CHAPTER 7
The next morning, Gary pondered the best way to find Trixie Powell. Like most fugitives, she was probably lonely, scared and desperate to contact her mother. So he might as well watch her mum for a few days.
Roberta Powell lived in Lakemba, a dusty suburb halfway between the coast and Blue Mountains, in a two-bedroom bungalow within wailing distance of the Lakemba Mosque. A rusty carport jutted from one side. Underneath sat an old Torana. The mangy front lawn looked mortally ill.
Shortly after 8 a.m., Gary parked his surveillance van just down the road from the house. He climbed into the back and sat on a plastic garden chair, peered through the rear window.
By nine, most of Roberta's neighbours had left for work or school. But it was almost eleven before she appeared. The front door swung open and a woman in her mid-fifties shuffled out. She had a large helmet of dyed-brown hair and thin features reminiscent of Trixie.
She drove the Torana to Parramatta Leagues Club, a huge pokies palace with a glitzy façade that offered a counterfeit experience. Only its fakeness was real. Inside, dozens of grind gamblers fed their pay-packets and pension cheques into shiny poker machines.
Roberta spent two hours playing a pokie machine, while consuming several beers and half a pack of fags. She didn't even look happy when she won, because she realised it would now take her longer to lose. When she'd finished robbing herself, she sourly shuffled out.
Gary followed her home and waited around until midnight in case Trixie visited. No such luck.
The next morning, Roberta left home a little earlier and visited a shopping centre. After mall-walking for two hours, without spending a cent, she had her hair permed and returned home. Gary dozed in his van until dawn, but Trixie didn't show.
Gary followed Roberta around for the rest of the week as she trekked, like a suburban zombie, through supermarkets, pubs and pokie palaces. He also had to sit in a near-empty cinema and watch a re-run of Pretty Woman. The longer he watched her, the more depressed he became.
Unfortunately, Trixie didn't turn up to brighten his mood. Maybe she hated her mother or was too cautious to contact her; maybe, as Vincent Drew suggested, she was dead. Or maybe - just maybe - she was talking to her mum on the phone. Gary decided to bug Roberta's house and knew just the man for the job.
Not Dead Yet Page 8