As I digested this, we got out of the car and walked to the Qantas entrance. My phone rang as we rode the escalator. It was Wal.
‘Hey,’ I said.
‘All okay there, boss?’
‘Sure. I’m at the airport picking up the artist.’
‘Where you staying?’
‘With one of Stuart’s friends, Inigo Love. I believe you know her.’
‘Inigo’s crazy but real. Don’t drink her tea.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Gotta go, boss.’
‘Wal? Wal?’
But he’d already hung up, and Stuart had taken off through the airport. I put my phone away and ran to catch up.
We arrived at a gate labelled Staff Only down at the far end of the terminal. Through the windows I saw a motorised cart zipping across from the next gate with two flight attendants and a passenger. Was that our man?
‘Stuart!’
A stunning woman of around forty waved at us from over by the newsstand near the closed door. Her turquoise aura was so bright and clean that it almost hurt my eyes. Combined with her flashing bling and whitened teeth, she was a blaze of light as she tottered over to us on a pair of ridiculously high Carvela peep toe heels. (I recognised the shoes from watching Bok surf the Harrods catalogue. For a boy, he got shamefully excited over heels.) The woman’s shoes and tight-fitting red zipper-through tunic dress gave her an executive meets rock-and-roll look. She sure had the figure to pull it off. Silky hair in a pull-up style completed the jaw-dropping appeal.
‘Dah-ling . . .’ She blew a kiss at the top of Stuart’s head and then looked me in the eye. ‘And who is this divine Amazon?’
I wanted to giggle. I’d been called many things before, but never ‘divine’.
‘Tara Sharp,’ said Stuart. ‘This is Juanita Venture from Venture Publicity. Tara is a private investigator.’
‘Oooh, how exciting. Do you have a gun? Investigate me any time you like.’ She winked at me.
The giggle that was stuck in my throat became desperate to escape. I managed to turn it into a splutter before it did.
Be mature, I told myself sternly.
But the scolding was wasted. Juanita already had Stuart by the arm, walking him closer to the gate while she ran through a string of publicity arrangements. I trailed behind them, not sure if she’d just made a pass at me or if this was her normal way of saying hello.
The gate opened and a female steward appeared. She scanned the group waiting there and fixed on Juanita.
‘Ms Venture?’
‘Yasss,’ said Juanita.
‘Your . . . arrival will be here soon.’
‘Fabulous.’ Juanita peered down the walkway.
On cue, Slim Sledge swaggered through: soft black leather jacket over a white singlet, baggy blue jeans and sneakers, oversized sunglasses, hair in cornrows and heavy silver chains around his neck. His smile was wide and riveting.
What the others couldn’t see, though, was his swirling pink aura, which was dotted with grey clouds. According to Mr Hara’s aura coding, swirling pink meant a hyped-up sex drive. The grey clouds were just like they sounded. Ominous.
He winked at the female attendant next to him. She sagged a little, as if her knees wouldn’t lock in place properly.
‘Sebastian?’ said Juanita rather imperiously.
Slim looked up and spotted the gorgeous publicist. He left the flight attendant and sauntered over to us.
‘Lay-dies,’ he said, flashing us both mega-wattage smiles. ‘My Oss-ie welcome mat.’
Stuart stepped forward. ‘I’m Stuart Cooper, your . . . er . . . promoter.’
Slim slapped Stuart’s outstretched hand for five, ignoring the offer of a handshake. ‘Good to be back here, man.’
‘And we’re thrilled to meet you, Slim.’
‘You bring these shawties fo’ me, Stu?’
‘Charming of you to think so, Sebastian,’ said Juanita smoothly. ‘But I’m Juanita and I’ll be far too busy being your publicist to be your . . . shorty. Tara will be keeping you safe.’
Slim looked me up and down properly and whistled. ‘You look like a handful, girl. You my bodyguard?’
‘One of them,’ said Stuart before I could answer. ‘The other one is currently waiting for us at the hotel. We should step this way quickly, if you don’t mind. We don’t want to risk word spreading that you’re here.’
‘Yes, we have a limo waiting for you downstairs,’ added Juanita. ‘Your luggage will be sent to the hotel by courier.’
‘Slim!’ called someone behind us. We all turned and the flight attendant waved. She’d been joined by two others. ‘Could we have a photo?’
‘No!’ said Stuart and Juanita automatically.
But the attendants clustered around him, clutching their phone cameras and giggling. Sledge looked edgy but kept smiling. Stuart, on the other hand, was stressing.
Juanita extracted the rapper as quickly as she could, shooing the airline staff away. But the damage was done; people were beginning to look our way.
As we headed down the escalator towards baggage claim and the exit, I could almost hear the whisper rippling ahead of us.
‘Slim Sledge.’
‘It’s Slim Sledge.’
‘Someone famous.’
‘That singer.’
‘The guy that sings “I Die For You”.’
‘Oh my god, it’s Slim Sledge!’
‘It’s Usher.’
As we reached the foot of the escalator there was a shriek from above.
‘He’s here! I told you he was here!’ A swarm of banner-carrying fans rushed down and surrounded us, demanding autographs.
‘Shit!’ said Stuart in my ear. ‘I’m going to get airport security. Don’t let anyone get their hands on him. He’ll go psycho.’ He bolted and left Juanita and me on either side of the rapper, waving the crowd back.
I could smell Slim’s sweat and his aura began to churn against mine. His cocky confidence was slipping away, leaving a healthy dose of panic in its wake.
‘No autographs,’ trumpeted Juanita. ‘NO PHOTOS!’
But camera phones were clicking like crazy.
‘Slim, I love you!’ shrieked a very large, round girl at the front of the growing congregation. Tears streaked mascara down her face.
Sledge began to hyperventilate.
‘Where’s the limo?’ I asked Juanita.
‘Through that door.’ She pointed almost dead ahead.
‘Close ranks and don’t stop for anyone,’ I hissed at the publicist.
We crowded in near Slim, acting as a shield. But halfway across the baggage-claim area, the speed was too much for Juanita’s high heels. She wobbled and went down, leaving Slim unprotected on one side.
The crowd which was moving with us converged. The crying girl got to him first, clawing at his arm and blubbering her love. Up close her face reminded me of a pit bull terrier. Prominent nose and sharp teeth.
‘Get out o’ m’grille!’ Slim screamed. ‘Get out, bitch!’
Before I could get between them, Slim let loose a two-handed shove that sent the girl sprawling back into the people behind her.
‘Hey, he hit that girl!’ someone shouted.
‘He can’t do that!’ yelled someone else.
The crowd’s aura switched from a golden, celebratory yellow into something the colour of stale urine. A tall guy fought his way to the front. I stepped around Slim and got in the guy’s face.
‘Don’t even think about it unless you wanna spend the next year in jail, mate,’ I said.
‘But he hit Fran.’
‘He defended himself because she was assaulting him,’ I said. ‘You can’t grab a total stranger like that.’
‘He’s not a stranger. He’s Slim Sledge.’
That about summed up how the mob felt. Sledge was public property.
‘Airport security will be here in a moment,’ I warned. ‘Now back off or—’
‘Or what?
What’re you gonna do about it? You might be big but you’re still a chick.’ He full-stopped his insult with a poke to my chest.
Before I even realised what I was doing I’d yanked him in close and kneed him so hard in the groin that I almost pulled a hamstring. The guy went down like a sack and then it was all whistles and shouting and security guards everywhere.
I grabbed hold of Slim and tunnelled through the crowd, shouting, ‘Make way. Emergency! Make way.’
Juanita was just a few steps behind us, heels in her hands, hair torn loose. The limo driver beeped the car open and we tumbled in. Another beep locked it. Then Stuart’s pale face pressed against the window from outside.
‘In,’ Juanita ordered, beeping open and shut again in quick time.
As Stuart fastened his seatbelt, a news van swung in behind us. And another.
We caught a lucky break in the traffic and the driver hit the pedal before the cameras started to roll.
‘What the fuck, man? WHAT THE FUCK?’ shouted Sledge as we left the media behind us. He was shivering like a withdrawing junkie. ‘You said the airport would be cool, man. That wasn’t cool. That was WAY FUCKING UNCOOL!’
‘I’m sorry, Slim,’ said Stuart. ‘I don’t understand what happened. I let it be known that you weren’t arriving until tomorrow. Someone must have leaked the details to your fan club.’
‘Storm in a teacup, Sebastian dahling,’ soothed Juanita. ‘But you can see how primed Australia is to see you again. They just LOVE you.’
‘Call me Slim, woman,’ said the rapper. He thumped the back of the seat. ‘Only my mama calls me Seb.’
‘Of course, dahling,’ said Juanita, not fazed in the least. ‘Now just sit back and relax, we’ll have you at the hotel in a jiff.’
‘What’s a fucking jiff?’
‘It means real soon,’ I said. ‘Take a breath. It’s all good.’ I deliberately made my own aura calm, hoping it would soothe his.
People’s auras bang together all the time. When you think you have good chemistry with someone, it usually means your auras are doing something compatible. Right now mine was pouring calm onto the black storm around Sledge. It was the first time I’d tried something like this and it seemed to work. By the time we got to the Gateway Bridge, Sledge had settled enough for me to point out the sights. He even smiled again. He was rather gorgeous to look at, in a gangsta kind of way.
I glanced out the window and saw the Channel Nine helicopter taking a pass over us.
‘Whas ’at?’ hissed Slim, shielding his head dramatically with his hands.
‘Rescue helicopter,’ I said quickly. ‘Must be a road accident on one of the majors.’
Juanita gave me an eye-roll in the rear-view mirror.
Stuart looked like he was one blood clot short of a stroke. His skin had a bright sheen of perspiration as he peered out the window.
The ’copter dogged us all the way into the city along the snaking brown Brisbane River. Despite the air-con, I was sweating up my nice dress. The humidity was something else.
By the time the limo turned into the entrance of the Stamford Plaza hotel, my dress was wringing wet and I was all out of platitudes.
Unfortunately, word had travelled and there was a cluster of media waiting for us. Stuart made a phone call and had a short, flustered exchange with someone at the other end.
‘What do you mean? . . . But you can’t . . . Oh . . . He’d better be . . . His name is what?’
‘Stuart?’ said Juanita in a rather high-pitched voice.
‘Um . . . Tara, can you escort Slim to his room? The concierge is waiting to show you through.’
I looked at the scrum of reporters surging towards the car. ‘Where’s your . . . er . . . other minder?’
Stuart cast me a desperate look. ‘He was delayed. He’ll be along in a while.’
‘Where’s m’ bodyguard?’ demanded Slim. ‘Shawty here’s got a nice ass but she’s no brother. I want a man watching my back.’
No brother? I’d give him no freaking—‘I’m trained in Japanese martial arts and I’m a former athlete. My ass and I are quite capable of looking after you,’ I said tartly.
‘An athlete? What’s your juice, baby?’
It was then that I realised Slim Sledge could be easily distracted. That was handy.
‘Basketball,’ I said.
‘A hooper. Lay five on me.’ He held out his hand for me to slap. ‘Lafayette junior college, starting guard—twenty-three points, five assists per game average. They got banners about me.’
I obliged then leaned close to him. ‘Well, right now I’m gonna stay up on you, closer than a five-man setting a pick, until you’re in your room, Slim. Got it?’
He took in the basketball analogy then stared out at the cameras. Fear flashed across his face. ‘Don’t let them touch me.’
‘I won’t,’ I said.
We all got out of the car together and formed a triangle guard around the musician. It went well, with the concierge tutting around making sure the porters ran interference with the journos—until we reached the lift. As the concierge took out his key to open the staff lift, a reporter broke free from the rest and dived headfirst through the closing door. At any other time I might have given him a whoop and shouted ‘Try!’, but right now I was just plain gobsmacked. Then he rolled over and began snapping photos, his camera angled right up Slim Sledge’s nostrils.
‘Sir,’ said the outraged concierge. ‘Leave immediately or I shall call the police.’
The reporter ignored him. ‘Are you over your drug addiction yet, Slim? Are you really clean now?’
‘Get him outa here,’ said Slim, shrinking into the corner of the lift.
The reporter’s flash kept blinding us, until I reached down and ripped it from the guy’s hand with my best basketball snatch.
‘Gimme my camera,’ he whined. ‘You can’t touch my camera. That’s assault!’ He scrambled to his feet. ‘You wanna see assault?’ I pressed the open-door button and threw the camera out into the gathered media huddle. It skimmed their fingertips like a planker in a mosh pit, finally coming to rest in the hands of a security guard who’d just arrived. He gave the journalist a nasty smile and beckoned him to come and get it.
The journalist puffed air. ‘Don’t mess with the press.’
I wanted to laugh in his face but I was too pissed.
The lift door closed and I turned to see Slim cowering in the corner with his face in his hands. The concierge, Stuart, Juanita and I all looked at each other as the lift shot towards the penthouse. No one spoke until we got Sledge into the suite.
Juanita steered him into the room but he refused to take his hands from his face.
‘Slim,’ said Stuart.
No answer.
‘Slim dahling, it’s alright now,’ Juanita assured him.
No answer.
They looked at me.
I sighed. ‘Come on, hooper. Whistle’s blown. Half time.’
Slim dropped his hands and looked around. His face brightened at the stylish Stamford decor and the huge-screen TV. ‘You got ESPN, man?’
The concierge fell over himself explaining all the suite’s extras. Slim didn’t seem impressed by anything other than the size of the TV but he allowed himself to be toured into the bedroom and bathroom.
‘Huddle,’ said Juanita as soon as he was out of earshot. ‘Stuart? What the fuck? Where’s your bodyguard?’
‘He’s broken his arm. Said he’s trying to find me a replacement but there’s a freaking security convention on this weekend and they’re all at that.’
‘Haven’t you got a friend who could do it?’ I asked.
‘No one who wouldn’t be star-struck and make things worse.’ He looked at me. ‘You’ve got a connection going with him, Tara. Can you do it until I find someone?’
‘Shit,’ I said. ‘I’ve got no experience as a bodyguard.
I nearly punched that reporter.’
‘He feels safe with you.’
I shook my head. ‘He shouldn’t.’
Juanita tapped Stuart on the chest. ‘Okay Stuart, what’s his deal? One minute he’s “the man” and the next moment he’s neurosis on toast.’
Stuart flinched at the bald assessment. ‘Look, his rehab wasn’t just drugs. He had a complete nervous collapse. Mostly he’s fine, as long as fans don’t crowd him or grab him.’
‘Okay, no damage,’ said Juanita. She had her phone out and was making notes furiously. ‘As long as we can spin the airport thing, it will all help with ticket sales. I’ll make some calls.’
‘What about the reporter downstairs?’
‘He’ll be too busy arguing with the security guard for his camera.’ Her eyes widened suddenly, like she’d thought of something. ‘Tara, you keep Slim happy while Stuart and I smooth troubled waters.’
‘But I have other things to do,’ I protested.
‘I’ll come back before dinner,’ promised Stuart.
‘With a bodyguard?’
He nodded.
I sighed. ‘Alright.’
CHAPTECHAPTER 7
Slim Sledge took a bath and emerged with a towel tucked low around his waist, looking happier.
Too low! I tried not to goggle but he noticed.
‘I’d give you the benefit of my lovin’ right now, but you gotta do your job and keep this precious body of mine safe. You feel me?’
He was back in ‘the man’ mode, which made me much more comfortable. I nodded vigorously. ‘Yes siree. Need to be alert. Why don’t you catch some sleep? You must be jet-lagged.’
He yawned and stretched. ‘And hungry. I’m tastin’ hotcakes and syrup and eggs easy over. You do for me?’
‘I’ll call room service.’
He wandered off to the bedroom and I ordered two meals of pancakes with maple syrup and eggs. No point in me going hungry!
I settled behind the desk and fired up the complimentary desktop computer. As soon as it booted, I hit Google, looking for everything I could find out about Joel Aprile and Andreas Giannoukakis.
Aprile was easy to find information on. His family had been in the spotlight so long there were newspaper articles dating back to the fifties. Joel himself was even on Wiki. I scavenged the bare bones of the entry and typed it into my client file.
Stage Fright Page 6