Praise for Sharp Shooter
‘At times absolutely hilarious, this book is a fantastic escapist easy read – perfect for a rainy Sunday or a long day at the beach. Really enjoyable.’
Gloss Magazine
‘Tara Sharp is a welcome addition to the pantheon of smart female protagonists. When a new job links Tara to a local mob boss, she enters a dangerous underworld. In a word: Feisty.’
Gold Coast Bulletin
‘Wonderful, fast-moving and laugh-out-loud, this is a read to get away from the real world.’
Manly Daily
‘It’s a lot of fun for a holiday read. In a word: Energetic.’
Townsville Bulletin Top Read
Marianne Delacourt is the pseudonym of a successful Australian sci-fi fantasy author who is sold throughout the world. Sharp Shooter is set in Perth, where the author grew up. The next book in the Tara Sharp series is Sharp Turn. Marianne now lives in Brisbane with her husband and three sons.
http://mariannedelacourt.wordpress.com
SHARP
SHOOTER
MARIANNE DELACOURT
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, alive or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
This edition published in 2010
First published in 2009
Copyright © Marianne Delacourt 2009
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Arena Books, an imprint of
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available
from the National Library of Australia
www.librariesaustralia.nla.gov.au
ISBN 978 1 74237 006 4
Set in Fairfield Light by Bookhouse, Sydney
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To the real Smitty, with love.
And to Nicci Whitehouse, my beloved sis.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
I STARED ACROSS THE desk at the psychiatrist and tried not to fiddle.
Betsy Waller was a school friend of my mother’s who I’d known since I was a kid. A no-nonsense type of shrink. Her office was polished floorboards and cherry veneer clean, her leather chair bigger than my bed. Certificates smothered the walls.
She’d been asking me questions for nearly an hour, and by the way her forehead was now wrinkling, I could see she’d reached her verdict.
Tara is nuts. Or, maybe, Tara is NUTS.
She turned off her IPOD recorder, slipped her Brendan O’Keefe spectacles up onto her head, and peered at me. ‘Tara, I will only say this once so please heed me. You are NOT, as you call it, “nuts”. You are, however, possessed of a . . . talent. You have an extraordinary sensitivity and overdeveloped emotional intelligence.’
‘But how do I stop it?’ I moaned. ‘I mean, it’s ruining my life. I just got sacked because of it. I can’t have a normal conversation with anyone. I know when they’re lying. I see auras around things. Your pen . . .’
Bets twiddled the sleek, gold Parker between her fingers. ‘What about it?’
‘It’s glowing orange. Like you.’
‘Me? I have an orange aura?’
I nodded. ‘Subtle, though. Like autumn leaves – not a carrot.’
She managed a weak smile. ‘Well that’s a relief. But what does it . . . mean?’
‘People transfer their stronger emotions onto their possessions sometimes. Is the pen a gift from someone you really care about?’
Betsy flushed and dropped the pen onto her blotter.
‘The auras aren’t just colours either, Bets, they have texture and shape. They tell me about the person: if they’re happy or miserable. Hell, I think I even know when some people are going to die.’
Bets pursed her lips at that and did an admirable job of NOT looking at her hands to see if they were glowing orange.
‘I don’t normally do this, understand?’ she said at last. ‘But I’ve known you since you were little and I’ve been in this game for many years. The longer I’m in it, the less convinced I am that we live in as scientifically rational a world as we’d like to think.’
I gave a mock-gasp. ‘You’ve turned New Ager.’
She laughed at that, and slid the O’Keefe’s back down into their normal position on the bridge of her prominent nose. ‘Perhaps.’
Silence ensued as she wrote something on a piece of paper and slid it across the desk. ‘I know a fellow who might be able to help you.’
I read it aloud – ‘Hara’s Body Language Inc.’ I looked back at her helplessly then read on. ‘A body language and psychic business?’
‘That’s right, dear.’ She bent her head back to her work. ‘Say hello to your parents for me.’
Dismissed, I wandered to the door, dazed. It wasn’t at all what I’d expected. A script for something perhaps, or the six months of counselling my parents had urged on me and offered to pay for but –
‘Tara?’
I stopped and turned back towards her hopefully. ‘Yes?’
‘Don’t mention this to anyone. Understand?’ she said, a whiff of anxiety evident beneath her professional mask. Her deep orange aura flickered too.
I forced myself to smile. ‘Sure, Bets.’
‘Good girl.’
I left Bets’s office and drove Mona, my beloved Holden Monaro, home along Stirling Highway, past the designer furniture shops and real estate offices.
I love Perth. My city is a woman of so many sides: dazzling, conceited, sheltered, and sometimes downright stuffy. As I turned of
f the highway towards my parents’ house in Eucalyptus Grove and drove along a quieter road, she felt a tad disapproving, like she was saying, ‘Get your act together, Tara.’
Since I’d been sacked from my last job, I’d had to move into my parents’ converted garage until I could afford to rent again.
Unemployed and living back at home. Looooser!
I parked the car on the curb outside number 25 Lilac Street and walked down the side of the house to my flat, thinking about my empty bank balance and my lack of job prospects. Staving off the beginnings of a good bawl, I made myself a black tea.
My flat comprised of an all-in-one kitchenette, sitting room and bedroom. Loo and shower were outside, across a bricked patio. Not ideal, but better than returning to my childhood bedroom and having to observe my mother’s insane rules on . . . everything.
After I’d finished the tea, I took a deep breath and rang the number Bets had given me.
‘You come over tonight, Ms Sharp,’ said Mr Hara, after I’d explained who I was and how Bets had recommended I contact him.
‘Err, I guess so?’ I was a bit taken aback at the speedy invitation. Still, it wasn’t like I had anything else to do. ‘What time?’
‘After dark. You come to the back. Knock twice. Soft knock . . .’
‘You got touchy neighbours?’ I asked.
‘No. My wife is a jealous woman. She no like me talking with female alone.’
I laughed, a little nervously. Mr Hara sounded a bit trippy. What was Bets thinking? And how had she come across him? I hoped he wasn’t a former patient of hers. ‘Errr . . . well . . . maybe –’
‘Maaa. Maaa.’ His laugh was like the sound of a newborn lamb. ‘Jus’ kiddin’. Come at 7 pm. I be waiting for you.’
‘Mr Hara?’
‘Yes, Ms Sharp?’
‘Why am I coming to see you, exactly?’ I know that sounded silly but I wasn’t really sure why Bets had referred me to him.
Mr Hara gave the lamb laugh again. ‘Well . . . if you any good, maybe I give you a job.’
The magic words.
Chapter 2
AFTER HANGING UP, I sat for a bit. What had I just agreed to do, on the faintest sniff of a job? My life felt so out of control at the moment. No one in their late twenties should be as ‘between’ everything as me. Between jobs. Between homes. Between boyfriends. The only thing that seemed to be on track in my life was my psychic abilities. Kooky was flourishing. Oh, joy!
I pulled on some joggers and scrambled around in my sports bag for my basketball. I did my best thinking when I was shooting hoops, so I headed out to the small square of asphalt in the very back corner of my parents’ yard.
Dad had put the hoop up for me years ago. It was an old-style ring with no ‘give’. The clunky, wooden backboard had lost most of its paint, but I still loved it. In my rep days I’d shoot a couple of hundred baskets a day, and practise my post work around the chalk-lined keyway.
The last few years, it had become my meditation place – even when I wasn’t living at home. Some people escape to the water when they need time out, others do the whole yoga thing, or sex, or mind-altering substances, or whatever. For me it’s always been hoops. The day after my last boyfriend, Pascal, cleared off with our housemate, I spent hours right here, doing nothing other than shooting and rebounding.
I chose free throws today, toeing the chalk-worn line for a hundred shots. By the time I’d finished I was sweaty and hungry, so I grabbed a quick shower and went to look in my second-hand fridge. Cheese, chocolate biscuits and some dried-out mandarin segments.
The chocolate biscuits and I retired to my second-hand couch, and I rang Martin Longbok – aka Bok – one of my two best mates. Smitty, my other best friend – Jane Smith-Evans, aka Smitty – would be picking kids up from school right now; her next window to chat wouldn’t fall until after the acid hour when she’d fed the meerkats, and gargled down three quarters of a bottle of wine.
I didn’t wait to do the rah, rah, rah pleasantries with Bok, but plunged straight in when he answered. ‘I need a bodyguard. Bets wants me to see some dodgy guy who runs a body language and psychic’s business,’ I told him.
Bok knows everything about me, including my thing with auras. Truth is, though, he isn’t much good as a bodyguard. Bok is a shade heavier than an eating disorder, has a cute button nose and long, silky, straight black hair most girls would kill for. We’ve been friends since prep when he used to sit behind me in class and hit me with his ruler. I put up with it for weeks, and then one day when the teacher stepped out of the room I pushed him off his chair and watched as he fell flat on his skinny, pretty arse.
We could have become lifelong enemies from that moment, but the truth is I liked his aura. I could see auras, even then, and Longbok’s was a fresh and lively aqua-blue colour.
When I put out my hand to pull him up, he took it.
Our thing – our pattern – had been in place ever since. Longbok needled and wheedled, and occasionally pushed me too far. When that happened I resorted to physical violence. After that, he’d back off for a while and remain sweet just long enough for me to remember why I liked him, before the process started again.
Even when my parents decided I was exhibiting concerning signs of aggression, and switched me from a snobby nondenominational school to a snobby convent – which is where I met Smitty – Bok and I stayed in touch. He helped me pass my IT subjects, coached me on fashion, and came to watch me play basketball. In return, I kept a few bullies off his back, and regularly told him how gorgeous he was.
Not!
University was the same. We hung out together for mutual benefit and because we filled in each other’s gaps. He could be smooth and effective when I got plain angry and objectionable. He counselled me against dating dropkicks, and I watched his back at clubs when he got hassled by gay-bashers.
Not that Bok was strictly gay. He’d jumped the fence a couple of times: firstly, falling love with his burly ethics tutor, and when that went wrong, casting his net wider to catch a kinky girl who was financing her medical degree by working part-time as an erotic dancer. These days he sat on the fence: bisexual but decidedly undecided.
When we entered the workforce, we lost contact for a while. I ran the gamut of boring administrative jobs. An arts degree, private schooling and parental contacts made it easy to step into upmarket legal and finance firms. Bok took his journalism degree and tried to cut it in Sydney in the fashion magazine publishing industry. But all that history eventually drew us back together after Bok decided that fashion was muckier than toe jam, and not half as pretty.
He headed back home to Perth’s warmer climes with a wardrobe full of designer freebies that kept him looking sharp at interviews. With his Sydney credentials, it wasn’t too long before he snagged a job setting up an exciting new glossy magazine. Managing Publisher was his title. It came with a swishy salary, promised bonuses, and a swag of Louis Vuitton luggage. He moved into a refurbished apartment in Swanbourne, a stone’s throw from all the most expensive boutiques.
We ran into each other outside Kimmy Koo’s pizza parlour in Euccy Grove. I was wearing a tube top, shorts and thongs, and had a vegetarian with chorizo in my hands. He was clutching a Johnny Depp movie against his Ben Sherman t-shirt. His artfully distressed jeans were tight and crisp. But despite the immaculate grooming, his beautiful blue aura was shrunken and as pale as bun icing, and I knew straightaway he was miserable, so I asked him over right there and then.
We sat up all night talking, about the old days mostly. The crazy things we’d done and how we’d helped each other out. By the early morning, his aura was bouncing blue again.
Since then it has been business as usual between us.
‘Alright, dahl,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll come to Mr Hara’s weirdo studio with you, but only to make sure he’s not a slave trader. Then I’m out of there. Savvy?’
Chapter 3
I PICKED BOK UP outside his trendy Swanbourne apartment block
just on dark. This time he wore a black silk Kujo shirt and Ralph Lauren pants.
I had on a tank top, trackie daks and runners.
He cringed when he saw my clothes but didn’t say anything.
Mr Hara’s house was easy enough to find – a half-duplex right next to the train line. The western suburbs are the wealthiest sector of Perth but they have a dirty vein. Along one section of the train line are pockets of cheaper, less appealing real estate.
State Housing, in its wisdom, had built high-rise flats close to the train station and filled them with pensioners and the obligatory addicts. It made for an interesting mix of lifestyles: billion-dollar properties only a couple of streets from the other kind. There was a fair bit of theft in the rich quarter because of it, but surprisingly less than you’d imagine. I sometimes think that Australians are essentially too lazy for the full-scale gang thing.
I’d never had any problem in Crocker Street, but then it wasn’t a place I hung out in. You could get beaten up there for knocking on the wrong door, yet it was unlikely you’d get shot or knifed for your runners. Well not mine anyway.
Hara’s was right on the railway line a few blocks from Crocker Street.
I knocked on the back door like he’d instructed, and a huge Italian lady with a soup ladle in her hand banged the fly-wire open and looked me up and down.
‘M-Mr Hara h-here?’ I asked.
‘You want see my husband? Why you come to the back door? You think this a chop shop? You think I make love pills in my kitchen? Maybe I use your bones for soup for being so rude.’
‘But, I . . . he –’ Bok shouldered me aside and dipped his finger into her dripping ladle.
‘Aaah, bella zuppa,’ he sighed, and the woman’s ferocious glare dissolved into a beaming smile.
‘You Italian?’ she asked.
Bok nodded and put his finger to his lips. ‘But my papa don’t know.’
She laughed and stepped to one side. ‘Come inside. I fix you a bowl.’
Bok gave me a smirk as he waltzed on in. As I went to follow, she stepped in front of me. ‘You go to the front door.
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