I escaped via the back gate, stopped in a cobbled laneway and leaned against a wall, breathing deeply to slow my heart rate. Jasmine curled over the fence opposite, filling the warm, thick air with its scent.
There weren’t many stars but the moon was almost full and traffic hummed on nearby Chapel Street. I could still feel him, still taste him, and I stayed by the wall , hugging myself until I was composed enough to go look for a cab.
I had it bad.
Chapter Fifteen
Wednesday 19 November
‘You’re late.’
‘I’m sooo sorry.’ I looked around Sexpo. The exhibition centre was huge and blow-up dolls dangled from the ceiling.
‘That’s all right, mate, don’t stress.’ Kelvin patted me on the shoulder. ‘I’m just surprised.’
‘News flash,’ I said, ‘world’s most reliable stripper late for Sexpo.’
‘Big night?’
‘You could say that.’ I willed the pain tablets to kick in. I was getting too old for this shit.
‘We’ll have to go out some time for a kick-arse curry.
It’s been ages.’ He swigged from a water bottle. ‘It’s just hard with the new baby.’
‘How is she?’ I asked. ‘And the wife?’
‘They’re fine.’ Kelvin’s dark round face beamed.
‘Amara’s beautiful, sleeps a lot. What about you? When are you going to pop out a couple?’
I laughed so hard I thought I might throw up.
Kelvin handed me a T-shirt and I went to the toilets to get changed. Exhibitors were still setting up their stands full of videos, sex toys and lingerie and the ladies’ was packed with women squeezing into wigs and latex gear.
I changed into hotpants, boots and a padded bra and put on the tight black T-shirt Kelvin had given me with extreme promotions emblazoned in white lightning letters. The padded bra was great. Cost me five bucks at a seconds shop in Richmond and was an instant tit-job, no mess, no fuss, no scarring. I painted on slutty red lipstick to match my bloodshot eyes, slid my inquiry agent ID
into my back pocket, and headed to the cafeteria to get a coffee.
I tried not to think about Mick. Each time I did I got shivers and went into a dreamy swoon followed by angry recrimination. I should be ashamed of myself. Almost fucking a musician two seconds after meeting him. We’d hardly said a word to each other. And I knew the type of guy he was, the kind that as soon as he’s had you he doesn’t want you anymore. I’d learned about that shit the hard way.
I paid for the long black and dumped my bag under Kelvin’s stand. Promotional posters of the girls hung on the booth walls and a large television screen showed a video of one of the tamer shows. Sexpo was strictly R rated. The strippers on the main stage weren’t even allowed to take off their G-strings.
Sipping my coffee I looked around. The booth next to us was Swingers Scene, manned by a couple from the suburbs. The husband wore neat casual and the wife looked like a soccer-mum. They smiled and I gave them a little wave. In the distance a beige dinosaur thing ambled along, spurting water out of its head.
‘What the fuck is that?’ I asked.
‘Penisaurus.’ Kelvin straightened the cards and flyers on the table. ‘He’s the official Sexpo mascot.’
‘Good god.’ I shuddered, ‘This place is turning me off sex already. So what do I have to do?’
He handed me a bunch of flyers. ‘Just walk around and give these out. We’re also promoting topless shots with the girls. Ten bucks a pop.’
‘Can I pass on that?’ I yawned.
‘Sure.’
I walked around giving people flyers and cards, checking out the exhibitors. One of the top brothels had a bed and spa on their stand and a raffle to win a Harley Davidson. Next to them a small booth promoted ‘Uberglide’, a revolutionary German designed lubricant.
I passed the velvet-draped Marquis stand but couldn’t see anyone fitting Ebony’s description and when I got to the far end of the room I found the ‘lifestyle’ booths: beauty, chiropractic, natural therapies. You could tell your friends you just went to Sexpo to get your spine realigned. Yeah right. I signed an anti-censorship petition at the Eros stand and went into the draw at another to win fifty porn videos. That would be sure to impress any potential suitors.
All the exhibitors were really friendly. In fact the whole place had a family atmosphere that made whatever kink you were into seem acceptable, wholesome and healthy. I was appalled. Sex was supposed to be dirty and bad. What if my erotic life never recovered? That got me thinking of Mick again and I just wanted to lie down on the cheap grey carpet and roll about. Sexpo was probably the place to do it. Everyone would just stand around watching politely then ask for a brochure. I blushed when I remembered sucking his dick. I’d really jumped the guy. Chloe would be so impressed. Shit, Chloe. The thought of her snapped me out of my dreamy reverie.
I had to find Ebony.
Back at Kelvin’s stand a girl with curly blond hair extensions and an Extreme Promotions T-shirt handed out leaflets.
‘Hi, I’m Vivien,’ I said.
‘Sabrina,’ she yawned. ‘Gawd, early enough for ya?’
It was two o’clock.
‘You girls should do a double show.’ Kelvin sat on a folding chair at the back of the booth reading an adult contact journal he’d picked up from the swingers next door. ‘Fair go, Kel,’ said Sabrina. ‘I’m not growling out some chick I’ve never even met—no offence.’
‘None taken,’ I smiled politely. ‘Can I go on a break, Kelvin?’
‘Yeah, sure, whatever.’ He was engrossed in his magazine.
I bought a bottle of water to combat the dry horrors and went to the Marquis’ booth to see if Ebony was there yet. On the way through the maze of stall s I saw the Red Room stand. Little blond Dakota was gyrating sullenly on a makeshift table. I didn’t blame her—god-awful lighting, tinny music from a faraway PA, everyone staring but nobody putting money in your garter. I went over.
‘Hi,’ I said, and when it looked like she couldn’t quite place me, ‘Vivien, from the club.’
‘Oh, hi Vivien.’ She kneeled down to talk to me. She had a breathy, girly voice.
‘Tough gig.’
‘Fucken tell me about it. Jim owes me big time. This is the pits. You working tonight?’
‘No, just Fridays and Saturdays. You know, they sell alcohol at the cafeteria.’
‘Really?’ Dakota’s face brightened.
‘Yeah. Say hi to Aurora and Betty for me.’
‘Sure.’
A man in black latex underpants and a gimp mask was tied to an A-frame rack at the Marquis’ stand.
Probably a Supreme Court judge. A bored-looking dominatrix, way too white to be Ebony, whipped him from time to time and a barrel-chested man in his forties stood beside the rack, handing out cards. He was balding and had done that thing where they shave off all the remaining hair.
Studded armbands ringed his biceps and his leather pants had the arse cut out, exposing hairy white buttocks. He should have looked ridiculous but carried himself with the natural authority of a man who beat the shit out of people for a living.
‘I’m the Brigadier.’ His phony English accent reminded me of Vincent Price.
I shook his hand. ‘Nice to meet you. How’s the legs?’
The floor was concrete under the thin carpet.
‘Killing me.’ He rolled his eyes then slapped a cat-o’-nine-tails against his palm. ‘Complimentary whipping?’
‘No thanks, just had one. Couldn’t take another lash.
I was wondering if Ebony was around.’
‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Here she comes now.’ He nodded at the Hustler stand and I saw a statuesque black woman stride towards us. A red rubber corset pushed her breasts skyward and impossibly high black boots were laced to the tops of her thighs. She wore a white, Louis XVI wig with a mini top hat and veil, rouged cheeks, a heart-shaped beauty spot and a stern expression. The leashes in her han
d led to dog collars around the throats of two flabby middle-aged men dressed like the guy on the rack. A Liberal Party MP, I guessed, and possibly a Catholic priest.
‘Ebony.’ The Brigadier clapped his hands together.
‘This delightful young lady would like to speak with you.’
Ebony looked me up and down and I felt very short, very white and very skanky in my hotpants and cheap T-shirt.
‘How can I help you?’ She had an American accent.
‘I’d like to talk to you about getting into some bondage work,’ I said.
She looked down at me and arched an eyebrow. ‘Talk to Felicia.’ She looked at the other mistress. ‘Or the Brig. I’m busy.’ She snapped the leads like an arctic explorer ‘mushing’ the huskies and began to walk off.
‘Wait,’ I said sharply. I was over all this bullshit, hungover and running out of time. ‘I’m not after a job.
I want to talk to you about Frank Parisi’s murder.’
Ebony’s eyes opened wide and she put her hands on her hips. ‘And who the fuck are you exactly?’
‘I’m a private detective.’ I took my license out and handed it over. The Brigadier, who was pretending not to listen, did a double take and nudged Felicia. Ebony studied my ID and laughed.
‘A private dick.’ She chuckled. ‘Always wondered what you guys wore under those trenchcoats.’
‘I strip as well. It’s the new millennium—multi-skilling and all that.’
‘Tell me about it, sister, but I don’t know if I can help you.’ She handed back my license. ‘I already talked to the police.’
‘Anything you can tell me about Frank would help.’
‘I’m going out for a cigarette,’ she said. ‘You can join me if you want.’ She handed the leashes to the Brigadier and the men sat on their heels like begging dogs and whined. One crawled over and licked Ebony’s boot.
‘Fuck off.’ She kicked him away.
We left Sexpo and walked through the glass-walled foyer that overlooked the Yarra, then out a side door to some concrete steps. About twenty exhibitors in various states of undress hung around, eagerly sucking in smoke.
We sat down and Ebony stretched her legs out, took a packet of Cartier cigarettes from a small velvet bag and offered me one. I shook my head and she lit it for herself with a small gold lighter. Her fingernails were long and gleamed with dark red varnish.
‘How’d you get my name?’
‘I’ve been talking to the girls at the Red and they mentioned you used to work there.’
‘Why you so interested in who killed Frank?’
‘It’s a long story. I have to find out to help a girlfriend of mine. She’s a stripper too. I can’t really tell you anymore.’
Ebony nodded sagely and blew out some smoke.
‘What was going on at the club before Frank was killed?’ I asked.
She shrugged. ‘Shit, same old same old. Frank coked up and arrogant, king of the castle, Jim handing out drugs like candy, Sal coming in to collect the cash now and again with some heavy-looking dudes. There was the night Honey’s boyfriend Shane got beat up by Frank and the bouncers.’
‘What about a cop called Dick Farquhar?’
‘He’d come in once a week. I used to stay away from that guy.’
‘Did Frank ever try to crack onto you?’
‘Hell no,’ she laughed. ‘He was scared of me. I used to do this voodoo themed show and he stayed well away.
They’re superstitious, those Maltese.’
‘You really know voodoo?’ I asked.
‘Shit no, I’m from Connecticut. I only know what I see in the movies. Thing is, anyone I meet in this industry, I let ’em know straight away I ain’t taking no shit from no one. One time in Soho this asshole tried to touch my jewel. I broke his fucking arm, you know what I’m saying?’
I nodded. Yes I did. Ma’am.
‘I worked all over,’ Ebony continued. ‘New York, Vegas, London even. Some of these girls though, they’re eighteen. A young eighteen. Don’t know how to play the game and get taken advantage of.’
‘Like Honey?’
‘There are a million Honeys out there, all trying to please daddy.’ Ebony took a final drag and crushed out the cigarette butt with her spike heel.
‘I heard she was having an affair with Frank.’
‘An affair implies consent.’
‘Did she tell you he forced himself on her?’
‘She didn’t have to say anything, I could tell by the look in her eyes. She acted like she didn’t mind but that was to save face. When something like that happens you feel stupid, like in a way it’s your own fault.’
I wondered if Ebony was talking from experience, from some long ago time, before she’d started snapping ulnas like twigs.
‘So if Shane knew, that’s a pretty good reason for offing Frank.’
‘I’m not speculating, sugar. You should talk to him about it.’
‘Know where I could find him?’
‘I don’t have a phone number or anything but Honey’s in the Miss Striptease finals at Crystal T’s tomorrow night. Shane’d probably be there. Won’t want to talk to you though.’
‘I’ll think of something,’ I said. ‘You in the comp this year?’
‘Nah.’ Ebony lit another thin white cigarette. ‘I’ve had it with stripping and I’m really enjoying the B&D game. Beating the hell out of guys and getting paid a shitload. I think I’ve finally found my niche.’
I got up and brushed specks of grit off my hotpants.
‘Just one more question,’ I looked around, paranoid.
‘What do you know about Frank’s brother Sal?’
‘Not much, bit of a mystery man. Rumour has it he imports the coke that’s around the club and has some pretty heavy connections. Mafia. Not someone I’d ever fuck with.’
Indeed.
I went back inside and handed out more leaflets, then watched a couple of strip shows on the main stage.
Two unattractive women in the audience were making bitchy comments about a gorgeous stripper, picking at the tiniest things.
‘She’s got cellulite on her arse.’
‘Her tits are a bit saggy.’
I came up behind them and said loudly, ‘Jealousy’s a curse, ladies.’
They turned and opened and gasped before hurrying away. The guys and girls were good, award winners some of them, but the audience hardly made a sound. I finished up at four when a couple of girls came in to replace Sabrina and me. Kelvin paid me a hundred and twenty bucks, cash. Every little bit helps.
I drove through Macca’s in South Melbourne and bought two McOz burgers. When I got home I threw away the buns and ate the patties on a plate with a knife and fork. The burgers, the day and the hangover had made me tired and I fell asleep on the couch.
I woke in darkness to the phone ringing, not sure what time it was. I picked it up off the coffee table:
‘Hello?’
‘ “Folsom Prison Blues.” ’
‘Johnny Cash,’ I croaked, still half asleep.
‘ “Too Many Nights in a Roadhouse.” ’
‘Junior Brown. Who is this?’ I asked, struggling to sit up. But I already knew. It was Mick.
Chapter Sixteen
I arranged to meet Mick at the Doulton Bar where Acland Street smacked into Barkly. It was one of the few watering holes in St Kilda that looked like a pub rather than a space lounge or an eighteenth century brothel. It even had pub carpet. I’d dressed up for the occasion, jeans and my ‘Damn Right I’m a Cowgirl’ T-shirt and had spent an hour putting on makeup so it looked like I was wearing none.
I walked inside and couldn’t see a thing. Everywhere in Melbourne has dim lighting—anything over forty watts seems to be illegal—and Sydney is fluorescent by comparison, dazzling and over-lit. Rather than peer around like an idiot looking for him I walked straight up to the bar and ordered a chardonnay. I felt wine would leave me with a modicum of composure that just wasn’t possible
with champagne. My heart hammered as the pouty bar girl poured the wine. It was ridiculous. I was more nervous now than when Blue had pointed his gun at me.
A voice behind me, low and sexy. ‘Hello, Miss Vivien Leigh.’
I took my wine and turned around. It hadn’t just been the champagne-goggles. He was gorgeous.
‘Mr. Halliday.’ Deciding to play it Jane Austen style.
‘I’ve got us a seat.’
I followed him to a couple of brown vinyl armchairs, sat down and kept my knees together. Mick sprawled in his chair with his legs wide apart. He wore an electric blue shirt with the neck open and sleeves rolled up and the same jeans as the night before. Probably still without underwear. I resisted the urge to unzip him and check and pressed my knees tight. How long since I’d had sex?
A couple of months at least.
‘Why’d you call me?’ I broke the silence. ‘Was I the root who got away?’ So much for Jane Austen.
Mick held up a palm. ‘You’ve got me all wrong.’
Had I? I smoothed down my jeans, even though they didn’t need smoothing. ‘I was pretty drunk last night,’
I said.
‘I was pretty stoned.’
‘I have to apologise. I don’t usually do . . . that, on the first date.’
‘Do what?’ He was pretending to be serious but the corners of his mouth tugged up.
‘You know.’ I glanced at his crotch. ‘That. I don’t do that to someone I don’t even know. It was out of character.’
‘No need to say sorry,’ Mick said. ‘I really enjoyed that. I think you’re very good at it.’
‘Will you excuse me?’ I got up and ran to the ladies’ and leaned against the wall by the mirror softly banging my head against the tiles. Then I scrunched up my face and did a little scream. Aaaarrgh. A woman came out of a cubicle. ‘Are you all right?’ she said.
‘Now I am,’ I smiled.
When I got back Mick was rolling a cigarette and I asked him to make one for me.
‘How long have you been with the band?’
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