‘Don’t you read the papers?’ he asked.
‘Only the sport.’
‘Well I’m telling you, T. Stay clear of that one. He’s a slime ball, and I’ve heard his wife is as dangerous as a cut snake. Listen, I’ve got to go. Cops are here about the break-in. Take Care.’ Then he gave a chuckle.
‘What?’
‘I’m looking out the window and guess who one of the boys-in-blue is? Whitey. I’ll give him your regards.’
‘Ugh!’ I said and hung up.
Greg Whiteman’s sister and I had gone to school together. I met Greg – Whitey – when I was fifteen, and harboured a huge secret crush on him until I was seventeen. When we finally went out on a date, I discovered he was vain, stupid and the worst kind of lecher. Right after he’d bought my first drink he’d leaned in close. ‘Tara,’ he’d said. ‘You wanna go back to my place for a root?’
My latent western suburbs sensibilities were so offended that I washed his face with my vodka cooler. I stopped short of kneeing him in the nuts because you never know when you might need to know a cop, but these days the sight of him brought bile to my mouth.
Unfortunately, Whitey seemed to like my hostile treatment. He badgered me endlessly after that. I ignored his calls until they eventually tapered off when he got married to a girl from my school.
Garth knew the story. He also knew Whitey and his sister. Good old Garth. Never one not to rub something in.
I stared at the wall above my bed, my thoughts flittering about. So Peter Delgado was a bad boy’s lawyer. I wondered if that was as dangerous and mob-ish as it sounded. I mean this was downtown Perth, Ors-trail-ee-ya, not Soho, or Washington DC. Surely organised crime in my fair city meant a few cartons of ecstasy tablets, the odd shipment of hashish and a backroom amphetamines lab, maybe even some horse-race fixing. (Perth’s New Year’s Day racing carnival was always a big event, for me anyway – lost my shoes on more than one occasion after an afternoon in the Moët tent). How bad could it be?
I could just hear Smitty’s answer to that question. Could anyone be more gullible than you, T? Remember the time you thought a girl in your aerobics class kept running to the loo because she had giardia when she was actually bulimic?
Prickles of indecision ran tag across my skin. Garth had sounded serious enough, and despite what I’d said to him, I had seen Johnny Vogue in the paper. Often. Perth’s crime lord ‘owned’ the nightclub stretch of the city. ‘Little Perth’ was full of pimps, dance clubs, kebab shops and sex studios. And Johnny Vogue ran the lot.
I hadn’t been up to Little Perth since scoring a bout of oyster poisoning from Hot Cockles.
To meet Delgado, or not to meet?
I checked the clock: half an hour till my appointment with Mr Honey and I hadn’t even showered. I slapped the blinds shut and stripped off. Grabbing a towel from somewhere on the couch, I tumbled in and out of the shower. Then I dashed back to my bedroom and squeezed into my best black pants and a gauzy, silk-sleeved top that hid my biceps. I shoed-up in high heels but immediately kicked them off in favour of flats – just in case I had to run away from Mr Honey or Peter Delgado.
Shoving my phone and a key card in a mini sling purse, I drew on some eyeliner.
Hair out or in?
In, I decided. Don’t want to look unkempt. Or worse, sexy. That got me sniggering out loud as I jumped into Mona and sped in the direction of Latte Ole.
The sniggering almost kept the worries at bay. What if I couldn’t find Mr Honey? What did someone like Delgado want? What if . . . ?
Impulsiveness had always got me into trouble. Would I ever learn?
Tara, when will you ever learn that your impulsiveness always gets you into trouble?
Did I mention that my Joanna implant was also an echo machine? You’d think by twenty-six years of age I’d have shrugged off some of my parental programming, but when you have no job, no long-term partner, and you’re living in your parents’ garage . . . well . . .
Aunty Lavilla had nailed it. ‘Tara,’ she’d said to me recently over a bottle of pinot grigio and some sweet chilli philly, ‘I love you to death but you are the most curious creature. So adolescent one moment, and so switched on and mature the next. Couth and refined in one breath; positively raucous in another. It’s like two people inhabit that scone of yours.’
From anyone else I would have been mortally offended, violently offended even, but Liv was one of my favourite people in the world. She dripped expensive jewellery, loved the odd chemically induced, mind-altering experience, and supported some of her more extravagant habits by selling her artwork to large corporations for a shit-load of money. Who’d have thought Joanna could have a sister who was so improper and creative and out there?
Thank God for Liv and her penthouse!
Chapter 8
I SWERVED MONA INTO a tight space near the cafe with practised ease. Monaros are a ‘statement’ car and I’d wanted one since I could burp and say ‘gimmee’. That didn’t change as I grew up and all my girlfriends got Mercedes sports and BMW Roadsters from their daddies. I fancied big cars – Pontiacs, Cadillacs and SUVs – but ever one to embrace my national identity, Holdens were my true love.
In the end JoBob gave up trying to dissuade me from spending my entire bank balance on a restored, gunmetal-grey 1973 HQ LS Monaro, complete with original doeskin vinyl roof, Corvette rocker covers and a 350 air-cleaner, but insisted I go to an advanced driving school. When my initial blood-rush at the possibility of being the first woman to race at an Indy faded, I actually learned some good shit. I could corner pretty fast and skid in the wet like a veteran. Not to mention being hell-on-wheels in a straight line.
Latte Ole was in full swing – 5 pm was cusp time, when the patrons switched from short blacks and shortbreads to Hahns and beer nuts. This meant I had to find Mr Honey before things got too rowdy.
Two crowds: a bunch of uniformed bank Johnnies and Janes were knocking back Brass Monkeys and looking pretty loose already; and a large birthday group which had taken over the mid section of tables and chairs, with waiters racing jugs of beer and glasses out to them. Their psychic energies blended in to a hazy rainbow of colours.
There were two tables next to the door. A plump, nerdy IT type with a sharp and shiny cobalt aura tucked into a large plate of steak and chips . . . there he was: a middle-aged bald guy whose eyes skittered between the numerous bare, suntanned midriffs. His aura was pancake flat and the colour of custard.
Aaah . . . don’t you love a quiet perv.
Not.
I stepped confidently towards his table and thrust out my hand. ‘Spotted you!’
A fierce glare met my bald introduction. ‘Who the h-hell are y-you?’ the man spluttered.
His reaction gave me such a fright that I stepped back and accidentally knocked into the waiter. A chocolate sundae slid right off his tray into the plump IT man’s lap.
Thrown off balance, I followed it.
Mr IT blinked through his whisky-tumbler-thick glasses and bit his bottom lip as the ice-cream seeped through the crotch of his pants.
‘Jees,’ he groaned.
I scrambled off him, nuts and strawberry topping clinging to the arse of my pants, and made dabbing gestures at the mess with his serviette.
‘So sorry,’ I cried. ‘Soooo sorry. So incredibly . . . I beg your pardon,’ before I realised I was wiping a strange man’s crotch. I dropped the serviette on the waiter’s tray and ran to the toilet.
When I emerged, shaken but crushed-nut free, the waiter grabbed my arm. ‘You been sniffing the white stuff?’
I shook him off, aggrieved. ‘Never before 6 pm.’
I glanced around. Mr IT had a fresh sundae sitting in front of him, though he looked like he’d lost his appetite. With my bag strategically slung to hide my stained butt, I forced myself across the room.
The IT guy stared up at me with fear in his bug-keeper-magnified eyes.
‘Mr Honey?’ I whispered. ‘I’m terribly, terri
bly sorry to say this, but I’m Tara Sharp.’
He swallowed hard as I sat down opposite him.
‘I don’t normally fall into my clients’ laps. Mostly I just tap-dance on their tables,’ I said with a rush.
My weak attempt at humour just seemed to confuse him more, so I reached into my purse and brought out a small notebook and pen. ‘Now, tell me, how can I help you?’
‘I . . . I . . . I . . .’
‘It’s alright,’ I said soothingly. ‘These things can be difficult to talk about. Take your time.’
He began to fold his napkin as if getting up to leave.
I cast around desperately for a hook. ‘Let me tell you instead,’ I said, guessing wildly. ‘You’ve just been promoted into a great job and your girlfriend wants to get married. That would be OK, because you love her, but you don’t know if she’s only interested in your money.’
Mr Honey’s jaw dropped and the napkin fluttered from his fingers to shroud the remnants of his chocolate sundae.
‘Oh, and she doesn’t like you eating meat or eating dessert. She thinks you should work out more.’
‘How . . . how . . .’
‘I made a terrible fool of myself a moment ago, Mr Honey. But believe me, I do know people. On the phone I picked you as bald. I got that wrong; you’ve got a great head of hair.’
Mr Honey’s incredulous expression blossomed into a full-blown smile. ‘Y-you think so? Th-thanks.’
Bingo!
‘That is amazing, Ms Sharp,’ he continued. ‘How could you know all that from looking at me?’
I smiled, then tapped the side of my nose. ‘Secrets of the trade. Now tell me more about yourself.’
Mr Honey’s first name was Lloyd, and he wanted me to meet his girlfriend and suss out her true feelings.
My guess had been intuitive. Not just pure luck. He was nerdy, but well dressed enough not to be friendless. He was eating guiltily, like he wasn’t normally allowed to do it. He wore a trendy friendship ring and an expensive Omega watch. Smart + rich geek = hot babe.
Lloyd and I ran a few scenarios as to how I might meet his intended: everything from a double-date to a fabricated work encounter. In the end we devised a plan. I’d go to a bar she drank at on Saturday evenings with her girlfriends. Apparently when she’d had a skinful she would call him and he’d pick her up. I’d be at the next table, he’d pretend I was a long-lost friend, we’d meet, chat for a few minutes, and I would earn my three hundred dollars by making a judgement on how she acted towards him. He’d email her photo to me later on tonight.
Apart from having to keep my thighs clamped to stop my bladder from exploding, I was pretty happy with how things were going in my new profession.
Chapter 9
THIRTY MINUTES AND THREE coffees later, I was still busting to go to the loo, but was running late for my appointment with Peter Delgado.
I whipped Mona out of her snug parking spot without losing any paint and sped down the beach road, weaving through the speed chicanes like a slalom skier on speed. Mona wasn’t a brilliant car on corners but made up for it with grunt. I knew I was being an eco-savage owning an eight-cylinder car, but I tried to make up for it with green shopping bags and friendly cleaning fluids.
Ahem . . . by not cleaning, actually!
The car behind me tooted, and I realised I was still stopped at the crosswalk. I accelerated hard for three blocks, causing mobs of beach-goers to give me hot, sandy, indignant stares. I waved at them. Hot, indignant stares didn’t work on me. This was my town and my suburb.
The Klintoff car park was chockers, so I had to park Mona around the corner and up the hill. That gave me time to brush my hair and re-lippy in private. But by the time I’d run down the hill and caught the beachfront gale head-on, my good work was all undone. My plan to enter the foyer looking groomed and pimped had turned into panic-at-the-disco. Crossing my legs, I did a quick directory search.
Positoni & Kizzick – 6th floor.
By the time the lift reached the fifth, my need for a loo became dire. As soon as the door opened, I plunged down the corridor looking for the little lady silhouette.
The loo was sandwiched between two plushly appointed law firms. I skittled into it, found the last cubicle and let flow. Just as Niagara Falls had nearly abated, I heard the door open. Two women made their way into the first two loos.
‘What happened with Pete?’ asked one.
The other giggled. ‘He took me back to his place.’
‘What? Was his wife away?’
‘No. He’s got a flat in the city. Beautiful view of the river. Said if we got regular he might set me up in there.’
‘You’re crazy. What if she finds out?’
‘She won’t. He’s cute and he’s got connections,’ said Giggler.
‘Johnny Vogue?’
‘Don’t knock it. Johnny Vogue takes his people to the Caribbean every year for a holiday. I always wanted to go there.’
I sat as quiet as a mouse, not even daring to pull my pants up.
‘What was he like?’ asked Giggler’s friend.
‘Delgado?’
‘No, the fricking prime minister, idiot.’
Giggler hesitated. ‘He’s . . . active. You know. Staying power.’
‘Must be those olives.’
‘Or the little blue pills.’
‘Pete Delgado uses Viagra?’
I held my breath waiting for her to answer. This was too damn delicious for words.
‘Well who doesn’t?’
My phone began to ring. I fumbled in my jeans pocket to stop it and it fell out on the floor. Bugger.
‘Shit,’ whispered Giggler to her friend, followed by two quick flushes and clanging doors. I yanked my knickers and pants up together, and tried to zip them with one hand. The knickers got caught in the zip but by the time I’d disentangled and opened the door, Giggler and her friend had bolted.
And my damn phone had started ringing again.
‘Yes,’ I snapped into it.
‘Tara Sharp, how the hell are you?’ said a vaguely familiar male voice.
I washed my free hand and dried it on the luxury-thick towels. ‘Who is this?’
‘Don’t you know me?’
I fished the brush out of my bag and raked it through my hair, pulling faces at myself in the mirror. ‘No. And I don’t have time –’
‘It’s Whitey.’
‘Whitey? Greg Whitehead?’ I swung the bathroom door open and stepped out into the corridor.
‘The one and only,’ said the cocky voice.
‘What do you want? And how did you get my phone number?’
‘Fat boy gave it to me.’
‘Garth?’ My voice raised an octave.
‘He said you’d asked after me and that you were in some type of escort business these days. I thought we might hook up. I can pay.’
‘E-escort. H-hook up?’ I could barely say the words. Garth would be lucky to ever add another column of figures when I got through with him.
‘So do you still want to sleep with me?’ asked Whitey.
‘What?’ I was dumbfounded. ‘You’re married. You only got married last year.’
‘So?’
I’d worked up a real head of steam now. I planted my feet and squared my shoulders. ‘So? Listen to me you slimy dirtbag,’ I spat into the phone. ‘Let’s get something very clear. If you were doused in petrol, I’d be the one to light the match. If you were starving, I’d steal your last scrap of food. I wouldn’t sleep with you if we were trapped in a Viagra factory together.’ I slammed the phone shut and stamped my foot in fury.
A man in his late thirties with jet-black hair and sly good looks encapsulated in a Zegna pinstripe, stood in the open doorway of Positoni & Kizzick. Fearing he might have heard the end of my call, a flush of embarrassment started somewhere around my bra line and radiated out to every extremity, until I was glowing hotter than Kimmy Koo’s pizza oven. I wanted to run back into the toilet and dampen
my burning cheeks but faint heart never won a lady a business contract, and I wasn’t going to let another two-timing bastard bung the superior act on me.
I held out my hand without hesitation. ‘Peter Delgado, I’m guessing from what the girls in the ladies’ loo were just saying. I’m Tara Sharp, here to represent Mr Hara.’
He hesitated, then met my handshake. His hand was firm enough but ice-cube cold, and his aura was murky brown and slippery. He stood back and held the door open.
I waltzed into Positoni & Kizzick, past the receptionist, who buried her streaked extensions in a filing cabinet. Was she the Giggler?
I didn’t get time to test my theory as Delgado shepherded me into a corner office with a great view over Satin Beach. Not bad for someone who didn’t even have his name on the brass plate at the door.
I perched on a Queen Anne-style Chesterfield without waiting to be asked, and crossed my legs in my best private girls’ school manner. The studs were cool against my back and I suppressed a little shiver of pleasure. Sitting on fine furniture was nearly as good as sex.
Delgado stepped past the matching Queen Anne and stood near the desk. ‘I have a job that requires discretion, Ms Sharp.’
Listen for pitch quality, said the Mr-Hara-in-my-head. Voice qualifiers. Over-loud means lotsa intensity. ‘May I ask what the nature of your job might be?’
There was a pause.
I filled it with, ‘You understand that I also need to screen for the appropriate kind of business.’
‘I work in the corporate world, Ms Sharp, and I need a person to gain the confidence of a high-profile individual and acquire certain information about them. Who, when and what, are details that I will divulge when I have screened you.’
I should have said no right then. It sounded dodgy, and he was intense and arrogant in one sentence. But curiosity, a powerful need to prove myself to Mr Hara and a competitive nature were stronger hooks. Of course I was suitable.
He moved behind his desk. The slight flush on his olive skin and his need to put distance between us told me that he was off balance still. But as soon as he sat down and steepled his fingers I knew he was moving back into control mode.
Sharp Shooter Page 4
