Sharp Turn

by Marianne Delacourt

  Chapter 3

  SMITTY RANG AS I opened the sliding door to my flat. ‘How did it go? Did you wear the white top? What did he want?’

  ‘Fine. Yes. He had a job for me,’ I replied.

  ‘Oh.’ She sounded profoundly disappointed.

  ‘But there’s more.’

  ‘Oh?’ An uplift in tone.

  ‘Antonia’s gone to rehab in Brisbane. Two weeks, maybe three.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘That’s it really. He’s hoping they can patch things up.’

  ‘Oh.’ Back to the dismal tone.

  ‘Smits, he’s married and he’s going to stay married. Besides, I’ve got a boyfriend.’

  ‘Eddy is divine, I agree. But he’s so young, darling. You don’t want to be his mother. And Tozzi won’t stay married. Can’t you tell? No. Well, I suppose you were never a good judge of that sort of thing. It’s just going to take a little longer than I thought.’ She sighed. ‘At least the man’s got some staying power. He’s trying to make it work with Antonia. He doesn’t give up easily. I like that.’

  ‘You are SUCH a romantic. Not everyone has a Henry in their life,’ I said.

  ‘Pooh,’ she replied airily. ‘Now don’t forget our date. I’ve sent you a text: Thursday 4 pm at the Beach Café.’

  ‘Got it,’ I said. ‘Should I bring pepper spray?’

  ‘No violence, Tara. I’m already facing an assault charge against my six-year-old son,’ she said sternly. ‘Now, I have errands to run and then I have to take Fridge to the beach for a long walk before he burrows his way through to China.’

  Fridge was the Evanses’ new dog. Bones, the previous incumbent, had shed his last hair a few weeks ago and gone to doggie heaven. The kids were so distraught Henry had gone right out to the pound and returned with a young, exuberant and enormous bitser who, somehow, had developed a strange affinity for me over everyone else. Maybe it was because I shared my sushi with him when I babysat the kids. I mean, the dog could eat anything.

  ‘Fridge is cool,’ I said, imitating the kids.

  ‘Raybans are cool,’ said Smitty. ‘Fridge is impossible.’

  I hung up smiling. Smitty always did that to me. In fact, thinking back on our years at school and uni together, I couldn’t remember a time that Smitty had ticked me off.

  My other bestie, Martin Longbok, was another story. Bok and I had been drawn together by mutual antagonism, and to this day we got our sport from pressing each other’s buttons; a love–bait kind of arrangement.

  I flicked open my phone and pressed speed dial.

  ‘Martin Longbok.’

  ‘Hi, sweetie, how’s my Glossy Guru?’ I asked.

  Bok was editor of a local fashion mag, which meant he got lots of freebies and had a wardrobe worthy of an A-list star. Who’d have thought that skinny little dark-haired lad who used to punch me in the arm at school would become one of the city’s foremost fashionistas?

  ‘Aaah, T,’ he said. ‘Just about to ring you. Been looking at some shots of your beau, Edouardo. I want to use him in a swimsuit shoot but his agency is playing phone tag with me. Think you could call him and let him know? Maybe he can hurry things from his end.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘By the way, I’ve got a job.’

  He paused for a second. ‘Don’t tell me . . . ummm . . . snake-catcher. No . . . no . . . palm-reader.’

  ‘Witty,’ I said. ‘And no. I’m investigating some incidents up at Wanneroo Raceway.’

  Bok gave a mock gasp. ‘You and racing cars! Lordy, lordy! What fool hired you?’

  ‘Motorbikes, actually.’ I heard my voice getting plummy, like Smitty – my default tone when Bok started needling me.

  ‘Even better,’ he said.

  ‘Well, at least I have a job and a date.’

  ‘Oooh, please don’t sting me, Queen Wasp.’

  I laughed, not able to stay mad at him for long. ‘You don’t have any handbags you don’t want, do you?’ Bok kept a box of supplier gifts in his office.

  He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘I’ll look through the treasure chest. Be good and I might find something nice. What about Guess?’

  ‘Nah. Too flashy,’ I said.

  ‘Louis V?’

  ‘Too staid.’

  ‘Picky, picky. What about Miu Miu?’

  ‘A satchel?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  I gave an excited yelp. ‘Yes, please!’

  ‘Well, only if you promise to keep out of trouble. All that Johnny Viaspa business gave me grey hairs. Hey, did you see him in the West Australian today? He’s sponsoring a charity event at Perry Lakes. One hand’s giving money for SIDs research while the other’s selling drugs to teenagers. How twisted is that?’

  My call waiting started up. ‘Gotta go. I’ll pass the message on to Ed.’ I pressed ‘accept’ and hung up on Bok. ‘’Lo, Tara Sharp speaking.’

  ‘Ms Sharp, my name is Bolo Ignatius. Nick Tozzi said you might be interested in doing some investigative work for me.’

  Bolo Ignatius? That was a helluva name. Was he kidding me?

  ‘Hello, Mr Ignatius. I certainly am. Where and when can we talk?’

  ‘Call me Bolo. Are you free this evening? I’m keen to keep this investigation discreet so would prefer not to meet at my office.’ He spoke quickly, as though he was about to run off somewhere.

  ‘What time and where?’ I said.

  ‘Before dinner – say 7 pm? At the Cocked Dog?’

  ‘If you want to keep it discreet, may I recommend Sable’s?’ My cousin Crack and his girlfriend had just opened up a bar and drawing a clientele was slow work. ‘It’s in North Fremantle behind the Stoned Crow.’

  ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘See you there at seven.’

  My call waiting was bleating again. ‘Bye . . . err . . . Bolo.’

  Bolo! Sounded like I was putting out a police alert.

  ‘Tara Sharp speaking.’

  ‘Missy, that you?’

  ‘Mr Hara!’

  ‘Hey, Missy, you come for dinner. Tonight?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ I sort of fibbed, ‘but I have a business appointment at seven. Sorry!’

  Mr Hara was my occasional boss and mentor. He’d taught me how to use my . . . ahem . . . gift for seeing people’s auras and was the reason I now ran Tara Sharp’s Paralanguage and Kinesics Agency. Hoshi’s wife could cook like the devil, so eating there was food heaven. She also hated me, which meant I was always worried that I might find slivers of glass in my cannelloni.

  ‘Eight is fine. Bring your friend Bok Choy and some wine,’ said Mr Hara, and hung up.

  Bok Choy? That was nearly as good as Bolo. I couldn’t wait to call Bok back and invite him. Before I could, though, there was a knock at the door. What the . . . ? Suddenly the whole world wanted to talk to me.

  I peeked around the curtain, not wanting to be caught out again. To my relief it was JoBob, or one half of them anyway – the vampire half.

  My mother, Joanna, had turned ‘wounded sensibility’ into an art form. She could also out-snob the best of them when she chose to by using the I’m-the-granddaughter-of-a-former-Lord-Mayor-of-Perth card.

  ‘Tara, darling, we’ve been invited to dinner over at the Dewars’ on Saturday night. Make yourself available, won’t you?’

  Her requests never really bore any resemblance to . . . requests.

  ‘Will Phillip be there?’ I asked.

  She patted her blonde rinse and tried to look at her reflection between the smudges on my window. ‘I have no idea. You really must clean this glass – it’s appalling. And take the birds out for me. Your father has to go into the city and my hip is aching.’

  And she trotted off, leaving me in a sweat. The Dewars were one of Perth’s Five Families and entrenched Euccy Grove socialites. My mother had been trying to marry me off to their son Phillip for years. She didn’t seem to get the fact that he had every chemical addiction you could name and then some. Or that I found him on the lower side of repulsive.<
br />
  I threw open the curtain and stomped down to the birds’ cage, suddenly in a foul mood. Don’t ever return home to live with your parents when you’ve been independent for nearly ten years. The only person who doesn’t remember that you’re an adult is usually your mother.

  When I opened the cage, Hoo jumped obligingly onto my hand. I took the half-dozen steps up to the end of the driveway and popped her down on the lawn. By the time I’d returned for Brains, she was on top of the cage, flapping her wings and playing Superwoman.

  ‘Come on, sweetie,’ I cooed, holding my hand out.

  She swiped her beak at me without compunction.

  With one eye on Hoo, now cheerfully demolishing lawn roots, I ducked back into my flat and grabbed an almond from my bribery supply. Brains spotted the offering and hopped onto my hand.

  After dumping her on the grass next to Hoo, I sprawled out in the shade of the pepper tree. The birds both gravitated towards me, as usual, and it wasn’t long before Brains was perched on my chest and Hoo on the tip of one of my shoes. I tried shooing them off, but galahs know their own mind and they wouldn’t budge. I resigned myself to being a human perch and settled in to reflect on the last month.

  Things had improved in my life since my former boyfriend, Pascale, had run off with my furniture and my flatmate. I had my own business and was enjoying the work so far, and I was dating a hot guy. If I could just earn enough money to move out of my parents’ garage and into an apartment of my own, I would say things were on the up – ‘Uggh! Bad bird,’ I said, sitting up abruptly as an enormous runny green dollop spread down my white shirt. Not only that but Hoo, not to be outdone, had chomped a bit off the end of my shoe while I was lost in thought.

  ‘Sharp.’

  Swivelling my head, I saw constables Bligh and Barnes standing at the end of the driveway. Bill Barnes was a chunky, chuckly type of cop who liked to wink at you behind his partner’s back. Fiona Bligh was by-the-book, chip-on-her-shoulder serious. I’d met them during an encounter with Perth’s primo crime lord, Johnny Viaspa – Johnny Vogue to the rest of the city. Things hadn’t quite turned out the way Bligh had hoped – Viaspa was still on the loose – and I kinda think she blamed me for it.

  I hadn’t seen Bligh in over a month. Would have been happy never to see her again. Not that I didn’t like her, she was a decent sort, but her visits meant trouble. In fact, any police officer appearing in my parents’ driveway was unlikely to be about anything good.

  ‘Constables,’ I said without getting up.

  ‘What’s that green stuff on your shirt, Sharp?’ asked Bligh. ‘Looks like a dog farted on you.’

  Barnes laughed.

  ‘The hazard of pet birds,’ I sniffed, chin in the air. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Both their faces lost any trace of humour and their auras contracted into thin lines of colour. Barnes gave me a nod-wink and headed off on a tour of the garden while Bligh squatted close to me.

  ‘You seen John Viaspa lately?’ she asked.

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you . . . I wouldn’t spit on him if he was on fire!’ I retorted.

  ‘Well, I’d advise you very strongly to keep it that way.’

  I stared at her. What the hell was this about?

  ‘Off the record, we’ve had a body turn up in the river that might be linked to him.’

  A cold, wet hand squeezed my heart. ‘O-oh?’

  ‘Look, you’re in no danger, Sharp. I mean, you just said you don’t mix in those circles.’

  ‘No, siree. I do not!’ I stood up then to hide the trembling assailing my limbs. ‘Johnny Viaspa doesn’t even know who I am.’ Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  Bligh leaned forward to scratch Brains, who faked with a friendly claw and nipped her. ‘Ow!’ she said, then sucked her finger.

  Barnes ambled back from his tour of the yard and squatted down alongside Bligh. He fought his way into the pocket of his overly tight pants and pulled out a sandwich crust. Brains lunged for it and gobbled. When she’d finished, she hopped onto Barnes’s foot and began preening herself.

  I gave Bligh a sympathetic look. ‘It’s all about the food.’

  She stood up. ‘I’ll remember that. And you remember what I said. Come on, Bill.’

  She strode off, leaving Barnes hostage to Brains. ‘Tara,’ he said pleadingly, pointing at his foot.

  I coaxed Brains off with a grass burr and watched Barnes hurry after his partner.

  I put the birds back in the cage and fed them, then headed down to my flat. I knew I should go to the gym, but my motivation had dissolved with the news that the Swan River had coughed up a dead body associated with Johnny Viaspa. Now all I wanted to do was lock the door and hide.

  I changed my poop-smeared shirt and carted my laptop to bed, then shot Bok a quick text message about dinner while I waited for it to boot up. He came back with a ‘no can do’. Seemed my Bok Choy had a date after all. I was tempted to call and demand details but decided to wait him out. If you pressed Bok too closely on anything he delighted in taking the perverse angle and would clam up. Sometimes it was better to take the low road.

  Instead of calling him, I checked the local news sites for anything about a dead body floating in the Swan. Nothing.

  I searched on Johnny Viaspa as well, and sure enough there he was, large as life, shaking hands with the charity he’d supported. The photograph didn’t reveal the pus colour of his aura or his cold eyes. Nor did the article mention his criminal record or reputation as the main illegal drug dispenser in our state. Johnny V, it seemed, was working hard on looking benevolent and law-abiding.

  There was a message from Edouardo on my Facebook page asking if I could do dinner tonight. I was on the point of saying no when I had a brainwave. Mrs Hara loved good-looking young males (Bok was one of her favourites). If I took Ed with me instead of Bok, she might not be so inclined to poison my zuppa. I flicked Mr Hara a text asking if it was okay for me to bring a different friend.

  As the message sent icon disappeared, my phone rang again. Jees, what now?

  ‘Tara Sharp,’ I said.

  ‘Teach, it’s Wal.’

  Wal was Wallace Grominsky, narcoleptic former roadie and current chief of security at the Tara Sharp Agency – at least in his mind he was. He called me ‘Teach’ because I’d met him through a class I’d run from home called ‘Improving Your Communication Skills’. Now Wal was living with my Aunt Lavilla, due to her taking an unexpected and ridiculously bizarre interest in him. Liv was refined, gorgeous and wealthy. Every time I thought about her and Wal together, I came back to, Da-a-amn, that’s just wrong.

  ‘Got some good and bad news for you,’ Wal said.

  ‘Best first,’ I said, leaning back against the wrought iron of my bedhead.

  ‘I got nowhere to live.’

  ‘Aren’t you at Liv’s?’

  ‘Need a place of my own.’

  ‘She kicked you out?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He sounded forlorn.

  ‘What about the boarding house?’

  ‘Can’t go back there on account of having no income. ’Sides, can’t work for you over there, got no car. Okay if I doss on your couch for a while till I get myself sorted?’

  My garden flat wasn’t a shelter for homeless eighties tragics with sleeping disorders. I opened my mouth to say ‘No way in the world’ when the call waiting bleep started up.

  ‘Hold on,’ I said to Wal, and switched over.

  ‘Tara, darling, you MUST help me.’

  ‘But, Liv, I’ve –’

  ‘I can’t have guns in my house. You MUST take Wallace in while I sort something out for him. He has no money and no family and I won’t have him returning to his former life. He’s a changed man, and I really must insist that you help him stay that way. I’m setting up something for him but I don’t want him knowing. Just a week, darling, I promise. Must rush now. Things to do.’

  Damn family!

  I went back to Wal’s call with a sinki
ng heart.

  ‘It’s me, Wal. Yeah, sure. You can doss on the couch. Just for a bit though.’

  ‘Thanks, Teach. Take the rent out of my wages.’

  Wal was on a percentage of my earnings, so the wages thing was an unfunny joke between us.

  ‘Yeah, right. Now what’s the bad news?’

  ‘Sam Barbaro turned up floating under the Freo wharves with his eyes missing,’ he said as calmly as if he were ordering a bucket of chips at the drive-through.

  I suddenly felt sick. This must have been the body Constable Bligh was talking about. Barbaro was the guy who’d bird-napped Brains and also left a dead bird on my windscreen after I’d seen him running away from a break-and-enter at Eireen Tozzi’s home. He was also a small-town hood who had strong ties with Johnny Viaspa. ‘Dead?’

  ‘Dead,’ said Wal.

  ‘Who did it?’

  ‘I ain’t got speed dial to any murderers’ confession booth.’

  ‘Yeah. Sorry. Shit, that’s awful. I mean, Barbaro should be in jail, not dead.’

  ‘It’s givin’ me a bad feelin’, boss.’

  ‘Yeah. Me too.’ Now there was an understatement.

  ‘Hey, I have to go out this evening to meet a client.

  When do you have to move?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m outside your place.’

  ‘Jees!’ I shut my phone and bolted out the door and up the driveway. If JoBob saw Wal loitering outside, they’d call the cops. Last thing I needed was another visit from Bligh and Barnes. Or worse, Whitey.

  My security chief was leaning against Mona, smoking a rollie, looking like a Russian Mafioso: tatts, tight black jeans, long red hair pulled back in a ponytail, cut-off tee showing brawny arms.

  I grabbed the cig from his mouth and crushed it underfoot. ‘No smoking in my place and no visitors.’

  I trusted Wal, but I didn’t trust him. He hadn’t let me down – yet – but the truth was, he was a bit psycho. He wasn’t a huge guy, but he was stocky and tough and kept a kitbag full of weapons he was always eager to use. The scariest thing about Wal, though, was his lack of fear. He reminded me of Mel Gibson in Braveheart – sans the pretty face and shapely legs. Mel acted the half-crazy thing really well. Wal was the half-crazy thing.