Simone Kirsch 02 - Rubdown

by Leigh Redhead

  Not anymore. I pushed through the door into a slick modern bar, top shelf booze gleaming under downlights. The floor was polished wood and the walls were painted matt in colours the designer probably called Mocha and Suede. Well dressed office workers lounged on low couches and red leather banquettes, drinking cocktails and boutique beers. I spotted the Ds at a cluster of high tables with chrome bar stools, over by a big screen TV showing a football replay. My heart sank when I noticed a rabbitty blonde officer named Suzy McCullers. She was still going out with Alex.

  Didn’t mean I couldn’t flirt, I’d just have to tone it down a peg to avoid a bitchfight. I was good at flirting. Saw it as a sport, like tennis or netball. Got the heart rate up and was mostly good for your health.

  They all looked pretty pissed so to catch up I ordered a Jameson’s and a champagne from a perky young thing in a black t-shirt. Fifteen dollars later I’d slammed down the whisky, taken a deep breath and sauntered over, champers in hand.

  ‘Hi, Alex. Hi, Suzy.’

  ‘Simone.’ Alex put an arm around my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek. His expensive, woody aftershave flashed me back to last year. The lap dance where I’d broken the rules and given him a hard-on. Drunk in an alley, stealing the notebook from his pants pocket while he was busy with his hand up my dress. Those were the days.

  Suzy gave me a small wave and a tight smile.

  ‘You’re looking good,’ Alex said. I’d certainly made an effort.

  Black leather pants, a low cut top in emerald green and my brown suede coat that swished around my ankles. I’d run a straightening iron through my hair and had worked hard on the makeup in an effort to feign natural beauty. The things a girl has to do to get a bit of information.

  Alex wasn’t looking so bad himself. Eyes like melted chocolate, black hair slicked back and just a hint of five o’ clock shadow. He’d rolled up the sleeves on his navy blue shirt to expose well developed forearms with prominent veins. My eyes followed one from his wrist to the crook of his elbow. Chloe was right.

  I needed a root.

  Alex introduced me and the other plain-clothes coppers looked me up and down.

  ‘If it isn’t the stripping detective,’ said a fat guy with a comb-over. I smiled like it didn’t bother me.

  ‘Just detective,’ Alex leapt to my defence. ‘Simone works with Torcasio. She doesn’t dance anymore.’

  Fat guy said, ‘Should have stuck to stripping, darlin’. Leave catching crooks to us.’

  Suzy laughed, a bit too loudly, and spilled scotch on her skirt.

  I kept smiling.

  The other cops went back to watching the game. Suzy did too, but her head was cocked, listening in on Alex and me at the next table.

  ‘So what important case you working on now? Missing dog?

  Wife screwing the milkman?’ He smirked and sipped whisky.

  I lowered my voice. ‘I wish it were that simple. I’m looking into the circumstances surrounding Tamara Wade’s death.’

  ‘Gimme a break. Torcasio wouldn’t take someone’s money when it’s been ruled suicide.’

  ‘Tony doesn’t know. A friend of Tamara’s hired me. Thinks she was murdered.’

  ‘And let me guess, you’re going to stand on street corners and try to pick up the killer.’

  I was a little offended, but tried not to let it show. ‘She was an erotic masseuse, not a street hooker. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. And the friend thinks it had something to do with Neville Annis, who runs Good Times, and his nephew Craig.’

  A vertical line appeared between Alex’s eyebrows. ‘Fuck’s sake, Simone. Do you know who Annis is?’

  ‘A very bad man?’ I quoted Vincent.

  ‘Career criminal who’s been involved in importing and manufacturing narcotics. Rumoured to have knocked off anyone who got in his way.’

  ‘Wait a sec,’ I said. ‘If you’re a crim you can’t legally own a brothel. They do a background check.’

  ‘Yeah, but Annis has never been caught. He’s good. Drug Squad thought they had him a couple of years ago. Lab up near Shepparton manufacturing E’s and speed. His chemist turned informer, but the case got put on hold indefinitely when half the squad turned out bent. Now no one knows where the chemist is.’

  ‘Dead?’

  Alex shrugged. ‘He was going to go into witness protection but reckoned the cops’d leak his whereabouts to Annis. Look, I shouldn’t have even told you this much but I’m doing it for your own protection. You really shouldn’t be following this bastard around.’ He touched my shoulder and Suzy’s eyes flickered towards us.

  I leaned forward on the table, acting innocent yet perfectly aware that this would give Alex a very good view down my top.

  ‘If you could get me Neville’s file I wouldn’t have to.’

  His voice turned cold. ‘That’s corruption.’

  ‘I know.’ I backpedalled. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I’m going to be really careful and do most of my investigating at the library. There’s nothing to the case anyway. I was there, no one went in or out of the flat. My report’s going to say there’s nothing to suggest murder. Want another drink?’

  Alex asked for a Jameson’s and I smiled. Before we’d met he’d drank scotch, not Irish whisky. I got us both doubles and we talked about the physio he was getting on his shoulder and my work with Torcasio. Alex teased me and said I should get a real job with the police service.

  ‘Not counting the fact they rejected me the first time round, I just don’t think I could handle all the regimented shit. And having to wear a uniform for three years…’

  ‘You’d look good in uniform,’ Alex said quietly and looked at me from underneath straight dark brows.

  I tried not to grin as I swirled my whisky around, rattling the ice. A short sharp scream pierced the air and I looked over just in time to see Suzy topple backwards off her bar stool. She hit the floor and lay there laughing, covered in scotch and melting ice cubes. The pub had filled up with after-work drinkers and everyone looked over. Alex ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Shit, I’d better take her home. You need a lift?’

  ‘Yeah, you right to drive?’

  He gave me a disparaging look, plucked his phone and keys from the table and pulled Suzy up from the floor.

  ‘I don’t wanna go, I wanna stay,’ she slurred as he hustled her to the door. I was right behind and the other detectives couldn’t resist.

  ‘Going home with two sheilas, Christakos? You bloody legend!’

  ‘Hey, Simone,’ the fat cop yelled and I made the mistake of turning around. ‘Fancy a bit of Greek, do you, love?’ He winked lewdly and laughed when I gave him the finger.

  Suzy and I stood on King Street, waiting for Alex to collect his car. A cold briny wind blew up from the Yarra and a train shunted past on its way to Spencer Street Station. Across the river the casino was a beacon of light. Over the road the strip club signs glowed neon and I thought of all the girls inside getting ready for the night ahead, swiping on lipstick and strapping up impossible heels. I remembered the low bass thud of the sound systems that made you want to swing your hips and slide out of your bra.

  Suzy came close and squinted at me. Strands of hair had escaped from her ponytail and her grey skirt-suit was crumpled and wet, stinking of scotch. She jabbed her finger in my direction.

  ‘Me and Alex have been going out for four months now and it’s good. Real good. I don’t want you fucking it up for me.’

  ‘I’m not after your man.’

  ‘It takes a cop to understand a cop.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re a great comfort to each other.’ I examined my fingernails then looked up and down the street for Alex’s maroon Commodore.

  ‘You think you’re such a bad girl,’ Suzy said. ‘Well I can be a bad girl too. She gyrated her hips like a stroke afflicted hula dancer, then shrugged off her jacket and swung it around her head, inciting a chorus of beeps from passing cars. I was just about to tell her not to gi
ve up her day job when Alex pulled up. She wrenched open the rear door, dived in and sprawled across the back seat with her eyes closed. Thank god.

  I rode shotgun. ‘Where do you actually live?’ I asked Alex. ‘Or is that classified?’

  ‘Mentone. Suzy’s at Blackrock. I’ll drop you off first.’

  We drove down Kingsway through the arse end of Southbank, past the petrol station and the Hungry Jack’s. A tram stopped next to us at the Sturt Street lights, full of bright young things ready to hit the town with their friends. My only friend was probably knee deep in jelly at a suburban beer barn.

  Suzy started snoring softly in the back.

  ‘She’s fine when she’s sober,’ Alex explained. ‘It’s just she’s under a lot of pressure at work.’ He hit a button on the steering wheel and Air, Moon Safari started playing. ‘You seeing anyone at the moment?’

  ‘Nah. My last boyfriend didn’t exactly work out.’

  ‘No shit.’ Alex and Mick had come to blows.

  He scooted left at Union and hung a right on St Kilda Road.

  I felt him looking at me as we waited for the lights at the top of Barkly Street.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. I’d forgotten how blue your eyes are. I think I must have missed you.’

  ‘Alex!’ I whispered, swivelling in my seat to check on Suzy.

  Still out cold, thank Christ. I turned my head to study the tattoo parlour and Chinese restaurant across the road. The interior of the Commodore was lit up with their combined neon glow. A tram rumbled past, the 67 on its way to Carnegie, and the music was space age and sensual, like something you’d hear in a cocktail bar on Venus. When I looked back Alex was still staring, his wide mouth tugging up at the corners. He was undoubtably sexy, but way too straight and law abiding for the likes of me. I felt hot, all of a sudden. Must have been the whisky.

  Alex drove down Barkly towards Elwood. His eyes were on the road, but he put his hand on my thigh and slid one finger up and down the leather. Not fair. An electric current radiated from my thigh to my pussy and I squirmed in my seat.

  He kept his hand on my leg until we pulled up in front of my flat. He removed it to angle the rear-vision mirror to check Suzy was still asleep. ‘I’ll walk you to the door.’

  At the security entrance I turned and smiled. I reckoned I had one last chance. ‘Look, Alex, I don’t want you to violate your code of ethics, but any little snippet of information you could throw me, I sure would be grateful.’

  ‘How grateful?’ He moved in close, one hand on the brick wall behind my back. I put my palm on his chest, supposedly to block him, and felt his heart thudding hard beneath the silky shirt.

  He brushed his fingertips from my forehead to my jawline, down my neck and the bare flesh of my décolletage. The roof of my mouth buzzed like I’d been sucking on a Fruit Tingle.

  His fingertips went lower, circling my nipple, and a shudder passed through my belly. I wondered if I was this excited because we were being so naughty. His girlfriend, who happened to be packing a police issue Smith and Wesson, was asleep in the car. And apart from threat to life and limb, this was really bad behaviour.

  Terribly, morally wrong. Then the hormones kicked in, testosterone, serotonin and god knows what else, and I put my arms around his neck and pulled him close, crushing our lips together, pushing my tongue into his mouth. Alex seemed taken aback at first but quickly recovered, soft lips kissing hard. I pressed the length of my body against him and when I felt the firmness under his charcoal wool pants, my bones went liquid.

  A car horn droned. Long, insistent.

  ‘Shit, Suzy.’ Alex jumped back, wiped his mouth and looked around. Luckily we were hidden from the car by a thick hedge. He adjusted his crotch to hide the erection, gave me one last intense look and was gone.

  Upstairs I grabbed a wine and a ciggie, slid open the glass door and sat on the balcony waiting for my pulse to subside. It was a low act, cracking onto another chick’s boyfriend, and I felt guilty even though Alex was probably more to blame than me. I didn’t want to be the sort of person who did that shit. Not anymore. But goddamn it if I didn’t feel incredibly fucking alive. I allowed myself a small thrill remembering the sensation of his hands on my skin, listened to Portishead and drank and smoked some more.

  Then I ate some leftover chicken and went to bed smelling his aftershave on my shoulder. I realised there was no way in hell I’d be channeling that much sexual energy so reached for the vibrator in my bedside drawer.

  I slept well.

  Chapter Eight

  The next morning I woke up and had a quick jog in the pale sunshine along Elwood beach, did a hundred stomach crunches on the lounge room floor and cooked up poached eggs with grilled tomato. The pash on the doorstep had left me strangely energised and I was ready to tackle the day. More than tackle. I was gonna kick its legs out, then bodyslam it from the ropes, pro wrestler style. My plan was to pick up Neville’s tail at the GT Club when it opened, and have a sniff around Tamara’s flat beforehand.

  It was nine when I knocked on the door. No one answered so I put my ear to the wood and felt vibrations from someone moving inside. I banged louder. Louder still. A young woman wrenched the door open.

  ‘Alright already! Jesus.’ A satin slip clung to her pale, plump body. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘Simone Kirsch, Inquiry Agent.’ I thrust my licence at her and she yawned and examined it through bleary, kohl rimmed eyes.

  Her dyed black hair stood up in birds’ nests and her fingers were clustered with silver rings shaped like skulls and snakes.

  ‘Seriously?’ She looked me up and down, clocking my grey trackie daks and matching zip-up sweatshirt. Had to be comfy on a stakeout.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Good. I thought you might be the real estate.’ She cocked her head. ‘You spying for Centrelink?’

  ‘No. I was wondering if I could have a look around. I’m investigating the death of a girl who used to live in this flat.’

  ‘Tamara Wade?’ Her eyes lit up.

  ‘You know about her?’

  ‘Fuck yeah. Part of the reason I moved here.’ She jutted her chin out.

  I nodded like that was a perfectly reasonable proposition even though my mind was screaming ‘Freak!!!’.

  ‘You wanna come in?’

  Tamara’s flat had been totally transformed. Swatches of red and black velvet hung from the walls and candle wax had melted over every available surface. The couch was a folded-up futon and the coffee table home to an overflowing ashtray, pack of tarot cards and a wizard shaped bong. What was it with wizard shaped bongs?

  Chloe owned one just like it. Was there some giant factory down in Cheltenham pumping them out twenty-four hours a day? Shredded newspaper filled a fishtank in the corner. The girl plunged her hand in and a white rat scurried up her arm and perched on her shoulder, its pink nose quivering.

  ‘This is Aleister.’

  ‘Interesting name for a rat.’

  ‘As in Aleister Crowley.’ Like I was dense.

  ‘And what’s your name?’

  ‘Morgana. Want some chai? I’m having one.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  She padded into a galley kitchen, separated from the lounge by a breakfast bar, and started clattering around. I tilted my head to read the titles on the bookshelf. The Complete Compendium of Magick, The Tibetan Book of the Dead and a whole bunch of HP Lovecraft that appeared to have been stolen from a library. Soon the smell of cinnamon overrode the cigarette ash and melted wax.

  ‘Mind if I have a look around?’ I asked. Morgana waved a hand, which I took to mean yes, and I wandered down the hall, past the bathroom to the bedroom. It was dark and smelled of dirty sheets and patchouli oil. Black clothing was strewn across the mattress on the floor and a grey army blanket covered the window. Posters for Bauhaus and Sisters of Mercy had been tacked to the walls and built-in robe. I picked my way through the mess of Doc Martens and ripped lace and lifted the e
dge of the blanket. There was a block of flats and a tin fence with a large gum tree behind, too far away to provide access to Tammy’s window. The ground was five metres below, covered in earth and leaves. I’d seen police check the sills for fingerprints and the dirt for any evidence of an intruder. As far as I knew they hadn’t found anything. I walked back down the hall, avoiding the bathroom. The lounge room window had the same aspect as the bedroom and I tried to recall if it had been open that night, but all I could remember was Tamara’s dead eyes staring at me as she floated on a sea of red. I shuddered.

  Morgana was straining chai from the saucepan into a mug.

  ‘When did you move in?’ I asked.

  ‘ ’Bout a week after Tamara died.’ She took her drink to the coffee table and reclined on the futon. I crunched down into the beanbag opposite. The rat was playing hide and seek in her hair.

  ‘I’m not scared of the dead, you know. They’re like you and me, only in a different state of being. Make better company than a lot of live fuckers, if you know what I mean. Didn’t tell the real estate though, instead I bargained them down twenty bucks a week.’ She picked up a packet of Port Royal tobacco and rolled a skinny cigarette. ‘Her stuff was still here when I looked at the place.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. A removal company was packing it up to take to her parents.’

  ‘What about the bathroom?’

  Morgana lit the cigarette and let smoke drift from her lips to her nostrils. ‘Clean. Apparently there’s this company that specialises in mopping up after violent death. Far out, hey? They did a good job, but I found a few blood spots they’d missed. I left them there.’

  Her eyes challenged me to say something so I just nodded like I would have done the same. I didn’t quite understand goths, but you had to admire their dedication to the subculture. We had them at my country high school in northern New South Wales and they’d be kitted up in greatcoats and army boots on forty degree days, pancake makeup melting in the sun.