Sharp Shooter

by Marianne Delacourt

  ‘Sure,’ he said.

  We walked out into the yard to look at my car. He gave a low whistle. ‘Nice wheels. Used to own one like it. Heavy on the corners but craps it down the straight.’

  ‘Yeah. I used to dream about racing it.’

  ‘True?’ His eyebrows shot up. ‘Let me know if you ever do. I got a hankerin’ that way meself. Meantime, looks like you got yourself some trouble.’

  ‘Shit happens,’ I said in my plumiest voice.

  He started laughing at that, grabbing his belly and rocking back and forward on his feet. When he finally stopped, he wiped his eyes. ‘Can do a freebie but only got this colour,’ he said, grabbing hold of his ponytail. He isolated a section of it and waved it at me.

  The section of hair was tinted with burnt-orange paint reminiscent of a far north sunset. A great colour in the right context. Western suburbs was not the right context, being more black, powder blue or white. ‘Uuuh, that all you got?’ I asked.

  He frowned. ‘What d’ya want for free? Gold plate? Diamond studs?’

  I sighed. Having no money stunk. Still, Mona wasn’t really a western suburbs kind of car anyway. ‘Sorry. That’ll be fine.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, mimicking my accent.

  I pulled a face.

  ‘Gimme two days.’ He reverted to his normal accent and held out his hand.

  I rotated the key off my key chain and passed it to him.

  His hand stayed outstretched.

  It took me a second and then I clicked, extracting a hundred dollars cash from my jeans pocket. ‘Enjoy.’ My teeth weren’t quite gritted. Almost. Now I only had two hundred left from my first job. ‘Say Bog, you don’t happen to know if Johnny Vogue keeps a warehouse around here?’

  His expression got shifty and his aura contracted a little. ‘He ain’t good company, that one.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, and waited.

  His gaze drifted to my purse and stayed there.

  I caught his drift quicker this time. ‘How much?’

  He didn’t answer but lifted his chin and rolled his eyes.

  Reluctantly, I pulled another fifty from my pay and waved it at him. ‘Don’t be shy.’

  He snaffled it faster than Brains swiping an almond. ‘I heard he’s got somethin’ a coupla blocks over, jus’ before you hit residential. Machinery out the front. Can’t miss it. But you don’t want to be walkin’ round there without some muscle.’

  ‘Where’s the train station?’

  ‘A few blocks past that again.’ He frowned. ‘You’re not dressed right either.’

  I looked down at my black flats and designer jeans. ‘What do you mean?’

  He scratched his head. ‘You got someone who can pick you up?’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I said, lifting my chin. And really, I could only afford the train.

  He shrugged and turned back to his car. ‘If you’re still alive, come back on Thursd’y mornin’.’

  I marched off up the long driveway and turned right in the direction he’d pointed me. This part of Bunka was all light industrial, and busy with tray-backs and vans ducking in and out of lots. The sun was shining and everything looked harmless enough. The smell of thinners was gradually overrun by the flavour of cooking wheat from the Sanitarium Factory. Weetbix. Yum.

  After two blocks I wished I’d worn sneakers, even though I was wearing flats. My narrow shoes were squashing my toes together and the sharp little heels sunk into the blue metal-covered dirt. No bitumen here.

  Feeling blisters coming on, I took a shortcut through a laneway bordered by tall tufts of spear grass. On one side was a chained yard with a large warehouse in the centre of it and several mechanical diggers parked outside. On the other side there was a refrigerated storage compound. The airconditioner ducts in the compound roared like jet engines and the hot blast of exhaust fanned up a willy-willy of dust. I danced sideways to avoid it but my heel got caught in a stormwater grate, and sent me toppling. I slammed against the compound fence then slid ignominiously into a clump of spear grass.

  I sat there for a while, feeling stupid, until a sleek, black HSV near the warehouse door caught my attention. It wasn’t a Bunka kind of car.

  Maybe I’d just sit a while longer.

  My patience was rewarded within a short time. A round-faced, bulky guy in a suit left the warehouse and ran to the car, hastily opening the back door to climb in. He looked nervous.

  My memory for faces stirred but couldn’t place him.

  I pushed aside the grass for a better look, doing my best to ignore the smell of dog urine and the telltale signs of scalded yellow blades.

  A few moments later, Johnny Vogue joined him, and the HSV drove out of the compound in a hurry.

  Suddenly spooked, I got up and hobbled out of the lane onto the road.

  The landscape on this side of the block was completely different. No more little factories or car yards; only a carpet of red-tiled, fibro houses with half-starved dogs roaming many of the gardens. At the sight of me the entire dog population of the street seemed to begin barking.

  As I stood on one foot trying to decide whether to go back the way I’d come, a battered station wagon drove past me slowly. The guy driving it was bald. His passenger hung a heavily tattooed arm out the window and stared. The back of the car was jammed with enough speakers and amps for a Kiss concert, though it was pinging out hip hop. They cruised to the end of the street and turned around for another drive-by.

  I didn’t need to be able to read their auras to know their intentions weren’t in my best interests. Bravado deserted me. I started walking briskly away from them while I grabbed my phone from my bag and rang Bok.

  Message bank.

  Smitty.

  No answer.

  Garth.

  Message bank.

  Aunt Liv.

  Number disconnected. (She must’ve forgotten to pay her bill again!)

  The music grew louder again as the car did another drive-by.

  I fumbled through my phone directory. Maybe I should ring the Euccy Grove cops and ask for Bligh. But a little streak of stubbornness stopped me. Being laughed about over car graffiti was one thing. Being dubbed stupid for getting myself in trouble in Bunka was quite another.

  And I had been stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Who did I think I was? Jacky Chan?

  I bent down and slipped my shoes off. Should I run into one of those houses and ask for help?

  Not if I didn’t want to be savaged by a dog.

  The car was level with me again. Then it accelerated and crashed across the footpath, blocking my way.

  ‘Looking for someone?’ shouted the bald guy over the music.

  Something warned me not to talk at all. Instead, I stepped right around the back of the car onto the road. My stomach felt like a bag of hot liquid.

  The car reversed roughly. ‘Hey, bitch!’

  My teeth set at that. I walked across the road to the other side. The train clacked along in the distance. I couldn’t be too far from the station.

  Tattoo guy opened his door and tried the smoother approach. ‘Hey, baby. Wanna fuck a real man?’

  My phone rang and I put it to my ear automatically.

  ‘Tara?’

  ‘Yes Dad?’

  Tattoo got out of the car and started to walk after me.

  I quickened my pace.

  ‘You’re puffing, dear – are you alright?’

  ‘I’m out for aaah . . . ummm . . . power walk. Said yes . . . to a . . . triathlon next weekend.’

  ‘Oh. Well. Good for you. Can you feed the birds tonight? Your mother and I are going out for an early dinner and then on to the opera.’

  Tattoo sprinted past me, laughing and flapping his arms. He dropped into a tackling crouch.

  ‘Sure. Gotta go. Call you later.’

  Later? I was about to be abducted and raped.

  I hooked my bag over my head and shoulder so it wouldn’t slip off and bolted across the road.

 
My quick move took Tattoo by surprise; and my speed.

  By the time I heard his pounding footsteps chasing me, I was almost at the end of the street.

  Baldy didn’t stop to pick up Tattoo like I’d banked on, and the car roared after me, door still open and swinging.

  Just as I hit the intersection, a white Commodore cornered wildly into our street on two wheels and spat out a short spray of gunfire.

  Baldy hit the brakes and squealed past me. The wagon’s tail swung around in an untidy 180-degree spin and fishtailed after the Commodore, which was driving straight at Tattoo.

  I didn’t wait to see the outcome, but kept on running in the direction I’d heard the train. Three streets over, the station appeared, perched high on a litter-strewn embankment. I ran up the steps to the platform, then straight past the group of skanky teens throwing bottles onto the track.

  The station had one heavily barred ticket office – now closed – and two toilets. The ladies seemed the safest option, so I locked myself in the first toilet and pressed phone numbers wildly until someone – anyone – answered.

  ‘Tozzi.’

  ‘Thank God! Nick – it’s – Tara,’ I gasped. ‘Need – huge favour.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he said sharply.

  ‘Everything!’ I took a couple of deep breaths and told him what had just happened.

  ‘Which station are you at?’

  I tried to remember the sign I’d run past. ‘Burnside, I think. I’ve locked myself in the loo.’

  ‘Sit tight.’

  ‘Won’t move a sphincter,’ I assured him.

  I put the seat cover down and perched on the top of the loo. I’d dropped my good shoe somewhere and only had the one with the broken heel. My feet were grazed and filthy and didn’t bear looking at. Now that my breathing had evened out, I began to shake all over, like I’d been in a freezer for a couple of hours.

  I tried occupying my thoughts with the graffiti on the walls and door. Especially the list of gang names scratched into the wooden door. I was guessing that a gang altercation was what had just saved me from being dumped, raped or dead, in some vacant lot.

  ‘Hey lady, you got any fags?’ said one of the young girls from outside, banging on the toilet door.

  ‘Don’t smoke,’ I said, wiping any trace of ‘posh’ from my voice.

  ‘Got any money?’

  I closed my eyes and pressed my fingers to my temples. I didn’t get headaches much but I had a doozey coming on. This was clearly not my day and right now I didn’t feel like taking on a bunch of bored teens. ‘How much?’

  ‘Just wanna buy some smokes for me and me boyfriend.’

  I passed a twenty-dollar note under the door. ‘Do me a favour. When a big guy turns up in a flash car – I’m talking real big – let me know.’ I followed it with another twenty.

  ‘Watcha doin’ in there?’

  ‘Thinkin’,’ I said. ‘We had a fight. But he’s comin’ to get me so we can make up. Just let me know, OK?’

  She giggled. ‘OK. What’s ya name?’

  ‘Tara.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Nick.’

  ‘I’m Cass.’

  ‘Thanks, Cass.’

  ‘No prob.’

  Silence. She’d gone outside. I could hear her recounting our conversation to her friends. A guy – probably her boyfriend – urged her to come and hassle me for more.

  ‘Nah. Leave her alone. She’s got man problems,’ said Cass.

  The other girls in the group tittered. Then I heard them banging at the cigarette machine.

  Vive la sisterhood!

  While I waited for Nick, I thought about the things that had happened to me in the last few days. Had Johnny Vogue and Delgado tried to have me run over and then trashed my car? The words ‘whore’ and ‘slag’ didn’t seem to be their style. I mean, why would Johnny Vogue bother to taunt me when he could straight out ‘disappear’ me? I was so deep in gloomy rumination that it took me a while to register that Cass was back.

  ‘Tara?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I croaked.

  ‘I think your Nick’s here. He drive an SUV?’

  ‘Err . . . what’s he look like?’

  ‘Frickin’ huge. Like a bear. And hot.’

  ‘That’s him.’ I opened the door and peered around. My messenger was a small, plump young girl in torn tights and a wrap-around skirt. She wore thick purple eye shadow and a spray of piercings on one side of her face: ear, nose, half-lip and eyebrow. Smoke curled out from the cigarette pinched between her thumb and forefinger. She lifted it to her lips and sucked on it like a bloke.

  I suddenly felt cowardly, hiding in the toilet from a bunch of young kids.

  ‘He rich or somethin’?’ she asked.

  I limped past her to the mirror, feeling the need to comb my hair and splash my face before I went outside. ‘He used to play in the NBA,’ I said.

  ‘Wassat? Footy or somethin’?’

  ‘Basketball.’

  ‘He famous?’

  ‘In a way,’ I said, and tucked the comb away in my Marc Jacobs.

  ‘My cousin’s got a bag like that. Got it in Bali. Real nice. I wanna go there one day,’ she said, following me outside into the glare.

  Nick was standing in the car park adjoining the platform, leaning against his four-wheel drive and fielding commentary from Cass’s friends.

  Cass paraded ahead of me like she was my chaperone. ‘Got your missus here, Mr Big ’n’ Famous,’ she announced when we got close.

  Some of the boys catcalled at that. Like Cass, most of them were heavily pierced, skinny and wearing ragged Metal t-shirts over their torn baggy shorts.

  Nick didn’t even raise an eyebrow. He just walked around to the passenger side and opened the door for me.

  I hopped straight in and waited for him to shut the door and return to the driver’s seat.

  Cass came close to the window and gave me a slow wink.

  I winked back. Then I emptied my handbag out on the floor and pressed the window button so that it opened.

  ‘Here,’ I said, passing out the bag. ‘It’s yours.’

  She grabbed it with both hands. ‘Truth?’

  ‘Yeah. Truth.’

  ‘Thanks, Tara.’

  ‘Take care, Cass.’

  Then Nick was reversing purposefully out of the car park.

  I looked in the rear view. One of the boys threw a bottle at the back of the car as we accelerated forward. Cass hit him on the head with her new bag.

  ‘Are you insane?’ asked Nick.

  I looked over at him.

  ‘I mean . . . first you come out to Bunka alone, then you wander by yourself through Burnside and apparently nearly get shot in a gang fight. You ring me up to be rescued, and while I’m obliging your stupidity, you give your handbag away to a delinquent kid.’

  ‘How do you know she was a delinquent?’ I said defensively.

  ‘They threw a beer bottle at my car. What would you call it?’

  ‘Bored.’

  ‘I get bored too. I don’t do that.’

  ‘But you come from a privileged background –’ He slapped his hands against the wheel in anger. Heat poured from his aura. ‘There was nothing privileged about my parents’ lifestyle when they came to Australia. They were hardworking migrants who deserved what they got. I wasn’t born into status. My great-grandfather wasn’t lord mayor of Perth.’

  I stared at him open-mouthed. ‘How do you know that?’

  He fell silent then, concentrating on the road.

  It took a little while for it to sink in that he’d been checking me out – the same way I’d been checking him out. Maybe it was stress release, but I burst out laughing.

  He gave me a sideways glance and shook his head. ‘See. Mad!’

  His aura cooled to something less scalding. Mostly auras were a visual thing for me, especially with strangers. In intimate or tense situations I could feel energy. But there were very few peop
le whose aura I was temperature-sensitive to. I hoped my receptivity was because I found him so damn appealing, not because my weird talent was getting stronger. I’d have to check with Mr Hara.

  ‘I saw Peter Delgado this morning.’

  He didn’t say anything.

  ‘They want me to continue to spy on you. Find out if you’re in financial difficulty.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I stalled. Figured that might give you and me time to find out what’s going on.’

  ‘I appreciate you being candid with me, Tara. But I’ll be the one finding out what is going on. You’ll be the one staying in with the blinds down and the phone off the hook.’

  I chewed my finger for a bit as Bunka disappeared. I didn’t much like the sound of that. I’d been going to tell him about seeing Johnny Vogue at the warehouse, but decided to keep it to myself.

  Our conversation dried up as we headed along the Eastern Highway. A few minutes later, Nick took the city lane instead of the bypass.

  ‘I’m going to stop at my office. You can wash your feet and tidy up there before I drop you home,’ he said.

  ‘Umm . . . thanks. Sorry to interrupt your working day,’ I said.

  We drove in silence the rest of the way.

  Chapter 29

  NICK TOZZI’S OFFICE WAS in a sleek, discreet building in East Perth, not far from the famous sports ground known to cricket fanatics around the world as the WACA. Royal Perth Hospital was within spitting distance, as was a small inner-city park that boasted a desultory rose garden and some paintflaked benches. Right now a couple huddled on one of the benches, sharing sips from a flagon of port.

  Nick slid his four-wheel drive down the alleyway behind the building, and into a bay stencilled Tozzi.

  ‘My great-granddad might have been lord mayor but I don’t have my own parking spot near the centre of the city,’ I observed dryly.

  He got out of the car and came around to open my door again. Another gentlemanly gesture – if he hadn’t been frowning. ‘Are you always so acerbic with your rescuers?’

  ‘I prefer to think of this as a friend doing a favour for a friend. I didn’t need rescuing.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ he said with sarcasm.

  We walked (well, he walked, I limped) across the small six-berth car park to the service lift where he inserted a key. The doors grated open and we stepped inside. The lift specification said six persons maximum capacity, and Nick took up the space of five. I turned sideways so as not to get squashed by his shoulders.