Simone Kirsch 02 - Rubdown

by Leigh Redhead

  ‘Sure. What’s going on with the Sean situation anyway?’

  I’d been dying to tell someone, so I gave her a blow by blow account, sparing no detail.

  Curtis was pestering her in the background. ‘What is it? What’s going on?’

  Chloe said, loud enough for the whole pub to hear, ‘Simone’s rooting a copper with the fastest tongue in Fitzroy and jizz that tastes like hot peach crumble.’

  ‘I am truly sorry I asked,’ he muttered.

  ‘And she needs our help, sort of like the A-team.’

  ‘I loved that show. Count me in.’

  I tried Tony’s mobile and was relieved when it went to message bank. ‘I’m in a spot of bother.’ Understatement of the year. ‘Can you meet me tonight?’ I gave him the details. He was gonna kill me.

  At six o clock Sean had a whiteboard set up in the lounge room, manila folders for everyone and bowls of hummus and babaganoush with Turkish bread, celery and carrot sticks. Chloe and Curtis showed up with a bottle of champagne. Christ, it was like we were having a dinner party.

  I introduced them both to Sean. Chloe gave him the once-over as she stuffed snacks into her mouth and Curtis marched right up and shook his hand vigorously.

  ‘Detective peach crumble, I presume.’

  Sean frowned and Chloe snorted, Turkish breadcrumbs spraying across the room.

  I felt my cheeks heat up. ‘Don’t mind Curtis,’ I said. ‘He’s a journalist.’ I steered them both to the couch. Chloe popped the champagne and poured one for me. Sean gave Curtis a beer. Tony rang the buzzer and I let him in and introduced him to everyone.

  He shook Sean’s hand. ‘Shields, I’ve heard of you. Asian Squad?’

  He perched on a stool at the kitchen bench.

  ‘That’s right. It’s great to meet you. Your exploits in undercover are the stuff of legend.’ He handed Tony a beer. Excellent, I thought, butter him up.

  ‘I’m sure they’ve been exaggerated over the years.’

  Curtis and Chloe were arguing on the couch.

  ‘I’ll be Hannibal,’ he said.

  ‘No way,’ she squealed. ‘Sean’s Hannibal and Tony over there is obviously Mr. T.’

  ‘Okay, Face.’

  ‘Please,’ she said, ‘you are so not Face. You’re the weird guy—

  what was his name?’

  Tony looked at his watch, cleared his throat and said, ‘What’s going on?’

  Sean jumped in. ‘Might be best if I started at the beginning.’

  He handed out folders and flipped the whiteboard round to reveal names and diagrams and explained the case history to everyone succinctly and in full. All he needed was a pointer and a pencil moustache and he could have been a brigadier in an old war movie marshalling the troops to a dawn raid on the jerries.

  I was impressed. He’d remembered everything I’d told him that morning and hadn’t taken notes.

  ‘Any ideas?’ he asked when he was done.

  Curtis’ hand shot up. Swot. ‘We need more info on Wade and we have to find Lulu. That’s top priority.’

  ‘Personally I’d like to talk to Blaine and Veronica,’ I said. ‘Billy Chevelle fought with Lulu because she was trying to talk to them. Trouble is they’re such big celebrities they’re protected from everyday scum like us.’

  ‘Speak for yourself.’ Chloe popped Turkish bread slathered in hummus into her mouth. ‘I’ve got two tickets to the Tamara Wade Foundation Gala Benefit.’

  We all stared.

  ‘How’d you get those?’ Curtis asked.

  ‘I’m still a minor celebrity in this town.’

  ‘Minor is right. What are you—E-list?’

  Chloe flicked some crumbs out of her cleavage and Sean, Tony and Curtis couldn’t help but stare. Boys.

  She said, ‘Just for that, Curtis, you’re not coming. Me and Simone’ll go to the ball tomorrow night.’

  Sean held up his hand. ‘Not such a good idea. Wade and Chevelle know what Simone looks like.’

  ‘Then she can go as someone else. One of my girls is training to become a makeup artist for film and TV and she’s brilliant—got wigs, everything. By the time Mandy’s finished, even Simone’s mother won’t recognise her.’

  ‘How about locating Lulu?’ Sean addressed everyone.

  ‘Maybe she’s hooking with the other trannies down Carlisle Street?’ Chloe offered.

  ‘She sometimes performs in the drag night at the Greyhound on Saturdays,’ I said.

  ‘Count me and Curtis out,’ Chloe said. ‘Saturday’s my busiest night.’

  ‘Okay, Simone and I will go,’ said Sean. ‘How about you, Tony, any ideas?’

  Tony tipped the last of the beer into his mouth and set the bottle down on the bench. I chewed a fingernail, waiting for his answer.

  ‘Yeah. You forget this shit and I get Simone a lawyer to help her at the hearing.’

  ‘But, Tony,’ I said, ‘Emery killed Tamara and he threatened me and—’

  ‘You’re going on the word of some drugged out trannie hooker. Think you’re a caped crusader? You’re an inquiry agent and right now no one’s paying you to inquire. I think you’re all making something out of nothing and if you want a career in this industry I suggest you drop the whole thing before it’s too late.’

  He popped a carrot stick in his mouth, slid off the chair and walked towards the door. And that was when the window exploded in a hail of bullets.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Tony dived behind the kitchen bench. Sean pushed me to the floor and threw himself on top. Chloe rolled off the couch and Curtis sat there like a stunned mullet until she dragged him down by his jacket.

  Squalls of shattered glass rained down and plaster disintegrated from the walls and ceiling. The merlot bottle exploded on top of the fridge and the overhead lights blew out.

  The firestorm ended and a motorbike gunned it outside. The smell of burning rubber wafted through the window. In the distance I heard a siren’s keening wail.

  Sean lifted himself off me. ‘You alright?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  We stood up, carefully shaking glass shards from our clothes.

  The records and CDs were a mess of broken vinyl and plastic.

  Books littered the floor, no more than shredded paper, and Miles and Billie were studded with bullet holes, ripped from the wall. Tony emerged from behind the counter, blood dripping down his face.

  ‘Jesus, Tony, you’re hurt.’ I picked my way over, crunching glass.

  ‘Nah, it’s just red wine.’ He wiped his face with the heel of his hand, nodded at me. ‘Okay. I believe you.’

  Curtis was still on top of Chloe. ‘Get off me, you big lug!’ She smacked his shoulder.

  ‘I can’t. I’ve been shot.’

  The next hour was a confusion of cops and ambulance officers.

  Curtis had been shot in the left buttock as Chloe pulled him off the couch. She had almost certainly saved his life, but the drama queen didn’t see it that way.

  ‘You took a bullet for me.’ She held his hand as the paramedics hoisted him face down onto a stretcher. ‘That’s so romantic. I was wrong when I said you weren’t Face. You’re better than Face. You could be Magnum PI.’

  Sean had wiped the whiteboard and hidden the folders by the time the police arrived. It wasn’t exactly legal to get an A-team together and he told everyone not to mention the fact. The D from the Fitzroy Crime Investigation Unit who interviewed us back at the station didn’t quite buy the story that we’d been getting together for a quiet drink. A cop, two PIs, a journo and a celebrity stripper? Especially when he gave the Homicide Squad a call and found out about the statement I’d given at the Police Complex earlier that day. But we stuck to our stories and eventually they let Chloe, Tony and me go.

  I arranged for us all to meet by Curtis’ bedside on Saturday, then Tony left and Chloe raced to St Vincent’s to check on Magnum. I hung around for another half hour by the Coke machine in the foyer until they’d finished
giving Sean the third degree about his relationship with me.

  When we finally got back, ballistics were just finishing up, having collected shell casings and dug bullets out of the walls. One of the crime scene guys helped us nail a board to the window and we packed a couple of bags, grabbed two bottles of vodka from the freezer and took off to find a motel like the CIU detective had suggested. Before we left Sean spent a quiet moment surveying his ruined music collection. He took a deep breath in, sighed it out.

  I just stood there, knowing it was all my fault.

  Inside the Saab he popped a cigarette in his mouth and depressed the dash lighter. ‘So, trouble-child. Any ideas about a motel?’

  ‘Can it be the kind with a broken neon sign, cigarette burns and the sound of a hooker and her john going for it in the next room?’ I asked.

  The lighter popped out and he held the glowing tip to his smoke. ‘You’re quite sleazy, aren’t you?’

  I just smiled.

  We couldn’t find a place with a broken neon sign so we settled for a hotel in Parkville called, no kidding, Vibe. It was once a cheap motel but it had recently been refurbished in a vaguely sixties style and the lobby was all curved wood and groovy light fittings. Our room was out the back near the car park and had a pink door, Foxtel and a mini bar. We christened the bed and ordered room service. Roast pumpkin salad with feta and olives for Sean and chicken Caesar for me. While we waited for the food we christened the bathroom sink. Nothing like a near death experience to get the juices flowing. When dinner arrived Sean answered the door wearing my lacy hot pink undies. Those room service guys must have seen it all. We lay on the bed, eating and watching R-rated porn with the sound turned down.

  ‘I’m sorry about your flat,’ I said.

  ‘Insurance will cover most of it.’

  Except the irreplaceable vinyl.

  ‘The main thing is no one was badly hurt,’ Sean said, trying to convince himself.

  ‘Curtis won’t be sitting down for a while.’

  ‘True. At least now Homicide will take your claims seriously.’

  ‘I hope so. I just want all this shit to be over.’

  ‘And we can keep investigating. Just have to be careful.’ He scooted up to the head of the bed and fiddled with the clock radio, tuning it to a jazz station.

  ‘What sort of tunes you into?’ he asked.

  ‘Bits of everything. I don’t mind jazz.’ I nodded at the radio.

  ‘Dance music when I’m running. Cock rock when I’m lifting weights, The Smiths when I’m depressed and country when I’m drinking whisky in bars.’

  ‘Country? That why you don’t have a boyfriend?’

  I punched him in the arm and poured us both another vodka.

  ‘What about you? You don’t have a girlfriend.’

  ‘I did eighteen months ago. We were together three years but my crazy hours broke us up. Funny thing is, six months later she was married with a baby on the way.’

  ‘That always happens.’

  ‘Talking from personal experience?’

  ‘Kind of.’ I drained my glass. Poured another.

  ‘Let me guess, you had this one big relationship in your mid-twenties and it ended badly. Am I right?’

  ‘You detectives never stop detecting, do you?’

  He propped himself up on one elbow and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Come on, tell me about it.’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘No more sex until you do.’

  ‘That’s cruel and unusual punishment.’

  He didn’t say a thing. I rolled on my back and stared at the ceiling.

  I said, ‘Okay. You’re right. There was this guy when I was living in Sydney.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Matt.’

  ‘Occupation?’

  ‘Medical student.’

  ‘Smart.’

  ‘Yeah, a Virgo like you. Got together when I was twenty-one and he was twenty-seven and we had a lot in common, mainly going out, seeing bands, getting wasted. Moved in together, planned to get married one day in Vegas. For three years things were sweet.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘A combination of him starting his internship and the infatuation wearing off. He was tired all the time, but I still wanted to party. So I did. And, yeah, we just kind of drifted apart.’

  ‘You’re not telling me the full story.’

  ‘Yes, I am. God, I feel like a suspect. You gonna rough me up a bit, make me talk?’

  ‘I prefer whacking people over the head with a phone book.

  Doesn’t leave a mark. Come here.’

  I did.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Camera’s flashed. Photographers yelled. Chloe and I were on our way to the Tamara Wade Foundation Gala Benefit and the red carpet leading into Crown Casino was a sea of diaphanous fabric, smooth tanned skin and gravity defying cleavage. There were more blondes than Bar 20 and I’d seen less flesh at the Men’s Gallery on Grand Final weekend.

  Chloe was laced into a red PVC dress. A trashy Venus. I was in a hot pink baby doll mini with a teased blonde wig and my white platform stripping boots, looking like I should be go-go dancing in the lobby at the Vibe hotel. Chloe had been right about Mandy the makeup artist, she’d totally transformed me. Several shades of foundation sculpted my face, my brows arched higher and lips appeared fuller due to a judicious application of pencil and gloss. I had brown contact lenses, false lashes and fake titties stuffed in my bra: silicone inserts the same shape and consistency of raw chicken breast. For once I was loaded upfront.

  The photographers jostled for position.

  ‘Chloe! Chloe! Over here!’

  She obliged and struck a pose, all tits and teeth.

  ‘Who’s your friend, darling?’

  Chloe put her arm around me and smiled. ‘This is Tiffany.

  She’s a porn star!’

  The flashes were blinding.

  ‘Chloe!’ I hissed.

  She giggled, extremely pleased with herself, and steered me through the atrium and up a sweeping staircase. The atrium was doing its automated Las Vegas style thing: an overwrought music and light show with giant chandeliers dropping from the ceiling, fountains spurting water and a hidden dry ice machine cranking out manufactured mist.

  We followed a gaggle of anorexic soap stars in Collette Dinnigan frocks up a plush corridor, flashed our invitations and were inside.

  The Palladium was a function room the size of a football field full of round tables set with bronze and white napery. Wine glasses sparkled in the golden light and waiters in military style jackets with shoulder pads and epaulettes glided by, trays laden with wine, beer and champagne.

  Chloe found our names on a setting at the back of the room and put her hands on her wide hips. ‘This table’s shit!’

  I plucked two champagnes off a passing tray. ‘Better get your head back on TV.’

  Chloe skolled hers, burped and grabbed another as a waiter cruised past in the opposite direction. I sipped mine and scanned the room. Emery Wade, Billy Chevelle, Blaine, Veronica and some rich dudes who could have been footy club officials or record company execs were front and centre. Mrs. Wade wasn’t there. Faces I recognised from the social pages populated the tables next to them. Television ‘personalities’, pop singers, spokes-models and people who were famous for no particular reason that I could see.

  Veronica kicked off the evening with a rendition of the cringe-worthy ‘Tamara’s Song’. It had been all over the radio, played in taxis, piped through shops, and whenever I heard it I got angrier and angrier. Chloe, a girl who’d always maintained that music died when Slash left Guns N’ Roses, stuck her fingers down her throat and mimed puking. Everyone else in the cavernous room applauded rapturously.

  Veronica and Blaine welcomed their guests, stressed what a worthy cause the Tamara Wade Foundation was, and made the rich folks feel good about themselves before handing over the floor to a game show host with frighteningly white teet
h.

  The food came, a tower of vegetables and meat sprouting from a sea of ‘jus’ and topped with crispy wisps of deep fried sweet potato. More a feat of engineering than a meal. We were subjected to a boy band as we ate, then an auction of autographed celebrity underwear, and a dance troupe that might have featured in the previous year’s Rock Eisteddfod. When the plates were cleared a halfway decent salsa band started up and guests began to twirl each other around the dance floor. Everyone was tanked and out of their designated seats. Time to make my move.

  ‘I’m going to try and talk to Blaine,’ I told Chloe. ‘Think you can distract the old dudes?’

  ‘No problemo.’ She took my hand and pulled me through the crowd, ducking and weaving, until we stood in front of Emery and Billy. Both wore tuxedos, but Billy had accessorized his with a string tie and cowboy boots. Far as I was concerned, he gave cowboys a bad name.

  ‘Ohmigod,’ gushed Chloe. ‘You’re Billy Chevelle!’

  He stood taller, ran a hand through the shaggy hairstyle he’d been sporting since the late seventies and stuck it out. Chloe went to shake, but he kissed her hand instead. Eeew.

  ‘Enchanté,’ he said.

  Double eeew. I hung back slightly, tracking Veronica and Blaine out of the corner of my eye. They were joined at the hip and surrounded by a crowd of sycophants five feet deep.

  An enormous bodyguard stood back slightly, watching over them. He had a square jaw, a blonde buzz cut and wore a black suit and dark sunglasses. A thrill of fear unfurled in my stomach. Ever since I’d been attacked, massive bouncer types totally freaked me out. Not good seeing as I spent a lot of my time in pubs.

  ‘You sang “Love Tidal Wave”! Chloe jiggled up and down, seriously in danger of a black eye. ‘I love that song! I can’t believe I’m standing right in front of you!’

  ‘Well the lady’s certainly got excellent taste.’ Billy flashed his whitened teeth. ‘You look familiar, have we met before?’

  ‘You probably saw the television show I hosted, “Sin City”?

  Plus I had a role on “Stingers”. I asked Peter Phelps if he’d like a lap dance.’ Chloe looked down like it was no big deal.

  Emery stepped forward, muscling in on Billy’s action like a silverback gorilla in a David Attenborough special. ‘And fine work it was. You’re Chloe, the famous exotic dancer.’