Stage Fright

by Marianne Delacourt

  Viaspa and Machete had shifted their chairs closer together, the bikies hunkered in another cluster, while Andreas—who was sweating like a marathon runner—sat with a guy who had to be his brother. The rest, who were down the opposite end, were unfamiliar to me; four men dressed like rappers. One of them had odd marks on his face, red stains dotted close together like he’d been . . .

  Hit? OMG! Duck beak marks! He was one of the thugs who’d attacked me. I studied the other three with him. The style of their clothes and shoes weren’t local. They were all American, I guessed, except Mr Barbecue Duck.

  One of the Americans got up and pounded the table a few times. I tried lip-reading and caught the odd phrase: Our money . . . Who are they? . . . Bring them to us . . . If we do business again . . .

  The speaker left the table and prowled around the room, coming to rest just in front of the two-way mirror—facing me, his back to the room.

  I noticed two things almost simultaneously: he had a tattoo with what looked like the initials KA on his hand, and he was disguising the fact he was pressing numbers on his mobile phone.

  Before I could process what I’d seen, the three security guys from outside the door burst into the room with pistols drawn.

  Shit! My instinct was to duck but I settled for drawing my knees up under me, ready to leap in any direction off the table. I doubted the two-way mirror was bullet-proof.

  The guys put their guns to Ash Machete’s and Johnny Viaspa’s heads. Part of me freaked at seeing such a bald, unvarnished threat. Part of me hoped they’d pull the triggers.

  Andreas turned pale enough to faint and I didn’t blame him one little bit. Dots were bouncing around before my eyes too. Bon, on the other hand, seemed faintly entertained, like he was enjoying the sight of Viaspa feeling the heat.

  Mr Tattoo turned away from the mirror and walked over to the table. He was cementing his position of power now, jabbing his finger at Machete and Viaspa, jutting out his jaw and making a point.

  With a gun close to his head, Viaspa’s normally pus-yellow aura had diluted to something almost colourless. Ash Machete, though, never even altered his rate of breathing and his aura stayed rock solid. The guy had nerve.

  With a final gesture at the whiteboard, Mr Tattoo turned and left the room. His friends, including the guy I had duck-attacked, followed quickly.

  As soon as they’d gone, Ash Machete leaped up and began speaking in short, emphatic sentences, punching the air in front of him with his fist.

  When he’d finished, Bon and the other bikies had some curt words to say as well. I couldn’t work out who they were talking about, but by all the nodding, they seemed to reach an agreement of sorts.

  Andreas was the next to leave, his aura bled almost white and spinning crazily with agitation. I imagined him running into the first toilet he could find and heaving into it. Something told me the promoter was in over his head.

  Conversation went on between the final seven for what seemed like hours. So long that I had to wiggle blood into my toes and shift position a few times to stop my legs cramping. From time to time they became agitated and Machete once knocked over a jug in a fit of anger. The water pooled on the table and began to drip onto the floor. No one made any attempt to clean it up.

  By the time Bon Ames, the other bikies and Hristos finally left, I was contemplating the fact that my bladder might burst.

  The final two waited in silence until they were sure the others had gone, then Machete took hold of Viaspa by the shirt and pulled him close, enunciating his words so clearly that this time I had no trouble lip-reading them.

  Kill him tonight.

  CHAPTER 20

  Kill who? It had to be Stuart.

  I sat still for ages after the pair left the room, worrying over what I’d seen and feeling too scared to move in case they came back.

  Shit! was the only thing that came to mind for a long while.

  From what I could tell, a bunch of different organised crime groups (except, perhaps, for Andreas, who was acting as some kind of front) were looking to develop a big chunk of real estate in Fortitude Valley. They’d paid off a minister—in advance—and things were ready to go forward, except there was a problem between the Americans and Machete/Viaspa. Perhaps the date was when the money was due.

  It was nothing new for OC groups to invest in real estate—that was often how they legitimised their illegal earnings—but why would an American west coast gang have a part in this? Seemed ridiculous and unlikely. According to what I’d read, their gang wars were all about race, territory and local drug boundaries. Why would they be involved in a venture thousands of miles from home? Unless they already had some kind of network here they needed to support legitimately . . .

  I had to make some urgent calls but my phone was tucked in my jeans pocket in the cleaners’ room. Which meant . . . I really had to get out of here.

  The door handle wouldn’t budge, so I got out the radio and turned it on. ‘Can someone help me? I don’t know where I am,’ I said in a lost, frail voice. It wasn’t such a stretch really.

  ‘Who’s this?’ came the crackling reply.

  ‘It’s Jane. I’m locked in a room filled with projectors and stuff. I can see into another room with a big table and chairs and a picture of the Queen on the wall.’

  ‘That’s the Elizabeth Room. What are you doing in there?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I hate small spaces! Please help me . . . I can’t breathe in here.’ I banged the microphone end of the two-way against the desk like I was thrashing around and added an aaargggh for good measure.

  Housekeeping and hotel security made it to me in record time, running past the overturned chairs to unlock the door.

  I was ready for them, hyperventilating, my hair messed up and my uniform unbuttoned a bit, shoes in my hand. Stumbling out into the light as if disorientated, I covered my face with my free hand.

  ‘Oh thank God,’ I muttered, over and over again.

  The security guy poured me a glass of water while the housekeeper, Kristine, stared at me suspiciously. ‘You were vacuuming in here then you disappeared. I searched for you in that room.’

  ‘Was I?’ I said, continuing the confused act. ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘What do you mean you don’t remember?’ she demanded.

  ‘I’m so sorry. Oh my god . . . Look, this is a bit embarrassing, but I’ve been taking pills to help me with insomnia. I think I may have been sleepwalking.’

  The security guard looked amused while the housekeeper narrowed her eyes. ‘Why would you be taking sleeping pills during the day?’

  I ran my hand through my dishevelled hair. ‘I’ve had a bad few nights, just needed to sleep.’

  ‘When did you start here? I haven’t seen you before today. No one’s mentioned a new staff member.’

  ‘I’m Mr Giannoukakis’s niece, remember?’ I said.

  ‘Go easy, Kristine, she’s looking pretty rough,’ said the security guard.

  The housekeeper ignored him, her steely gaze fixed on me. ‘Mr Giannoukakis or not, there was a private meeting in here. Did you hear anything?’

  I shook my head. ‘I passed out under the table. Maybe that’s why you didn’t see me. I don’t remember anything except waking up a few minutes ago on the floor. I’m staying at a house in Ascot while I find somewhere to live.’

  ‘This hotel’s in Ascot,’ said the guard.

  ‘I must have sleepwalked here,’ I said, looking down at what I was wearing. ‘But where are my clothes?’

  ‘Niece or not, I’m taking you to see Hristos,’ said the housekeeper. ‘This won’t do at all.’

  ‘No one has to know.’ I gave the guard a pleading look and he went to bat for me.

  ‘Come on, Krissie,’ he said. ‘She hasn’t done anything wrong.’

  Kristine didn’t look convinced. She took the two-way radio from me. ‘This way.’

  The three of us marched out to the lift. As we got in, a couple of staff
got out and headed to the Elizabeth Room to clean up. Fortunately, none of them was the guy I’d seen earlier.

  Once we reached the staffroom, it didn’t take long for me to accidentally stumble over my clothes. I took them to the change cubicle while Kristine and the guard moved outside to have a whispered argument.

  I knew I had to get out of there quickly but I called Stuart while I was wriggling into my jeans.

  ‘Tara? Where have you been? I’ve been trying to ring you.’

  ‘Got caught up,’ I said. ‘Listen, be extra careful tonight. I think Viaspa might be coming after you. I’ll meet you at Paolo’s soon.’

  ‘I feel so much better for talking to you,’ he said in a strange voice, which suggested people were listening.

  I knew he was being sarcastic; I hoped they didn’t.

  I hung up.

  ‘Jane,’ called the guard. ‘You ready?’

  ‘Just coming,’ I sang out.

  They led me back into the corridor and Kristine informed me again that we were going to see Hristos to clear this up.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘But can I just use the ladies first? I’m so busting.’

  We turned into a side corridor and Kristine pointed to the staff toilets. ‘Please don’t take too long,’ she said. ‘I’m very busy.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I said, going in the door, giving the toilet a longing sideways glance (I really did need to go badly), searching around for a window or ceiling hatch. Even better, I discovered a second entrance which led me into the kitchen, where I apologised for taking a wrong turn and asked how to get back to the lobby.

  A young guy in a stained apron showed me back out to the staff lift, and keyed it open for me. I hit the button to go up to the ground floor and walked straight out through the lobby as though I was a guest.

  As soon as I’d rounded the corner off Kingsford Smith Drive, I bolted down past the hotel delivery bay to the café. I quickly used their loo then hurried to the end of the street where I turned right and entered a small park. There I called a cab and gave them directions to the nearest cross street. It was unlikely Kristine and the guard would bother looking for me outside the hotel. I’d gone and that would be it, most likely. It wasn’t like I’d stolen anything.

  I found a swing to sit on and watched some toddlers hitting each other with plastic buckets in the sandpit. Their mothers gave me curious looks and I smiled reassuringly to let them know that I wasn’t a crazy kid-snatcher. Even so, they collected their kids and set off up the road.

  I took a very deep breath and made a call I hoped I wasn’t going to regret.

  ‘Senior Constable Bligh speaking,’ said a voice.

  ‘Fiona, it’s Tara Sharp. Can you spare a minute or two?’

  ‘Seeing as you’re not one for social calls . . . What’s up?’

  A minute or two turned into fifteen as I gave her an abridged version of what I’d stumbled across: the planned development on a heritage site, the meeting today and the kill order I’d witnessed. I left out other bits that might incriminate me or Wal or Stuart, like their history with Viaspa and how I’d got the information on the site development.

  She was very quiet while I spoke.

  ‘You still there?’ I asked.

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘Look, I know this is way off your turf, but do you have a friend you could ask if it’s possible an American gang might be involved?’

  ‘No. You should go to the federal police.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I plan to. As soon as I hang up. But that’ll take time and long explanations. I’m worried someone is in danger tonight.’

  ‘I can’t disclose police business to you,’ she said sharply.

  ‘I’m not asking you to. But . . . hypothetically . . . do you know someone you could ask?’

  ‘NO! But while I have you on the line, has Wallace Grominsky been in contact with you?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘His, er, friend—your aunt—has filed a missing person report and we know you have ties with him. In fact, we’d like to interview you when you return. When will you be back?’

  ‘Tomorrow. If you can help me out here, Senior Constable, I’ll make sure you’re my first stop.’

  ‘Are you attempting to bargain with me, Sharp?’

  ‘I’d call it assisting the police.’

  She made an irritated noise and then sighed. ‘Alright.’

  ‘You’ll get back to me soon?’

  ‘As soon as I can.’

  ‘Today.’

  ‘Yes, today. And Sharp . . .’

  ‘Constable?’

  ‘Senior Constable. Next time you have a problem like this . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Call someone else.’

  ‘You don’t really mean that,’ I said.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Bye, Fiona.’

  ‘I wish.’

  She sounded pissed but I knew enough about Fiona Bligh to guess that her curiosity was piqued. Bligh was as straight as they come but she was also ambitious. I admired that. Her partner, Bill Barnes, was far less hardline and far less interested in anything beyond his next meal and his kids’ next footy match. He was a good foil for Bligh when she got a bit too officious.

  The taxi beeped its horn and I hurried over. ‘Brunswick Street Mall in the Valley, please,’ I told the cabbie.

  •

  By the time I reached the Valley it was dark. Two hours until the gig started and I hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since this morning. I hunkered down in a corner of Ric’s Bar and ordered a toastie, water and coffee. The table rocked when I rested my elbows on it, so I leaned back in my chair. The clarity I’d felt after Inigo’s cleansing had faded and my mind was heavy with fatigue and fear.

  Who had Machete ordered the kill on? It had to be Stuart. He was the one standing in the way of the development by refusing to sell. If that was the case, then maybe Machete and Viaspa weren’t chasing Stuart and Wal over the drug thing after all.

  On impulse I rang Nick Tozzi, just to hear his voice. When he answered, I knew right away he was drunk.

  ‘Starting early,’ I said lightly.

  ‘Tara?’

  ‘The one and only.’

  ‘When are you coming home?’ he said.

  ‘Tomorrow. I’m on an early flight.’

  ‘I’ll meet you at the airport. There’s something I need to tell you.’

  I thought about my promise to Fiona Bligh. ‘No, don’t do that. Tonight is going to be a long one and the flight takes forever. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve caught up on some sleep. What’s so important anyway?’

  ‘Face to face is best,’ he said heavily.

  ‘Alright. Is everything okay? No one died?’

  ‘No one died,’ he affirmed. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Not really?’

  ‘No.’ He wasn’t slurring but his voice was thick and slow and delicious. I imagined his tawny aura flowing like honey around his tall, broad body and a sigh escaped my lips.

  ‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘How’s the job going?’

  ‘Messy,’ I said.

  He laughed. ‘That’s my girl.’

  I didn’t know what to say to that. He sounded different—drunk, sure—but different. ‘Well, I’d better be going.’

  ‘Was there something you wanted?’ he said softly.

  ‘Nothing really . . . just saying hello.’

  There was a long pause and neither of us spoke.

  Then the waiter slapped my bill down on the table, sending it rocking on its wonky leg.

  ‘I’ll see you soon then,’ I said, the spell broken.

  ‘Soon,’ he echoed.

  It sounded like a promise.

  Rather than giving me the comfort I’d been looking for, the call made me more unsettled. Why was Tozzi being so . . . nice?

  Focus. Hoshi’s voice echoed through me. I couldn’t let Nick distract me.

  I paid the bill and walked b
ack down the mall. Saturday night meant the crowds were bigger than usual and I eased my way through them, trying to think calmly.

  Surely Viaspa couldn’t be planning something during the show—it was too public. It would most likely be afterwards, on the way back to the hotel.

  I couldn’t count on Bon Ames now, either. In fact, I was guessing he’d probably taken the job to get close to Stuart. He must have been stunned when I rang and asked him to help out. My own ignorance had put Stuart in more danger, not less. Shit.

  I reached for my phone to ring Ed and tell him not to come tonight. The last thing I needed was him caught in any crossfire—figurative or literal.

  Stop being dramatic! I berated myself silently. There will be no shootout! This is Australia!

  But what about a shooting drive-by? They happened on the Gold Coast.

  Shit!

  As I took one step towards the police booth, a hand grabbed my arm and swung me around. It was Ed, smiling and handsome.

  ‘Hey,’ I said.

  ‘Hey, you.’ He leaned into me and gave me a wet, warm kiss.

  I wanted to grab his hand, run off to a hotel somewhere and not come out for a month. By then this thing would all be done and dusted—one way or another.

  ‘You going in there?’ he asked when I drew back. I looked around at the police booth. The cop behind the counter was scowling at us. He probably had other places he’d rather be on a Saturday night, like home with his girlfriend or wife. I suddenly realised how crazy I’d sound going in there and telling him that I thought my music promoter client was about to be murdered by interstate criminals. The only place that was going to get me was the nearest psych ward.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Just looking around before the gig starts.

  It’s been a long day, I needed to wind down.’

  Ed slung his arm over my shoulder and we walked towards Little Paolo’s.

  I stopped a little away from the door. There was already a queue outside the club, curling back down into Ann Street, and I didn’t want anyone overhearing me. ‘Ed, if I asked you not to come tonight, would you be offended?’

  He looked at me. ‘Explain.’