Stage Fright

by Marianne Delacourt

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Daydreaming.’

  ‘You’re right. It’s a scale model of new offices. Why are you sending me a picture of it?’

  ‘Is there any way of finding out where the development is going to be?’

  ‘Where are you, for a start?’

  ‘In Brisbane,’ I said impatiently. ‘I’m working on that job I mentioned.’

  ‘How would I possibly be able to tell you anything about a business development in Brisbane? I live in Perth and sell sports gear.’ He was sounding decidedly grumpy.

  ‘Yeah, but you know lots of people.’

  ‘So?’

  He was being deliberately obtuse. ‘Well, can’t you ask someone who might know?’

  ‘So you want me to drop everything to do you a favour?’

  ‘Jeez, I’m not asking for your kidney, Nick,’ I said. ‘I thought we had a sort of . . . deal about helping each other.’

  I was playing the you-still-owe-me-for-saving-your-business card. He could have countered with the I-saved-your-life trump—but he didn’t.

  ‘Sorry, things are a bit rough here at the moment,’ he said.

  ‘Anything you want to talk about?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Look, leave it with me and I’ll ask around. I do know a guy who works in the government over there. He might be able to help. Or know someone who can. But before I do . . . you did obtain this photo legally, didn’t you?’

  I thought about it for a second. ‘Yes. Quite.’

  ‘Quite? What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘I mean that the enquiry should be kept confidential . . . to protect my client.’ I was being deliberately vague and he knew why.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ he said, and hung up.

  I sat for a moment, finishing my coffee. A shot of rum in it would have been nice but I was working and rum breath was not a way to build client confidence or keep Sharp sharp.

  Another peek through the foliage told me Bon Ames was looming up the mall towards me, managing to look at home and out of place at the same time. People in the street literally changed direction or speed so as not to get too close to him. He really did possess the scary factor. And now I had to go to work with him.

  I sprang up from behind the palms, stepped out onto the mall and tapped him on the shoulder as he passed. His hand shot backwards and clamped on my wrist with an arm-breaking grip which yanked me around in front of him.

  ‘It’s me,’ I croaked, my mouth suddenly dry.

  For a second I glimpsed something terribly ugly in his face, then his expression relaxed. ‘Don’t sneak up on me.’

  ‘Got it,’ I squeaked.

  He let go of my wrist, walked over to Little Paolo’s door and pounded heavily. It took a few minutes but a bleary-eyed young guy opened the door.

  ‘We’re here to do the security check for Slim Sledge,’ I said.

  He took one look at Bon and let us in. He probably should have asked for ID but this was Australia—we are way too trusting like that. Especially when a monster guy with a West Coast Cheaters patch stitched onto his leather jacket comes calling on you.

  We followed the young guy upstairs and into the club. I realised then that Little Paolo’s took up the top level of over half the businesses along the mall—must have cost him a fortune in sound-proofing.

  The young guy pointed to the stairs that led to Paolo’s offices. ‘I’ll buzz him. He’ll be down in a mo’ to let you in.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  Bon Ames just grunted and scoped out the room.

  I followed in his wake, trying to imagine ways someone as crazy and obsessed as Fran Dickle could get in here. It was hard to concentrate, though, with a storm of thoughts rushing about in my head: Andreas, Joel Aprile and Jade, Wal and Smitty. My energy felt like it was being slowly siphoned away.

  ‘No windows,’ Bon pronounced. ‘Looks fine as long as the fire exit stays locked.’

  No windows you could climb through was more precise. They were set high in the walls and painted in and looked like they hadn’t been opened in forty years.

  ‘What about the back offices?’ I asked.

  Bon Ames got a weird, almost predatory look on his face. ‘Let’s go check them out.’

  •

  Little Paolo came through a door and down the stairs just as we reached them.

  ‘Slow down, lesbo. Where would you be going?’ Paolo boomed, dropping a heavy hand on my shoulder. His aura buffeted me like an airbag in a car crash.

  ‘This is Stuart’s security, Bon Ames. Well, we both are actually.’

  Paolo looked over my shoulder at the bikie and something strange happened. His aura shrank so fast that I thought I felt the swish of the vacuum it left. What was warm and forceful suddenly reduced to something much cooler. I wanted to turn and see what effect their meeting was having on Bon but it would’ve looked too weird. Something I did know, though, was that I had to stop Paolo’s panic so he didn’t throw us out before we could finish our sweep.

  ‘Slim won’t come into the premises until we’ve done the full recce. You don’t mind, do you, Paolo? Just a quick scope around.’ I gave him my most congenial smile.

  ‘Well, I don’t let people I don’t know back here, so you can go but he can’t.’

  Bon growled under his breath behind me.

  ‘Sure,’ I said loudly. ‘That’s cool. Bon will wait out at the bar.’

  An awkward moment followed as Paolo and I squashed past each other. His body was so large and soft that it seemed to fold around me, and I was overcome with a feeling that I might suffocate. It spurred me to push forward harder and I popped out the other side like a champagne cork.

  Paolo’s back receded down the stairs, which meant that Bon had retraced his steps. I waited until they were both out on the dance floor and I gave Paolo a little wave. The light was dull out there but I could have sworn Bon’s aura was jagged like broken glass. What the hell was that about? They didn’t seem to know each other but their reactions to the encounter were pretty damn strong for complete strangers. It rattled me enough that I made my recce as quick as possible, not wanting to leave them alone together. The back offices were all as dirty and untidy as each other. The windows to the outside were long-time-locked and I couldn’t see any way even Determined Dickle could get inside.

  The last room I checked was Paolo’s. Nothing had changed from our visit the night before last other than that the water cooler looked less full and the bin was brimming with lolly wrappers. There was a pizza box on the floor behind his chair. I shut the door and headed out to find my offsider.

  Bon was leaning against the bar, looking like he wanted to bite someone’s head off. Paolo was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Looks fine,’ I said. ‘Shall we step outside?’

  His eyes were so narrow I could barely see them, but he nodded. Once we were back on the street, his face settled into thundercloud status, which was better than head-biting status.

  ‘I think we can give Stuart the all-clear.’ I seemed to be the one who initiated all the conversation with Bon. Bit like I was on a date and nervous.

  ‘Maybe,’ he said.

  ‘Care to elaborate?’

  He stuck his thumb to his lips and bared his teeth. I noticed the passers-by were giving us a wide berth.

  ‘Do you know Little Paolo?’ I ventured.

  ‘No. Why?’

  I had no reason to doubt him, but something nagged at me. ‘Oh, it just seemed like you did. Or he knew you.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘Some weird psychic shit telling you that?’

  I straightened my back and stood tall. ‘Not weird psychic shit, Bon. Intuition.’

  The fallout I expected from my rebuff never came. He didn’t seem to be bothered by me correcting him. In fact, he now seemed to be deep in thought.

  ‘Shall I call Stuart?’

  He nodded absently, and while I got out my phone and waited for Stuart to answer he made his own call, walking a few pac
es away so I couldn’t hear.

  ‘It’s Tara,’ I said when Stuart picked up. ‘Bring Slim down. We’ve checked the place out.’

  ‘Okay. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

  I hung up and glanced over at Bon. He was pacing back and forth in front of the Irish pub. I would have given anything to know what he was saying.

  He suddenly shoved his phone back in his pocket and stalked over. ‘Right?’

  ‘He’ll be here in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘I’ll wait outside near the taxi rank,’ said Bon. ‘You go and watch the vultures as they come in. If that crazy bitch got a press pass at the hotel she could have got one here too.’

  ‘Check.’

  I went and found a perch at the bar. From the high bar stool I could see the door and all of the room at a glance.

  The bartender slung a free beer my way.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  He winked and smoothed his long hair through an elastic band. ‘Boss said to keep the visitors happy.’

  ‘Them too?’ I gestured to the journos and photographers now entering. They lined up around the edge of the stage, each trying to take up as much space as they could to make less for the others. No sight of a Dickle-like shape.

  ‘Crisps and peanuts and cheese and pickles for them.’ He nodded towards the little bowls on a trestle table near the bar. ‘They have to buy their own drinks. They’re supposed to be working.’

  I sighed. So was I, but the sun was well and truly over the yard arm and I’d had enough of today. The beer was cold and sweet and slick on the back of my throat and I drank it in a few gulps.

  ‘Need that, huh?’ he asked.

  ‘Pretty much,’ I said. ‘You worked here long?’

  ‘Few months.’

  I nodded towards Paolo, who was up on the stage rolling out posters and laying them across the back of the chair. He’d set up a seat and microphone and a little side table with water on it. ‘Good boss?’

  ‘Bad as most; good as most,’ the bartender said cryptically.

  I shot him a look. ‘You sound . . . unconvinced.’

  He shrugged and began loading dirty glasses into the dishwasher under the bench. ‘Club owners have always got it going on, you know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Y’know. Shit?’

  ‘Oh? Educate me.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  I sensed him withdrawing so I changed the subject. ‘You a fan of Slim Sledge?’

  ‘Massive. For years. Back when he was just a support act.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘How did you score a gig working with him?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m working for his tour manager.’ I remembered the story that Stuart had told Paolo. ‘Stuart’s a, er, friend of a friend.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘I gather you’re not planning on making a career in bartending then?’

  He turned the dishwasher on and tore open a packet of beer nuts, dumping them on a little plate near me.

  ‘Actually, I’m planning on being one of them.’

  ‘What? A journalist?’

  ‘Nah. Not great with words but I love the camera work. Studying it at uni.’

  ‘Cool,’ I said. ‘I’m Tara, by the way.’

  ‘Brendan.’

  I looked at him properly for the first time. With his hair pulled back in a ponytail and the soft bar light on his skin he looked about seventeen but his voice and the confident way he moved told me he was older. He wasn’t nearly as beautiful as Ed but he wasn’t too shoddy either.

  Ed. The thought jolted me guiltily.

  I pulled out my phone and called him. He answered quickly, as though he was expecting my call.

  ‘Tara?’

  I turned away from Brendan and kept my voice low. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Is everything okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine. But I’ve been working flat out all day. What are you doing in a couple of hours?’

  ‘I’m heading out to dinner with the producers. Expecting it to go late.’

  ‘Oh.’ I couldn’t keep the disappointment out of my voice.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That’s cool. I’m sorry about last night too.’

  ‘We could try again tomorrow?’

  ‘Actually, about that . . . Are you shooting that music clip in Spring Hill?’

  ‘How did you know that? It’s supposed to be top secret.’

  ‘My client’s doing a cameo on your video. I’ll be bringing him down there, so let’s make some plans for after.’

  ‘Slim Sledge?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘It’s a date.’ His voice went all deep and melted-chocolate-like. ‘Tomorrow then, hon.’

  Hon. I gulped. He’d never used an endearment like that before and it kind of sucked my breath away.

  Fortunately, Bon, Slim, Stuart and Juanita walked in. ‘Gotta go, Ed. Bye.’

  Slim saw me first and came straight over. ‘Bitch, where you been?’ A different kind of endearment to Ed’s and one that made me want to slap the rapper. Juanita must have seen my expression because she shot me a warning frown.

  I took a breath and smiled at Slim. ‘You feeling better?’

  He wiggled his hips. ‘Bring—it—on.’

  I became aware of Brendan hovering behind me and turned towards him. ‘Slim, this is Brendan, a friend of mine. He’ll get you whatever you want to drink.’

  Slim banged his knuckles in Brendan’s direction in an air five. ‘You a friend of my girl here?’

  ‘Ah . . . yes, sir . . .’

  ‘Then you can make me something high-ball and sweet.’

  ‘No alcohol,’ I added.

  Slim nodded. ‘My girl knows what’s good for me. You listen to her.’

  Brendan flushed with fan-boy fervour and I noticed his hands shaking as he whipped up a pineapple mock-tail in a high-ball glass. He handed it to Slim with a little umbrella, a curly straw and a strawberry wedged onto the lip.

  ‘Brisbane special, Mr Sledge. It’s called Paradise Punch.’

  Slim took the glass, careful not to touch Brendan’s fingers, and had a sip. ‘Bitchin’, man. I’m gonna remember you as the Paradise guy.’

  Brendan’s face flamed so red I thought I’d have to find a fire extinguisher.

  ‘Slim, Slim, welcome to my humble bar,’ said a booming voice.

  We all turned around and absorbed the impact of Little Paolo’s size and personality. He’d slipped an enormous black jacket over his T-shirt and turned the collar up so that he looked like a giant balloon gangster.

  Bon stepped forward and placed himself right between Paolo and Slim. It seemed more a power play than necessity but I was happy to be safe rather than sorry. A touch by one of Paolo’s big clammy hands might send Slim into hysteria.

  ‘First, man, you can call me Sledge,’ said the rapper. ‘Second, don’t sell yourself down. Place here reminds me of the clubs that my boy Nelly and me used to do back in the day.’

  Paolo looked sweatily pleased. ‘Let me show you to your chair, Sledge. The press are pissing themselves to talk to you.’

  Nice.

  ‘Tara!’ Bon gestured me across to one side of the informal aisle made by the journalists and photographers. He went to the other.

  Juanita took the lead while we covered the sides. Stuart and Little Paolo brought up the rear behind Slim. No fan was going to get past us this time.

  Protected by our guard, Slim made it to the stage without incident and the interview began. It was the same round of questions as earlier, with the added, ‘What happened with the fan?’ and ‘Tell your side of this morning’s incident, Slim’. Juanita had drilled him well and he just stuck to the ‘no big deal’ line.

  A journalist from a community radio station kept pinging personal questions. When he asked about the details of Slim’s rehab, Juanita flicked Bon a look.

  The bikie sidled closer to the journo and stood a few feet behind him. I held my breath, not sure
what the pair had planned. But Bon stood there quite casually, arms crossed, legs apart, and I relaxed. It was going to be cool.

  ‘Is there any truth in the rumour that you developed obsessive compulsive disorder as a result of your past drug abuse and can’t bear to be near people?’ asked the community radio dimwit.

  There was an awkward silence in the room and even some of the hardened music reporters glanced at each other.

  Bon suddenly shifted position and in the process kicked the cord that ran between the reporter and his sound gear.

  This was NOT going to be cool.

  The reporter stumbled backwards as he lost his headphones and yelped, ‘Fuck man, you did that on purpose.’

  ‘Say what?’ Bon’s scowl made me want to shrivel up and die. I began to pray. Don’t pull your knife. Don’t pull your knife.

  The reporter blanched at the ferocity of Bon’s manner. Everyone else saw the bikie’s expression, and muscles. Only I saw his aura expand and totally smother the journalist.

  ‘Um, er, nothin’ . . . nothing, man,’ the community radio guy stammered.

  Juanita jumped up on stage and took the microphone, explaining that Slim would now be signing posters which would be auctioned for charity and that they were all free to photograph him while he was doing it.

  Everyone immediately lost interest in Bon and Mr Community Radio and began fiddling with their cameras. As a mini furore of equipment-rustling ensued, Juanita beckoned me over. I walked the long way round, staying clear of Bon and the radio guy. She met me at the edge of the stage and kneeled down.

  ‘Nicely handled,’ I said.

  ‘Practice makes perfect, dahling,’ she whispered. ‘Slim wants you on stage with him while he’s signing.

  He says you make him feel safe.’

  ‘Me!’ It came out as a squeak.

  ‘You have a fan.’ She pulled a face.

  I hid my urge to laugh hysterically and climbed on stage, finding a spot behind Slim where I’d be out of camera shot.

  From my possie alongside some speaker brackets, I looked out into the room. There must have been sixty or seventy cameras pointed at Slim while he signed his name with a giant sharpie. I scanned the crowd. No sign of Fran Dickle, thank goodness, and the event was nearly over. We’d survived this one.