I borrowed a fifty off Chloe, bought us both champagne and leaned back on the bar, scanning the room, but there was no sign of Nick. A small stage in the corner was draped in black and lit with a crimson spot. Round tables jostled for space in front of it, full of people clutching notebooks, A4 printouts and crumpled, ink-scrawled sheets of paper. A couple of French doors were set into the wall behind the stage and beyond them I glimpsed a carpeted hallway leading to a sweeping staircase. A sign above it read Accommodation. Next to the stage the judges’ table was set up with scorecards, pens and paper, and three bottles of red. JJ was there in his black suit and trilby hat, drinking wine and talking to a fat guy in a t-shirt, beret and cravat. Chloe stood on the bar railing to see what I was looking at.
‘Who’s that?’ she squealed. I didn’t think she was talking about beret guy.
‘Jerome Jones, otherwise known as JJ. Poet and uni lecturer. He’s running this gig.’
‘Jerome Jones . . .’ She swirled the name around her mouth like a wine-wanker savouring an expensive vintage. ‘Very tall, very dark, very handsome and very smart . . . I’m gonna do a poem, make him notice me.’ She started moving through the crowd to the registration desk.
‘Has to be original,’ I shouted after her.
‘Too easy,’ she yelled back. ‘There was a young lady named Chloe, who was awesome at giving a . . .’
I stood there sipping my drink and feeling a nauseous clench in my stomach that was either apprehension or hunger. In two days I’d eaten a few bites of a hotel breakfast, a sandwich and a small tin of tuna. Forget Atkins, just go on the run from the cops.
There was still no sign of Nick and I thought for a second that he might have double bluffed me, set up a false trail while he went off and . . . what? He was worried about JJ, wouldn’t leave him to get slaughtered.
Unless Nick hadn’t even made it to Broken Hill . . . Bloody scenes flashed before my eyes and my stomach lurched. Bugger it, if I couldn’t stand not knowing, why didn’t I just ask?
I pressed through the crowd, heading for JJ, nearly suffocating with the combined scent of sweat, spray deodorant and patchouli oil. Just as I was attempting to poke my head around the fat guy I felt a tap on my shoulder, turned and immediately recognised the black eyebrows and goatee.
Nick said, ‘Shit, it is you,’ grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me through the French doors into the hallway, out of sight of the bar. He pushed me up against a wall.
‘I told you to go back to Melbourne.’ He wore black trousers that were a little too long and a suit jacket I suspected he’d lifted from JJ’s flat. His eyes glittered and his body quivered with nerves.
‘Try reverse psychology next time. I tend to do the opposite of what I’m told.’
‘And you brought your fucking friend.’ He gestured towards the bar.
‘No I didn’t. She came on her own and that’s your fault. If you hadn’t stolen my money I wouldn’t have had to call her for the airfare and she wouldn’t have known where I was and got it in her head to come. Don’t worry. She gave the cops the slip, didn’t tell anyone.’
Nick didn’t appear convinced, but he did seem to relax just a tiny bit.
‘You haven’t talked to JJ yet?’ I ventured.
He shook his head. ‘I know him. The crazy fucker won’t cancel the slam. I thought it’d be relatively safe with all these people around, but I’m keeping an eye out just in case.’ He tapped his jacket and I suddenly realised why he was wearing it in the heat. He had a weapon concealed.
‘Give me one of those.’
‘What?’
‘I know you’ve got three. Freak’s after me, too. Give me a gun.’
‘You don’t know how to fire one.’
‘Neither do you, judging by your shithouse shot yesterday. How hard can it be?’
Nick looked from side to side. I could see him weigh it up. If Watto did show up, it would be two against one.
‘Follow me,’ he said.
At the top of the staircase we walked down a floral-carpeted corridor until Nick unlocked a wooden door with an old-fashioned key. The hotel room was chintzy: brass bed, patchwork quilt, doilies and dried flowers decorating antique mahogany furnishings. Lace curtains adorned double doors leading to the wide balcony that ran around the pub. It was stuffy inside and Nick flicked a switch on the wall to turn on an old wooden ceiling fan.
He slid his sports tote from underneath the bed and we sat next to each other on the sagging mattress while he unzipped the bag, pulled out one of the police issue Smith and Wesson’s and handed it to me. The wooden grip was textured and the gun felt heavy in my hand. I held it gingerly, as though it might bite.
‘Ever used one of these?’ he asked.
‘Only to smack someone in the face.’
‘Sure you want to carry it? Hard to say you’re a hostage.’
‘Has been since I followed you to Broken Hill. I’ll tell ’em I got Stockholm Syndrome, started identifying with my captor, like Patty Hearst.’
He grinned, frowned, then rested his head in his hands for a couple of seconds, before rubbing his eyes and sitting up straight. I got the feeling he’d almost reached the end. He was half the size he’d been the day he strolled into my office, and had scooped-out cheeks and violet skin beneath feverish eyes. I wondered if Liz had lost so much weight because of some psychic sympathy with her twin.
‘Right.’ Nick sniffed, taking the gun off me and cracking the barrel to show me the bullets. ‘It’s fully loaded. A revolver’s single action so you’ve got to cock the hammer before you pull the trigger. Just like in the movies, right?’
‘Sure.’
When he handed it back I practised tilting the hammer a couple of times, then slipped it into my bag. Australian PIs weren’t allowed to carry guns and I’d never really been armed before. I wondered if I’d actually be able to use the weapon if it came to that. Just thinking about firing it made my heart thud against my rib cage.
‘So what’s the plan? We let JJ finish his slam then get him to safety?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘And after that?’
He looked into the middle distance like he was wrestling with something.
‘Nick,’ I said, ‘come clean, seriously. I know everything. Or almost everything. I know someone’s threatened to kill Liz and your brother if you don’t pay them a shitload of cash. Most likely the same someone who sicked Watto onto me. He told me that Chloe and my mum and brother were dead if I went to the cops. Sound familiar? I know you talked to JJ’s friend Travis at the Kit Kat Club in Adelaide last night— about the Red Devils. You told me you’d stolen money off someone, so it’s not too much of a leap to think it might be them, although I’m not sure why you’d be so dumb as to rip off a bunch of bikies.’
Nick stared at me. I went on: ‘I’m thinking it all goes back to that writers’ roadshow. Otherwise, why would Isabella, JJ and Desiree have someone after them? You were all together here in Broken Hill. The Red Devils have a clubhouse in Broken Hill . . .’ I was thinking out loud by then. ‘Of course Victoria wasn’t with you, so Watto targeting her makes no sense.’
‘Watto targeting you makes no sense.’
‘I know. He sent me a death threat the day after I took the case. How could anybody have known what I was up to? All I’d done were a couple of internet searches . . .’
‘Maybe he was following me, saw you, and became fixated? You said he’s off his head.’
‘That’s not a reason to have my family tailed. Watto knew Mum and Jasper were in Byron when I thought they were in Sydney. Lot of organisation for a drug-fucked stalker.’
‘Doesn’t make any sense . . .’
‘That’s why I need you to tell me everything you know. If I find out who’s behind all this I can tell the cops and protect everyone. I’m not going to be responsible for any more deaths. Not after what happened to my mum and her partner Steve.’
‘Telling you won’t protect anyone. It’ll put
you in more danger.’
‘Nick, please. I just want to end this.’
He was quiet for a while. It was hot in the room, despite the slow-moving fan, and I could feel the hair at the back of my neck become damp.
‘Me too. I’m ending it tonight.’
chapter forty-eight
The bed in the chintzy hotel room squeaked as I shifted my weight.
‘How are you ending it?’
‘I’m paying back what I owe.’
‘But Liz said it was more than four hundred thousand. Much more.’ I couldn’t keep the incredulity out of my voice.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘How’d you get hold of it? Travis? Where is it?’ I looked around the room, wondering how much space that much money actually took up. Had to be pretty bulky.
Nick lifted one side of his mouth. ‘It’s not in cash.’
‘What then? Gang takes Visa?’
‘You don’t have to know the details. It’s enough that I’ve got it, okay?’
‘So what’s the plan?’
‘Soon as the slam’s finished I head to a pub where I meet with the Devils and complete the transaction.’
‘What if they take the money and decide to kill you anyway?’
He thought about it for a while.
‘I was going to ask JJ to come along for backup. Wait in the car. Make sure I get out okay.’
‘What about after you pay them off? You’re still Australia’s most wanted.’
‘I disappear.’
‘What?’
‘Vanish. It’s part of the deal.’
‘How?’
‘False passport. New identity. People do it all the time.’
‘But, shit, your writing career.’
‘Christ, Simone, that’s the least of my worries. I fucked things up and now I have to make it right. It’s the only way.’
Sounded like something I’d say.
‘And what about that freak in the mask, Watto? He’s still after me. Am I gonna be watching my back the rest of my life?’
‘No need to worry, that’s another part of the arrangement. They get the money as long as they leave everyone else alone.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
He pulled a mobile phone out of his jacket pocket and dialled a number.
‘It’s Nick. I have to speak to Craig.’ He hung up.
I stared at him.
‘Take a couple of minutes,’ he said.
Amplified voices drifted up through the old floorboards, muff led applause, whistles, catcalls. Sounded like a vibe show at a buck’s party. Who knew pub punters would be so into poetry?
‘That hair . . .’ Nick looked at me, shook his head and almost smiled.
‘It’s hot, right? I mean, gentlemen prefer blondes and all that.’
‘You look like a crazy tart from one of my books.’
‘I really don’t think you’re in a position to criticise, Martin St James.’
The mobile rang. Nick’s face got serious.
‘Simone Kirsch wants to speak to you, about the deal.’ He handed over the phone.
‘Simone.’ It was a male voice. Deep, slightly Aussie, confident sounding. ‘I’ve heard so much about you. You’re quite famous in here.’
‘Who is this?’
‘My name’s Craig, and I’m truly sorry to hear about your trouble with my, uh, associate. He served a purpose, but his personal problems have made him a liability to my organisation.’
‘By personal problems do you mean he’s a murdering drug pig who threatened my family and attempted to dismember me with a chainsaw?’
‘Don’t worry, your family is safe. He’s bad for business and won’t be around much longer, I can promise you that.’
‘Why was he after me in the first place?’ I asked, but there was no reply. The connection went dead. I turned to Nick.
‘Was I just talking to Craig Murdoch, head of the Devils?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘But he’s in jail.’
‘Doesn’t mean he can’t get access to a mobile phone. Don’t tell me you’re that naïve.’
‘Reckon I can trust him?’
‘Can’t trust anyone. But I do believe he’ll off his psycho henchman. Guy’s completely out of control.’
As Nick and I made our way carefully down the stairs it became apparent there was a break in the slam. ‘Everybody Knows’, the Leonard Cohen song, was playing, the crowd had washed up against the bar, a substantial group of punters was outside smoking cigarettes, and Chloe sat at the judges’ table. JJ was right next to her, arm over the back of her chair, and the two of them were so focused on each other they didn’t notice us approach from behind.
‘You’re gorgeous.’ He sipped his glass of red.
‘I’m fucking fat, is what I am.’
‘I love pregnant women . . . so lush, luminous.’ He checked his watch. ‘Damn. Better announce the final results and give out the prizes. You staying here in town?’
‘If I can find a room . . .’ Chloe played with her hair, winding a strand around her index finger.
JJ grinned, leapt up, walked right past Nick and me and jumped onto the small stage. He was a little unsteady on his feet, his hat was askew and I noticed that the wine bottles were empty. The music faded out and JJ grabbed the mike, got the crowd’s attention, telling them what a great night it had been, and thanking the poets, the audience, the publican.
‘Before I announce the winners of the Broken Hill Poetry Slam there’s one more poem I have to read, a haiku I composed just a few moments ago, inspired by everyone’s talent, the wonderful city of Broken Hill, and a beautiful woman with a nice line in saucy limericks.’
A few people whistled and catcalled and Chloe preened.
JJ pulled a stained beer mat from his pants pocket and read off the back: ‘Desert moon rises, In the red earth she flowers, Incandescent bloom.’
Applause. A lot of the women in the audience looked particularly misty eyed. I looked at Nick and we both rolled our eyes.
‘He’s laying it on a bit thick,’ I said.
‘Yeah, but it’s working. Your friend better watch out.’
‘You don’t know Chloe. He’s the one in trouble.’
We’d only taken our eyes off our surroundings for a couple of seconds, but that was all it took for everything to turn to shit. I looked back to the stage where JJ was opening an envelope, Oscars style, and glanced through the windows behind him. A police car had pulled up in front of the pub and the two cops who emerged wore bulletproof vests. Another police car, a four-wheel drive, was visible through the pub’s double glass doors.
‘Shit.’ Nick clocked them at the same time and froze like a hunted deer.
‘Might not be after you,’ I whispered. ‘Could be, I dunno, a drug raid or something.’
‘Then what’s she doing here?’
Detective Talbot slid out of the passenger side of the four-wheel drive, her brown bob sleek and a flak jacket over her usual pantsuit, bulking out her sinewy frame. A tall, brawny Aboriginal copper with a salt and pepper beard and a khaki uniform slammed the door on the driver’s side, and the two of them crossed the sidewalk and entered the pub. She squinted, scanning the crowd, while he made for the stage and hopped up.
‘And the winner is . . .’ JJ, glassy-eyed with red and blinded by the spotlight, hadn’t noticed them.
‘Police!’ The cop took the microphone. ‘We have a warrant to search these premises. Nobody move.’
chapter forty-nine
The crowd booed and hissed and despite the order not to, began shuff ling around chaotically. A few people tried to leave but all the doorways were blocked by uniformed cops. JJ bounded off the stage back to Chloe, looked up and saw me and Nick. The expression on his face rapidly morphed from ‘I know you from somewhere’ to ‘Holy shit.’
‘I’ll explain later,’ Nick said. ‘Right now we’ve got to get out of here.’
Chloe hoisted herself up from her ch
air.
‘You.’ Nick pointed. ‘Stay.’
‘Make me.’ She tossed her long blonde hair and stuck her hands on her hips.
Rage momentarily darkened his face, but instead of throttling her he turned and walked slowly and calmly to the corridor that led to the hotel stairs. JJ, Chloe and I followed, our actions hidden by the crowd. Nick glanced to the right, down the passageway, and I followed his gaze. A couple of cops stood outside the glass door at the end of the hall, backs to us. Nick started to jog up the stairs and the rest of us followed. We’d just reached the first landing when I heard a shout.
‘Oi, you lot. Stop right there.’
We bolted, JJ helping Chloe, practically lifting her off her high-heeled mules. I felt the old pub shake as the cops thundered up the creaky hallway, simultaneously radioing for backup.
When we reached the top Nick was holding the door to his room open. We sprinted in and he closed it quietly just before the coppers reached the top of the stairs. He held his finger to his lips, crossed the room and carefully opened the balcony door.
Outside our pursuers were rattling handles and bashing on doors.
‘Police, open up!’
‘I’ll check the fire exit,’ one of them shouted.
A radio crackled and I heard a voice I was sure was Talbot’s. ‘Got the keys. I’m coming up.’
Nick slipped out the door and beckoned the rest of us to follow. JJ went first, holding Chloe’s hand and pulling her along. I closed the door and brought up the rear. We walked lightly, sticking close to the wall so no one could see us from the street, Chloe on tippy-toes to stop her heels from clattering. At the end of the balcony stood another old two-storey building with a veranda of its own, a two-foot gap in between. Nick jumped across and kept going, not looking back. I guessed he’d scoped out the escape route as soon as he’d checked into the room.
JJ and I helped Chloe struggle from the first balcony to the second and by the time we’d got there Nick had disappeared. I leaned over the railing and looked down. The next building along was single storey with a flat concrete roof, and he was already halfway across it.
JJ climbed over, hung for a second and dropped. It was five foot, not much, unless you were about that tall, eight months up the duff and wearing four-inch heels.
Thrill City Page 27