by JD Nixon
“Tessie, he’s punking you again.”
“No, he’s not, Sarge. I heard that horrible clock chiming even while he was talking. He couldn’t fake that. Ring the Super.”
“She’s not going to want to know about it.”
“I don’t care. Ring her.”
He tapped in her number and waited impatiently for her to answer. He had more luck reaching her than I had, but their conversation was brief, terse, and entirely unhappy from his point of view.
“She’s not interested,” he told me when he hung up. “And that’s putting it politely.”
I snatched up the desk phone again and punched in her number.
“What the fuck?” she answered. “Is this a Tweedledumbarse and Tweedledumbshit tandem routine? I already told Maguire I’m not wasting one more cent on your hairy wet dreams about Red Bycraft. So stop letting him get on your tits. I thought you were smarter than that.”
“Ma’am! He’s there –” A clunking noise, then nothing but dial tone.
I slammed the phone down. “She’s not going to help us. We have to go to Big Town now.”
“What? That’s crazy. Without backup, we don’t have the resources to do anything useful there.”
“Sarge, he’s going to attack a woman. We have to try. Please.”
“We don’t even know where he is.”
“He’ll be at the nightclub district,” I said, grateful that he hadn’t immediately blown me off like the Super.
I explained how Big Town’s ‘nightclub district’ in fact consisted of precisely two nightclubs – Carouzel and Industrie – located directly across from each other on Bay Road, the main stretch of town. By day, each was nothing but an inconspicuous closed double door, and the casual passerby who was sharp enough to even notice them would have assumed they led upstairs to office suites. But in reality they led downstairs to claustrophobic, time-altering, windowless caverns. By night, they were neon-lit beacons to the town’s party-goers, blaring dance music so loud that it made the concrete footpaths out front vibrate.
I’d first encountered Jake again on my return back to Little Town in Industrie. He’d been on a night out with his two best mates and I’d been with a group of Big Town female cops for another hen’s party. It hadn’t quite been love at first sight for me, but Jake was very persuasive (and persistent), and had eventually won me over despite the huge, undeniable barrier of him being a member of the Bycraft family.
The nightclubs were openly bitter rivals, regularly competing against each other in newspaper and radio ads, and yet were oddly collusive in their entry and drink prices. This came as no surprise to those who knew that they were in fact owned by the same shady and mysterious businessman, who also owned the Saucy Sirens Gentlemen’s Club, the illegal brothel that was the bane of my life. The Big Town vice squad (consisting of one overworked detective sergeant on the verge of packing it in for her successful cupcake-making hobby, and her clock-watching, near retirement constable offsider), also suspected he owned an illegal gambling club. It was one of those advertised only through word-of-mouth and moved from premise to premise so regularly that it couldn’t ever be accurately pinpointed and raided.
During peak evening time, the doors of both nightclubs were flanked by a pair of enormous, aggressive bouncers. They wore headsets with mikes and earphones like they were in the secret service, and looked as though they’d snap your neck if you glanced at them the wrong way twice. It wasn’t always the same two men, but they were all so identical in appearance and size that the Super insisted they were popped from moulds and shipped to Big Town directly from the laboratories of Big Swinging Dicks Pty Ltd. She also called them the Trogs, because they were so prehistoric in their demeanour, attitude, and language skills.
Any woman who wanted to enter either nightclub had to first run the gauntlet of their insolent up-and-down assessments and inappropriate comments. Pretty girls, and those who weren’t so pretty but who flashed plenty of firm flesh, were waved to the front of the queue. After an invasive visual inspection, they were then let inside ahead of other more patient, modest, and less attractive patrons, their butts well patted as they went. Unfair sexism, I agreed, but that was how it was. Any woman in Big Town who liked to frequent the nightclubs knew that if she wanted to slip inside the club and start partying earlier, she had to pretty herself up as much as possible.
“So Sarge, you’ll come with me?” I asked.
He sighed heavily. “This is not going to end well, I just know it.”
“Thank you.” I was glad not to have to go there by myself.
“We’re not going to be able to bring our belts. They won’t let us in with guns and OC spray.”
“I’m not giving up my knife.”
“You might have to. We’re not going to try to tackle him ourselves, Tess. We spot him, we call for backup. Agreed?”
“Yep, agreed.”
*****
The Sarge found a parking spot on a street one block away from Bay Road that met his strict criteria for abandoning his prized car.
“What’s the plan?” he asked, suppressing a yawn. Neither of us had slept particularly well the previous evening, so the last thing we needed tonight was a showdown with Red Bycraft.
Him yawning set me off yawning too, which only set him off again. We both rubbed our eyes.
“We’ll each take a nightclub, keep our eyes open until one of us spots him. Then we’ll reconvene and follow him if he leaves.”
It was a good plan – simple and easy to implement. He couldn’t fault it.
He swung open his door and stepped onto the road. I followed and we locked glances over the top of the car.
“I’ll take Carouzel, you take Industrie. I’ll wait for you to get inside before I go inside myself.” He gave a humourless laugh. “Have you realised that you’ll never get inside dressed like that?”
I looked down at myself. Damn! We’d hastily changed before we drove here and I’d naturally chosen my usual jeans, t-shirt, hooded jacket and runners. As much as I hated to say it, he was right. I’d never be admitted into either nightclub dressed in these casual clothes. There was nothing for it but to get in on my credentials.
“I’m going to identify myself first,” I said calmly, as if I hadn’t just decided on that path.
“Is that wise? Those guys aren’t exactly friends with the Big Town cops.”
I shrugged casually. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
“Not to mention that we’re not here in any kind of official capacity. Don’t forget that, because the Super’s not going to when she finds out what we’re up to this time.”
“We’re chasing a dangerous fugitive, Sarge,” I insisted stubbornly. “And hopefully saving some poor girl from a terrible attack tonight. That’s about as official as it gets in my books and I don’t care what the Super says.”
I stalked off towards Bay Road and he had to scarper after me to catch up. We didn’t speak the entire block and parted silently when I crossed the road to where a queue for entry to Industrie snaked twenty metres down the footpath. Tonight was half-price drinks night, which always drew a crowd, despite the fact that it was a weekday and the drinks were always watered down.
With one glance back at the Sarge over my shoulder and with his dark eyes watching me, I approached the front of the queue with a confidence I was definitely not feeling. A chorus of protests rose from the queuers when I walked up to the two Trogs on duty this evening.
They were standing together, legs apart, arms crossed in front of them, eyes roaming over the crowd with belligerent anticipation, almost hoping that someone would step out of line. Two young girls in tight, lowcut tops and tiny skirts were giggling smugly in front of them. One of them looked familiar, and I racked my brain trying to remember her name. They’d obviously just been accelerated in their position in the queue and held out IDs for inspection.
Trog One took the cards and gave them a cursory glance before returning his creepy attenti
on back to the girls. He launched into a lengthy and intimate inquisition about what they planned to do tonight and who they planned to do it to. I barged into the conversation, my police ID out.
“Excuse me,” I said politely. “Can you take a look at my ID please?”
“Get to the back of the queue, sweetheart,” said Trog One with an arrogant sneer that set my hackles rising instantly. He hadn’t even looked in my direction, too busy staring down the tops of the young girls.
“Hey,” I said, clicking my fingers at him. “I was talking to you.”
“You’re not dressed for it, love,” Trog Two felt inclined to contribute, in what he probably considered a kind tone, not sparing me a glance, his eyes fixed on the queue. “Piss off and pretty yourself up, then come back and have a chat to us. We’re busy for now with these sweet little things.”
The girls giggled again, thrilled and flattered at being singled out for notice.
“You might want to take a peek at my identification,” I said, patiently enunciating every word, trying to be discreet for both their sakes and mine.
“Wait your fucking turn, sweetheart,” snapped Trog One, tearing his eyes away from the girls’ boobs to me. His attitude altered so rapidly then that I nearly laughed had I felt in the slightest way inclined. His tone became smarmy. “Hello there, sweetheart. You’re a bit of all right, aren’t you?” He elbowed his mate.
Trog Two turned bored eyes towards me, letting them sweep over me, lingering on my boobs before returning to my face. “Unfortunately, you’re not dressed for it tonight, sweetheart, but in a tight little short dress. Whoa, mamma! You’d have to hold me back.” He gave a low whistle of appreciation.
“You’ll have to hold me back in a minute if you two lunkheads don’t get your eyes above my chest and start listening to me,” I said between clenched teeth. I thrust my ID in their faces. “I need to get inside urgently. Do you want me to talk about it here in front of everyone, or are you going to cooperate?”
One glance at my badge sobered them both up. They didn’t mind a bit of biffo outside the club, but any hint of the police messing with their clientele hit the panic buttons. However, they weren’t at the front door for nothing and they muscled up together, forgetting about the two girls who still giggled at the side.
“There’s nothing inside you need to see, Officer,” said Trog One with latent antagonism. Trog Two nodded in agreement, barely able to fold his arms, his muscles bulged so much.
Okay, I thought, if they wanted to play that way, I could do that. I turned to the young girls and flashed my ID at them. “I’m Senior Constable Tess Fuller of the district police. Let’s see that ID again please, ladies.”
They stopped giggling and grew nervous, unsure what to do. They glanced up uncertainly at the Trogs before turning their eyes to me and my outstretched hand. They passed over their IDs. I scrutinised their individual driver’s licences carefully before waving them in front of the two men.
“So, gentlemen, you honestly believe that these two girls here are twenty-six and twenty-seven, do you? Because I personally think that’s a load of horseshit.”
“They’re over eighteen,” blustered Trog Two, glaring at the girls.
“Really? And that’s why this one here,” and I nodded at the furiously blushing dark-haired girl who was now tugging at her clothes trying to desperately cover herself, “still goes to high school.” I turned to her. “Don’t you, Amy?”
She burst into tears. “Don’t tell my parents please, Officer Tess. They’ll go ballistic. They think I’m at Georgia’s house studying tonight.”
I barely remembered her, but I did recall seeing her once or twice in the company of Romi, who also attended the high school here in Big Town. She was only sixteen or seventeen at best – definitely not legal for entering a licensed premise.
The queue grew increasingly interested in the goings-on at the door. Some of them checked over the road at Carouzel as if weighing up the option of cutting their losses with Industrie and joining the end of the queue there. The Trogs might represent the Missing Link in person, but they were finely tuned to the punters’ needs, not to mention their boss’ desire to make buckets of money.
“Like I said before, there’s nothing inside that would interest you, Officer,” repeated Trog One, stepping too close to me. My hand flew down to my knife and I caressed it, which calmed me down.
“Okey dokey. I’ll just check the IDs of everyone in the queue, will I? I can call for backup,” I threatened. Trog One and I duelled with our eyes. His were cold and soul-less. “I have nothing better to do tonight than to stay here doing a routine check of all patrons’ identification.”
“Bitch,” he muttered.
“What did you say?” I demanded.
He gave me the fakest smile I’d ever seen outside an election campaign and waved me forward, bowing slightly. “I said, you’re very welcome, Senior Constable. Let us know if we can provide any further assistance. We’re great fans of the fine work of Wattling Bay’s constabulary.”
As if. But I didn’t disabuse him of the idea that I belonged to the Big Town police force. It might save me some grief later on.
I turned to the girls. “Get on home now, ladies. I’m still thinking about whether or not to ring your parents. Do you have enough money for a taxi home?”
They both nodded miserably, their evening ruined. If only they knew that I might have just saved them from the horrific attention of Red Bycraft, they wouldn’t be so glum.
“I don’t want to see or hear about either of you trying to sneak into a nightclub again. You can just wait until you’re eighteen. Understand?” They nodded again, neither of them making eye contact with me. I turned to the Trogs. “You blokes ring them a taxi now and make sure they get in it safely. What are your names? And while you’re at it, show me your security licences.”
They glanced at each other, but then answered me sullenly and fished out their licences. I quickly wrote down their details, aware of the growing impatience of the queue, and handed the licences back before heading to the entrance.
“You can’t take that knife in with you.”
“Yes, I can. Don’t even think of trying to take it off me.”
We battled with our eyes again, and I was glad I wasn’t telepathic as I was pretty sure I wouldn’t want to know what he was currently thinking about me. He stepped aside and let me enter.
“Thanks, guys. Have a great night,” I called out cheerfully as I headed to the door, only to be met with two death stares in return.
Across the road the Sarge leant against a storefront, arms and ankles crossed, watching everything intently. I gave him two thumbs-up and he gave me a mock salute in return before sauntering to the door at Carouzel. He gained entry as soon as he presented his ID, throwing me a superior smile over his shoulder as he did. Smug bastard, I thought.
I stepped through the doorway of Industrie and disappeared inside, down the stairs.
Chapter 28
The thumping music engulfed me in a deafening wave so thick you could almost touch it, even in the small entry where the cashier sat processing the cover charge. Both she and the sharply-suited man standing behind her looked up when I clattered down the stairs and both frowned when they saw what I was wearing.
“Hey, no runners allowed in here,” scowled the man. “How’d you get past those two gorillas outside dressed like that anyway? They know the dress rules.”
The nametag pinned to his suit jacket identified him as Scott, the club manager. His hand lingered on the bare, tanned shoulder of the young, but hard-faced, platinum-haired woman at the till. I guessed I’d interrupted him during a spot of sexual harassment. She didn’t seem too distressed or unhappy about it though, judging by the self-satisfied expression on her face, and the way she reached her fingers up to brush his fingertips.
“I got past them by flashing my main asset,” I said, straight-faced. “This.”
I showed my badge again.
“Can we talk in private for a minute . . . Scott?” I asked politely.
He rolled his eyes, gently squeezed the back of the cashier’s neck and whispered in her ear, making her giggle and playfully swat at his arm. Smirking to himself, he indicated a door off to the side of the foyer. We entered his office and he closed the door behind us, walking around to fling himself in his chair, dropping his smile.
“Well? Who or what are you after tonight?”
“You ever heard of a man called Red Bycraft?”
He stared at me with malevolent disbelief. “You are fucking kidding me, right?” He shook his head. “This is complete crap.”
“What do you mean?”
He blew out air angrily and thumped the table with his fist. “You coppers were here the other night about him. And you know what? He didn’t fucking show up, but that didn’t stop you from mooching free drinks from the bar all night.”
“I wasn’t part of that team and I won’t be drinking anything. I’ll just be hanging in a dark corner watching out for him. If he turns up, I’ll call my partner over, but we won’t make any move until he leaves the club.”
“Do I have any say in this?”
Sure, I thought, you could ring the Super, who’d have my tits on toast for breakfast if she knew what I was doing. But of course I didn’t say that to him.
“I’m afraid not, Scott, but I appreciate your cooperation. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that this man is a dangerous fugitive and the sooner he’s recaptured, the better for all of us.”
Especially me.
“Is there going to be any trouble? Will the patrons notice either you or him?”
“No,” I replied firmly, with more confidence than I felt. God only knew what was going to happen tonight. If anything.