dollar-filled envelope. ‘Explanation?’

  ‘Just got paid,’ I said truthfully. ‘I can give you my client’s name. Haven’t had time to bank it.’

  ‘Cash, Tara? Hope you’re going to declare it.’

  ‘Of course. My accountant is anal. He never lets me slip up on details.’

  She sighed. ‘Ms Sharp, you’re free to go home. However, officers may call on you again for further questioning.’

  I nodded meekly and went to follow Bill Barnes out of the room.

  ‘And Tara?’ I stopped at Bligh’s stern voice and let the door close behind Bill, leaving Bligh and me alone. ‘I’m surprised to find you here. I hope you’re not thinking of keeping the wrong company,’ she said.

  ‘You know I don’t take drugs.’

  ‘I’ve only got your word for that. And
things can snowball when you get seen in the wrong places. You don’t want to run into Cravich and Blake again.’

  ‘The sharks?’

  She nodded.

  I sighed. ‘OK. Thanks.’

  She gave a small grin then. ‘The wagon’s on the south side of the road. If you turn right out of the gates Whitey won’t even know you’ve been here.’

  ‘Won’t he read the reports?’

  Bligh walked passed me and opened the door. ‘Whitey? Read? When hell freezes over.’

  Chapter 15

  I RANG BOK as soon as I got home and told him the whole story, including the part about Peter Delgado working for Johnny Vogue.

  He was kind and sweet and comforting. Not. Actually, he told me what an idiot I was.

  ‘Johnny Vogue, T! What were you thinking?’

  ‘I didn’t know the job was for him.’

  ‘Did you ask who it was for?’

  ‘Delgado isn’t the kind of man you ask anything.’ Besides, I was deaf because the words retainer and BONUS were ringing in my ears.

  He made an exasperated noise. ‘I hereby put you on probation. You’re not to go out without Smitty or me until this whole drug stuff has cooled.’

  Smitty knew every damn person in the western suburbs, and their pedigree – legacy from her time as a Silver Chain Nurse doing home visits. No one quite like a grandmother to blab the family secrets. Smitts wouldn’t be happy that I’d been to a party at Johnny Vogue’s house.

  ‘How long will that be?’ I asked miserably.

  ‘Let me see . . . in the papers tomorrow, and then again in a few days when they lay charges, and then again when they go to court, and then –’

  ‘In that case,’ I interrupted huffily, ‘you’d better cancel your plans for tomorrow night. I have another job.’

  ‘But it’s Saturday night.’

  ‘You made the rules. Saturday is date night for Smitty, so she won’t be able to come.’ Married couples had to do that sort of thing or they never got to have sex – or so Smitty said.

  He took forever to reply, and I thought I’d cracked him with the ‘Saturday night’ thing. But he stumbled over the finishing line with a long-suffering sigh, muttering something like, ‘For the good of all’ and then louder, ‘What time shall I pick you up?’

  ‘Six pm. We’re just going to Club Eighteen. Don’t overdress.’

  I hung up and stared at the ceiling. It was 1 am and my mind was a whirl. Nick Tozzi seemed like a nice bloke. Who was I kidding? He seemed a lot more than that. But he was married to a princess, and Johnny Vogue wanted to bring them down.

  If I was a decent sort I’d contact Nick Tozzi and tell him what I’d heard. If I was smart, I’d lay low and hope Tozzi, Delgado and Johnny Vogue all forgot they’d met me.

  Well . . . I already knew I wasn’t having a ‘smart’ night.

  I rolled out of bed and stumbled over clothes to the couch where I burrowed for my laptop under two sets of bras and a pair of worn-recently running shorts.

  Crap. Must do some washing tomorrow.

  As I waited for the LT to boot up, I thought about Fiona Bligh. Cravich and Blake hadn’t had pure thoughts on their mind. Her intervention had saved me something unpleasant – of that I was sure. I owed her, despite the scolding.

  I typed ‘Nick Tozzi’ into Google and got nearly half a million hits. It didn’t take long to confirm he’d married Antonia Falk.

  My JoBob implant went off. ‘You know, Tara, there were five original families in Perth: the Falks, the Poyntons, the Lathlains, the Shentons and the Dewars (uggh Phillip Dewar!). You really should be nicer to young Phil . . .’

  Those five families were still Perth’s royalty – other than the odd rock star or actor who’d been ripened under the sun on Cottesloe Beach and sent off to ferment in Hollywood.

  Google also told me that Antonia and Nick had been married for two years, had no kids, and took their holidays in either Mauritius or Vegas. Antonia had been to finishing school in Switzerland, uni at the Sorbonne and dropped out to model for a couple of years. Her modelling portfolio included a Victoria’s Secret catalogue cover.

  I stopped reading then. Victoria’s Secret for crying out loud! That capped an already disturbing evening.

  I hit the kill button and rummaged through my bedside table. Eye patches, ear plugs and a tablet I usually reserved for migraines. Next thing I was out cold.

  The following morning was nearly afternoon, and I woke up feeling sluggish and pissed off. For a start I’d slept through my Saturday pick-up basketball game at the local courts, and secondly, I only had an hour and a half before ‘Social Skills Class’ with Los Trios.

  I threw on cut-off tracks and a singlet and shuffled out the door to the gym, knowing I couldn’t handle Los Trios with my head full of cotton balls.

  Rather Be Dead? was the quaint name for a boutique gym tucked in a cul-de-sac that ran up near the highway. It was way too expensive for a girl with no income, but it was close to Lilac Street, and I’d been going there for several years and found the habit hard to break. Dad had bailed out my addiction with a twelve-month membership for my birthday. I had ten months to go. Surely I’d have some steady income by then!

  The RBD kiosk sold killer muesli slice and freshly squeezed fruit juices, and Craigo, the lead gym instructor, was a shade over perfect: a sweet, patient man with SAS-type conditioning and a bundle of boyfriends. When he wasn’t strutting his stuff on the exercise mat he was on the phone arranging dates.

  He waved to me as I walked in. I waved back and stopped to read the noticeboard in the hope he wouldn’t offer himself as a work-out partner.

  Other than a flyer for an upcoming triathlon, the results of a raffle, and a photo of the fifties-plus fitness fundraiser team, not much else was happening around the traps. I had a bit of a snigger at the three rows of portly middle-aged men and then slunk into the weights room and commandeered the rowing machine.

  Forty minutes later, I was back home with a clearer head and relief that blood might actually be flowing through my veins. I showered, dressed and ate dry toast while I shovelled all the clothes off the couch and onto my bed and pulled the screen across. That left me a few minutes to boot up the LT and re-read my notes from the previous sessions.

  Los Trios arrived together, having met outside on the footpath. I’d told them it was better that way – much less inclined to send JoBob off on a ‘prowler alert’.

  Enid and Harvey dutifully sat on their allotted cushions but Wal sprawled onto the couch leaving me a sliver of cushion on which to park my butt. I thought about telling him to move but he was showing far too much white around the eyes today for unnecessary conflict.

  ‘Hi guys,’ I said. ‘Let’s start with our homework. Ladies first, Enid?’

  ‘Lady!’ Wal snorted like a feral pig and laughed so hard he farted. The smell rose like a tornado, catching Enid and Harvey front-on. Harvey somersaulted backwards and ran to the door, gagging. Enid turned bright red from both the insult and from holding her breath.

  I leaped for the ceiling fan and switched it on turbo. When the stink had passed and we’d composed ourselves, I turned it off.

  ‘Come on back, Harvey. Crisis over.’ I resumed my postage stamp-sized seat and motioned for him to sit on his pillow. He returned reluctantly, casting Wal annoyed looks through his unwashed fringe.

  ‘Wal,’ I said. ‘How do you think you made Enid feel with that comment?’

  Wal shrugged, and slouched down further, forcing me up onto the arm of the couch.

  ‘Now Enid? How did you go with Count and Think?’

  ‘Well, I’m doing it right now,’ she said, glaring at Wal. ‘So I suppose it’s working.’

  ‘Err . . . great,’ I said brightly. ‘What about at work though?’

  She ran her plump fingers through her shoulder-length brown hair and yanked the front of her bustier into place. Enid was a very well-endowed young woman poured into a silk bodice and velvet skirt.
>
  Harvey goggled as the mountain of flesh rose, threatened to overflow and then settled. Even Wal was temporarily riveted.

  ‘OK. On Tuesday, Amy, my junior, stacked a whole box of slippery elm packets where the psyllium should be. I wanted to call her a “stupid mother-fucking cunt”, but I did the Count and Think thing, and instead I said, “Was your mother taking a bath in lead-based paint when she was pregnant with you?”’

  ‘That’s good,’ I managed to choke out.

  Harvey clapped. ‘Bravo, Enid.’

  ‘Harvey? How about you next?’

  Harvey dropped his head shyly so that all I could see was the sprinkle of dandruff along his hair part. He fumbled in his shirt pocket for his iPhone. ‘I wrote the list of things I could say to ask a girl out, like you told me to do. And I’ve been practising them.’

  ‘Great.’ Harvey was so earnest he kinda tugged at my heartstrings. I also wanted to give him a lecture on personal hygiene. ‘Go ahead. Let’s hear them.’

  ‘OK. I’ve been watching you for a while and I can’t take my eyes off you,’ he recited.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Not bad but could be creepy. What else have you got?’

  He peeped up at me from under his lashes then hurriedly dropped his eyes again. ‘I think about you when I beat the meat,’ he whispered.

  I blinked. ‘What?! No, never mind. Ahmmm . . .’

  To my towering relief the phone rang. I leaped up and grabbed it from my bag. ‘Just keep practising on Enid while I take this call.’ I dived out the door and took some deep gulps before answering.

  ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you, whoever you are.’

  ‘My pleasure, Ms Sharp,’ said a deep, unbelievably sexy voice.

  A bolt of excitement shot down through my belly and out through my toes. Nick Tozzi. ‘Whoever this is, I can explain,’ I squeaked.

  Tozzi laughed. ‘I’m sure you can.’

  I thought for a split second about continuing to act coy and tossed it. ‘Hi Nick, how did you get my number?’

  ‘Your mother – Joanna is it? – gave it to me. What a sweet lady. And so helpful.’