It was impossible to believe a promoter as small-time as Wal’s mate Cooper had picked up such an enormous act, even if he was blacklisted by the big guys. My antennae began to quiver. Something wasn’t right here.
I shifted my search on to Cooper but there wasn’t much to find. I found his website and endorsements from some local acts plus one decent international blues singer and the latest travelling production of the Tongan fire walkers. Other than that it was all back-of-house stuff. He was registered on the Australian Promoters Association which gave him some legitimacy and probably access to free legal advice. I hoped I wouldn’t have to go there with him. Lawyer-speak gave me indigestion.
Somehow all that didn’t add up to a world-class recommendation. I made a mental note to ring Wal and grill him a bit more after I’d met Cooper.
It was an age since I’d had the time to sit and read, so I shut my phone and opened the book. Soon I was deep in Mak Vanderwall’s world.
It took a tap on the shoulder from the gate steward to let me know the plane was about to close its doors. Full of apologies, I hurtled down the walkway and into my seat. The 767 had two aisles and I was on one side against the window. My heart dropped as I saw my seat companion was many times wider than his seat. After a moment of awkward belly-to-knee rubbing, I climbed across him.
Before we’d even begun to taxi I remembered why I hated air travel. No leg room. Scrunched like a crushed handkerchief, I peered around my seat companion’s stomach, looking for a spare seat.
No luck. But I saw someone who sent my heart lurching sideways: Johnny Viaspa was in the centre column two rows behind me. I shrank back behind my seat companion and was suddenly grateful that his flesh was bountiful.
OMG! What was Johnny Viaspa doing on my plane to Brisbane?
A second sneak glance confirmed it was him, dressed in a tight black business shirt and pants and spilling his pus-yellow aura onto the people next to him.
I sagged back again and tried to calm my panicked breathing. Five hours in a confined space with the only man on the planet who wanted me dead. At least, the only one I knew of . . .
He’d tried it once and failed, and I figured it would only be a matter of time until he tried again. Nick Tozzi and I had crossed him and I didn’t for a moment imagine he was the sort to forget.
‘Everything alright?’
I gave the man mountain next to me a startled look. His beard, tattooed fingers, faded denim and the gold filling in his front tooth said bikie.
‘Umm . . . I . . . ummm . . .’
‘Tight squeeze, eh? Fuc—I mean, friggin’ airlines keep makin’ their seats smaller.’ He was sweating profusely and his largely purple aura was beset by troubled swirling browns.
‘To tell you the truth, it’s been a while since I’ve flown,’ I said.
‘Me too. Goin’ to a funeral. Promised the lads I’d do it.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’ I tried to decipher the emblem on his finger tats without staring but his hands were clasped tightly.
‘He was an arsehole. Got what he deserved. But a man’s gotta do the right thing. See him off.’
I nodded sympathetically.
‘You get nervous goin’ up or down?’ he asked. Sweat slid down his face and dripped onto his shirt collar.
‘Um . . . both,’ I lied, hoping it might calm him a bit. ‘Hate it. Makes my ears pop.’
‘Dontcha worry about it. She’ll be right.’
‘Cheers,’ I said.
I picked up Mak Vanderwall and dived into it again, trying to block out what was about to be the flight from hell. But as we picked up speed towards our take-off, my seat started to shake.
I risked a glance at the bikie and saw he was sitting as far forward as his seatbelt would stretch. His hands were two giant fists pressed against the seat in front and, above his beard, his face was pasty white. People near us were looking at him. Fearing that one of them might be Johnny Viaspa, I opened my mouth. ‘What’s your name?’
The plane began to accelerate as the pilot poured on the power.
‘Erp?’ he replied, glazed-eyed and vomity-looking.
‘Your name?’
‘Big . . . Nuts.’
‘You’re kidding.’
He turned his head stiffly and met my gaze.
Nope. He wasn’t kidding.
‘Er, Big Nuts, I’m scared.’
One paw unlatched from the other and he grabbed my right hand in a killer grip. My fingers began to go numb as we approached lift-off and I lost feeling in my wrist when we hit the first few bumps. By the time we reached cruising altitude, I was wondering if my arm was still attached to my shoulder.
The upside was that I’d had an eyeful of the tattoo and Big Nuts had stopped shaking.
He released my hand when the seatbelt sign went off and I subtly pinched feeling back into it.
‘You sure are a scared one . . .’ he said.
‘Tara,’ I said. ‘I sure am.’
‘When does the booze cart come around?’
‘Soon, I expect.’
‘Too long,’ he said, and pressed the call button.
The flight attendant eventually became convinced she should serve him now when he threatened to go and get it himself.
Six little whisky bottles later, his colour had returned and brought with it a desire to chat. I heard all about his pit bull terrier, Maxine, and how he’d been a roadie for a while before he got a real job.
‘You wouldn’t happen to know Wallace Grominsky?’ I asked.
‘Grom? You know Grom?’ Frowning, he twisted his bulk towards me, which was no mean feat.
‘Yes,’ I said, suddenly wishing I hadn’t asked.
But his frown transformed into an enormous grin. ‘I figured that ugly little prick was dead.’
‘Definitely not dead,’ I said.
‘Whas ’e doin’?’
‘He . . . um . . . works for me.’
Big Nuts’ eyes popped.
‘I run an investigation business,’ I explained.
‘No shit?’
‘None,’ I said solemnly.
‘Little prick knows his stuff.’ He lowered his voice and gave me a wink. ‘Does he still like to play with hardware?’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Wouldn’t know.’
He laughed. ‘Say, you gotta business card?’
I could have lied and said no, but he was already pressing his own into my hand, and my Joanna Sharp upbringing required that I reciprocate.
While he slipped mine into his shirt pocket, I peeked at his. It had the same emblem as appeared on his knuckles and read:
Bon Jovi Ames
Sergeant-at-arms
West Coast Cheaters (Bay Creek division)
Jeez! Bon Jovi Ames? Really? Parents have a lot to answer for. But that didn’t detract from the fact that Big Nuts didn’t just look like a bikie, he was the real deal. Last press I’d seen on the West Coast Cheaters was an epic brawl outside a club in Fremantle that included thirty uniformed cops and stun sticks; a riot by Perth standards.
I pressed the button for the flight attendant and ordered two mini bottles of white wine.
By the time the plane landed, Big Nuts and I had got pretty loose, swapping injury stories. Weirdly, I suddenly felt less scared of Johnny Viaspa. I’d held Big Nuts’ hand and we’d exchanged business cards. That made us friends, right?
As we disembarked, I took care to stay in the shadow of his considerable bulk. That worked right up until I’d retrieved my luggage. Viaspa was on the other side of the conveyor belt, deep in conversation with a man wearing the same uniform of sunglasses and black dress shirt and pants.
As I peeped at him from behind Big Nuts, I heard the bikie hiss.
‘Bon?’ I couldn’t call him the other. I just couldn’t.
‘Snake’s arsehole.’ He was staring over at Viaspa and his mate with the kind of expression you might wear if you’d bitten into a burger and found out it was rat, not beef.
‘You know the
m?’
He flicked a look over his shoulder at me. ‘You?’
‘One of them. Can I just hang behind you until he leaves?’
He gave me another look, nodded and fished his phone out of his pocket. His conversation was short and cryptic, but it must have been something to do with Viaspa and the other guy because he used the word snake several times.
After he hung up, he turned towards me. ‘He’s gone.’
‘Thanks, Bon.’ I stuck out my hand and we shook formally. He was taller than me, and at least forty kilos heavier, and it made my teeth rattle.
‘Watch out for snakes, Tara Sharp,’ he said.
‘Back atcha,’ I said.
Relieved the flight was over, I headed out the double doors into the balmy Brisbane night, wondering where my ride was.
As I pulled out my phone and switched it on, I caught sight of Viaspa’s back ahead of me. On the other side of the road, a man of medium build with a round face, wearing a crumpled shirt and jeans, was holding up a sign.
Viaspa glanced across at him casually then froze in his tracks. The man was unaware that Viaspa was staring at him with such interest and continued to wave his placard.
Shit! The sign said TARA SHARP in giant capitals.
CHAPTER 5
I slunk back behind a group of people fagging next to a large column-shaped ashtray just as Viaspa swivelled in my direction.
With trembling fingers, I sent Stuart Cooper a text. Please put down the sign. I’ll meet you outside Virgin arrivals. Will explain then.
I back-pedalled into the terminal and threaded my way to another exit and on down to the Virgin terminal. A few minutes later, Cooper turned up panting and looking a little bewildered.
I tapped him on the shoulder and stuck out my hand. ’Hi, I’m Tara. Look, sorry for the run-around but I like to stay below the radar when I’m on a job. You waving a sign with my name on it is . . . problematic.’
It sounded a tad OTT but Stuart seemed to accept it. ‘Sure. Apologies. Let’s get out of here.’
We paid the short-term parking and were soon blasting along a well-lit highway in a tired old Holden Camry with Cooper talking quicker than I could blink.
The gist of it was that the owner of a club called Little Paolo’s had called Cooper earlier in the day to come in and talk about the booking for Slim’s tour. Apparently, it was one of the main live venues left in Fortitude Valley and crucial to the tour’s success. If Slim didn’t do Paolo’s he might as well kiss the whole Queensland leg of the comeback adios.
‘When does Slim arrive?’ I asked.
‘Tomorrow. That’s why I wanted you here quick. Got an independent publicist working for me as well and she’s lined up a bunch of radio and some TV. I’ll get you to tag along on most of the promo.’
I nodded. That sounded fair. ‘So what outcomes are you looking for from me, Stuart?’ ‘Outcomes’ was a term I’d picked up from Bok, who’d been doing his staff performance reviews these last few weeks. Being clear on outcomes is important, T, he told me. Then everyone has their eye on the same ball. If only I could apply it to my love life!
‘Outcome, outcome? Yeah, yeah? Well, I want this tour to go okay . . . Truth is, my whole business hangs on this, Tara. I’m one of the little guys. We don’t get this kind of chance too often. If it works out for me, I become a player. It doesn’t work out, I’m on the dole. Dig?’
‘I feel for you on that,’ I said carefully. ‘But I can’t guarantee your future.’
‘Sure, sure,’ he said. ‘Just want you to know the stakes. Want you to find who’s trying to squeeze me out.’
‘You got any ideas on that yourself?’ I pulled my phone out.
‘You gonna take notes?’
‘You alright with that? Client confidentiality applies.
No one sees them but me, but I need to keep a handle on the details.’
He stuck his tongue in his cheek and rolled it around for a bit. ‘You delete them afterwards.’
‘If you want,’ I said. ‘Apart from your contact numbers.’
He thought about it for a moment or two. ‘Fine, fine. The way I’m figuring it, there’re two guys who really want me to crash. Actually, there’s probably more, but these ones have got more cause than the others. First is a guy called Andreas Giannoukakis—Easy A Productions. He brought Slim Sledge out last time he toured and took a big hit when Slim forked his minder and had to cancel most of his dates. Andreas is pissed with me on a whole number of levels.’
I raised an eyebrow and glanced sideways. ‘Care to expand on that?’
His mouth was pursing and unpursing like he was working to spit out an olive pit. ‘I was engaged to his niece, Sofia Zachariou.’ His shoulders slumped a little.
‘Lemme guess . . . you jilted her at the altar?’
‘Nah, nothing like that.’
‘What then?’
‘Her papa checked my credit rating.’
‘She dumped you because you weren’t earning enough money?’ How last century. I tried to keep the sympathy out of my tone and stay matter-of-fact, but truth was I was feeling a bit sorry for the guy already.
‘No, no. Sofia’s the sweetest girl in the world.’ His voice grew thick. ‘She’d never do that. But she does what her family says. That’s her way. Gotta respect her for it.’
In the glow of the flashing-past streetlights, his body language didn’t show the same conviction as his words. In fact, he looked like he was having an attack of appendicitis. Time to change the subject. After seeing Viaspa at the airport, I wasn’t really in the mood for Stuart’s emotional baggage.
‘Who else then?’ I asked.
‘Joel Aprile.’
‘OTB Records?’ Even I knew of Aprile. He’d ascended the ranks to become the biggest Aussie promoter and label in the last few years. Joel Aprile was a legend with some serious family money behind him. In the last few years he’d brought out Pink, Usher and Rihanna. The notion that Cooper might be going up against him over Slim Sledge made me want to tell him to stop the car so I could run to the toilet.
Instead, I crossed my legs and looked out as we headed up a huge bridge to cross a wide river. What a view! All twinkling lights and river reflections wrapped up in a warm breeze. Strange, but I felt immediately comfortable.
‘Gateway Bridge is the best thing that ever happened to this city,’ Cooper remarked into the silence. ‘Used to be you had to drive through the CBD. Traffic was a bitch.’ He waved over at the rainbow-lit skyscrapers that surely marked the heart of Brisbane.
‘Nice,’ I responded.
‘We’re a city of bridges really.’
I saw what he meant as I peered downriver. The man-made constructions lent the city an exotic night appeal. Fairyland of a type. In the daylight, though, I bet it lost some of its glamour.
‘Anyway, as I was saying, I worked for Joel for a few months when I first came east. Learned a lot and then moved on.’
‘He pissed off with you about that?’
‘Kinda. One of his clients came with me when I started out on my own. Joel thinks I poached him but I didn’t.’
‘You think stealing one of his clients is enough that he’s trying to put you out of business?’
‘Well, like I said, I didn’t steal him. It was the client’s idea. He chased me when I left. And yes, I do. Aprile’s pretty big on loyalty.’
‘Did you explain to him what happened?’
‘You don’t tell Joel squat. Joel knows. That’s it. I could have refused to take on the client, I suppose . . .’
‘But you didn’t.’
He shrugged and nosed the car over two lanes to take an exit.
‘Where does this go?’ I asked, reading the exit signs.
‘Paolo’s is in the Valley,’ he said.
‘Fortitude Valley?’
‘Yeah. Bris-Vegas’s answer to Kings Cross,’ he said with a laugh.
‘Bris-Vegas? Sounds like a bit of an overstatement.’
; ‘That’s the point,’ he said. ‘But don’t make fun of it. We love our city.’
I got that. Really I did. I loved Perth as well. But I couldn’t tell if he was winding me up or not about the ‘Bris-Vegas’ thing, so I contented myself with adding more notes onto my phone while he negotiated increasingly thick traffic. Finally, he pulled into a multi-storey car park with the unlikely name of McWhirters.
He tugged the keys out of the ignition and stared at me. ‘Are you as good as Wal says you are?’
‘Yes,’ I said simply. ‘But you have to let me do things my way.’
I thought of Nick Tozzi then, and how he was always trying to make me more responsible. And my ex-fiancé Garth Wilmot, who just shook his head in despair over the way I lived my life. Come to think of it, the only guy I knew who liked some of my more eccentric habits was Ed. Admittedly I’d crossed the line once or twice with him as well. Like the time we nearly got arrested outside a chop shop, and the time I’d ruined a photo shoot and then . . .
I pulled myself away from dwelling on my failures and concentrated on my job. We were now walking along a street that was busy despite the late hour. Some of the shops were still open and there was music blasting from club doorways as we passed. The air stuck to my skin and suddenly I was possessed with a desire to go dancing and drinking.
Concentrate, I told myself sternly.
We headed right into a mall teeming with people. It was hard to tell if they were waiting to get into the Irish pub or the row of restaurants. Or perhaps they were just milling. It seemed like a place to do that.
Sandwiched between the Naked Dance Studio and an Oporto chicken joint was Little Paolo’s. It had a narrow shopfront but once we went inside and up a flight of narrow stairs it turned out to be quite large. Three separate dance floors by the look of it and a stage on one of them. The stage was empty but the dance floor was filled with people dancing to a hip-hop medley.
Stuart nodded and waved at people as we threaded through the throng and over to one corner of the stage. A short set of stairs led up the side to a door and the bouncer there let us in without a response to Cooper’s ‘How they hanging, man?’
As soon as the door shut behind us the music cancelled out. Stuart walked along the corridor a little way, knocked on an open door to the left and entered.
Stage Fright Page 4