Sharp Shooter

by Marianne Delacourt

  ‘You chose the wrong time to go to a party at Coke Road and be seen in the company of people like Peter Delgado, Sharp. You need to be careful. I believe you’ve registered a new business recently.’

  ‘So?’ I should have been less bolshy but this friendly ‘chat’ was starting to get on my nerves.

  ‘Would you care to describe it?’

  I shrugged. ‘Communication analysis.’

  Bill snorted with laughter but Fiona remained deadly serious. ‘Garth Wilmot says you’re inclined to be impulsive.’

  ‘Why have you been talking to Garth?’

  ‘Just a bit of background checking.’

  ‘You’re doing background checks on me?’

  ‘On everyone at the Coke Road party,’ groaned Bill.

  ‘Barnes!’ snapped Bligh.

  ‘What would an accountant know,’ I said. ‘His idea of impulsive is to take his shoes off after work.’ Remember to kill him.

  Fiona walked around the couch and made a show of looking into every nook and cranny my tiny garage apartment had to offer. ‘Tell me, Sharp. What would a known petty criminal by the name of Wallace Grominsky, and Harvey Tsao, an ASIO researcher, be doing at your place at the same time?’

  Tsao. Was that his name? ‘Having Social Skills Coaching. You know, how to get along with people,’ I said sweetly. ‘There’s room in the class if you want to sign up.’

  Bill looked like he might explode from trying not to laugh. But Bligh remained sombre. ‘Listen, Cravich and Blake wanted to make this call. So don’t tick me off or next time I won’t insist on doing it.’

  Bill’s expression sobered. ‘She’s right, Tara. She had to take some crap to keep them off your derrière.’

  Bligh grunted and turned to leave.

  ‘Thanks, Bligh.’ I sighed. ‘I appreciate it. And Wal and Harvey both answered my advert in the local paper. Simple as that. I guess there are a lot of lonely people out there.’ I ventured another smile. ‘So I suppose the blue car that was following me today was you guys then?’

  Fiona spun on her heel and pinned me with a look. ‘What blue car?’

  ‘A BMW. Five or six years old?’

  ‘Did you get the licence plate?’

  ‘No. I-I wasn’t sure whether it was really following me or if I was imagining it. Why? Isn’t it one of yours?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. We’re not tailing you, Tara. But if you think someone is, you’d better be extra careful. Don’t go anywhere alone if you can help it and stick to areas of the city that you know.’

  ‘You’re kidding me?’

  She looked insulted. ‘If you get a numberplate, let us know.’ She fished in her pocket and pulled out a fridge magnet in the shape of policeman’s cap. ‘Here’s the station number. Ask for me or Bill.’

  They left then, Bill dutifully following a step behind dour Fiona. He gave me a wave from behind his back and the ‘thumbs-up’.

  I liked Bill.

  Chapter 19

  MY CHAT WITH THE local constabulary left me with a severe case of anxiety hunger. So I went up to JoBob’s to raid the fridge. My one stroke of good luck for the day was that they were out at golf – the beauty of Dad being a semi-retired trader – so I wouldn’t have to field difficult questions.

  Armed with nuts, brie, water biscuits, a bag of cherries and some microwave popcorn, I headed back to my garage flat, locked the door and shut the curtain. Today was officially over for me until Bok picked me up to go to Club Eighteen.

  I popped the corn then scoffed all my borrowed goodies. Feeling a little better, I tried on my new dress, swapping shoes until I got the right pair. Satisfied, I hung it up on a picture hook and lay down on my bed, pondering the mystery of who had cleaned up my room, until sheer puzzlement put me to sleep.

  I woke up an hour later, really thirsty from the popcorn. My watch told me I only had an hour until Bok arrived, so I guzzled a couple of glasses of water and scurried across to the shower, donning a black slim-line skirt and a tube top. I pushed my hair into combs and daubed eyeliner and blusher in the appropriate spots. A pair of flats (I was working!) and my beloved quilted fake Marc Jacobs handbag completed the outfit.

  I sat on the couch then and sent a couple of texts while I waited for my email to download. One was a rather jerky message to Mr Hara saying that I wouldn’t be working for Peter Delgado anymore and that I hoped Mrs Hara was enjoying snow skiing; another to Smitty saying thanks for cake and for diverting mad female stalkers. I composed a last one to Garth, telling him he was a jerk for blabbing to the cops, and then thought better about sending it. Knowing my current luck, it would be used in evidence against me.

  Trying to ignore the faint smell of Wal Grominsky’s body odour on the cushion covers – ugh – I then deleted a bunch of porn spam from my inbox and took time to study the photo Mr Honey had sent me of his girlfriend. She was a handsome brunette with a fierce set of abs showing beneath her midriff top. I couldn’t see auras in photos but I was betting hers was as streamlined and determined as her gym-junkie figure.

  That was the thing with auras. It wasn’t just their colour that told you things about the person. They had texture too. Some were fuzzy, or stripy, or ragged at the edges. Some were graded, fading out of their colour, while others had a definite edge. According to Mr Hara, the thin, well-defined auras tended to surround people who liked to be in control and who calculated their life within an inch of itself. I mean to say, abs like hers took grit.

  When Bok rang to say he was waiting outside, I squirted myself with Very Valentino and locked the door tight.

  As I walked down the driveway I could see Dad in the kitchen window. ‘Do you want me to cover the birds?’ I called out.

  Dad waved to me and nodded. He looked tired and a little drained. Living with a vampire lady can do that to you.

  I tipped some seed into the birds’ three feed containers and yanked the cover down. It wasn’t dark yet but they were already hunkered down for the evening, heads tucked under their wings. Cu-ute. And hard to believe one of them was a crime fighter who’d nearly bitten the top off a policewoman’s finger.

  Bok and I took the beach road to enjoy the sun swimming its way down below the horizon. He was dressed in black shirt and pants and his hair was as glossy and smooth as a Pantene commercial.

  As I told him about my date with Nick Tozzi, Fiona Bligh’s visit and the blue BMW, his serene expression gradually changed into pursed lips and a frown.

  ‘I don’t like this, T. This is not like any stupid thing you’ve gotten into before.’

  For once I didn’t argue with him. He was right and I was sitting on a belly full of jitters. ‘I’ve told Mr Hara I’m quitting on Peter Delgado.’

  ‘Might be too late for that. Without being too dramatic, these guys don’t like anyone knowing their business.’

  My phone rang: a private number. I answered it and listened.

  ‘I can hear you breathing, Ms Sharp. This is Peter Delgado.’

  ‘Hello,’ I croaked.

  ‘I believe the police have just paid you a visit? I want you to come into my office first thing on Monday morning 9 am to further discuss your contract. In the meantime, think carefully about who you talk to.’

  I shut my phone and stared out the window: one lone windsurfer on the roughening water in the fading light. He was game.

  ‘T?’

  ‘Delgado wants me to come in first thing on Monday morning. He warned me not to talk to anyone.’

  Bok slapped the steering wheel. ‘You’d better cancel on Tozzi.’

  ‘I can’t, Marty.’

  That was low. I only used Marty when I really needed something. And I needed to see Nick Tozzi, not just because he was delicious and my blood got hot every time I thought about him, but because he was a decent bloke and he deserved to know that Johnny Vogue had it in for him.

  Bok snagged a park right opposite Club Eighteen and we sat in silence while he negotiated the reverse parking. As I went
to unclip my seatbelt though, he grabbed my hand. ‘I’ll help you, T, whatever you want. But you’ve got to promise me you’ll consider things before you act. You overheard Viaspa threatening to plant drugs on Nick Tozzi. This is too heavyweight for you to be impulsive.’

  ‘I promise.’ I gave him a quick smile and a kiss on the cheek.

  Chapter 20

  IT TOOK ME A moment or so to mentally gear up to meet Lloyd Honey’s intended. I hadn’t been inside Club Eighteen for a couple of years. The bar, which doubled as a nightclub after 11 pm, had always been a hangout for school leavers and made me feel like old meat these days. In the early hours of the evening, though, you could grab a meal and a drink there without having to queue up for the loo or the bar. Around dinner time, the clientele tended to be older. Bok gave me a little nod – his silent seal of approval – for my tube top and skirt.

  The interior of Club Eighteen was pretty standard club fare: bar, dance floor and booths – the latter all in black with polished chrome trim. The aircon struggled to suck smoke and whatever out of the air, and the industrial-grade red carpet looked like it had been through a holocaust. Clubs always smelled stale before midnight, until the aftershaves and perfumes and drink spills filled them up.

  Club Eighteen sat right above the Fresh Flesh Gym, which explained why Lloyd Honey’s girlfriend liked to duck in there with her friends after a late Saturday afternoon workout. She was easy enough to pick out among a bunch of six women still in their gym gear, drinking shooters and flirting with the hunky waiters.

  Club Eighteen had always been good for hot waiters. I’d forgotten how good! Bok and I took a booth right next to the girls and I tried not to gawk at the guy who arrived to serve us. Six feet tall with curly black hair, a dead straight nose and perfect white teeth, he could have been a model, and probably was.

  ‘My name is Edouardo. What can I get for you this evening?’

  I resisted saying ‘two of you’ because it wouldn’t have been original. Edouardo was the kind of guy who got hit on by everyone – even Bok was giving him a detailed appraisal.

  ‘Dark and Stormy.’ I came over all husky. I swear I couldn’t help it, my voice does that sometimes. ‘But my friend is driving so he’ll have an OJ.’

  ‘He must be a good friend,’ said Edouardo, smiling. His aura was ultramarine blue, like the water around Rottnest Island; glorious.

  Bok scowled.

  ‘Yeah,’ I laughed. ‘Can’t you tell?’

  After Edouardo took his muscled butt off to get our drinks, Bok and I got to chatting.

  ‘How’s the mag going?’ I asked.

  Bok had been employed by an eastern states media syndicate to launch a new glossy magazine based in Perth. It was a tough job convincing advertisers that a Perth-based magazine might have national appeal. Bok was spending too much time wooing advertisers and not enough finding content. The deadline for the first issue was just weeks away.

  ‘Torrid,’ he said.

  The gym girls were already eyeing Bok off, between grabs at the passing Edouardo. I suppressed a sigh. It was often like that when I went out with Bok – he got way more attention than me.

  ‘Can I help?’ I offered.

  ‘Yes, by staying out of trouble. I can’t afford the time to babysit you.’

  I poked out my tongue. ‘I didn’t ask you to.’

  ‘Who’s paying for the drinks?’ he asked.

  My phone beeped a message arrival, which saved me from answering him. My heart fluttered when I saw it was Nick Tozzi’s PA sending through the breakfast details. A Place On the River at 7 am.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Bok.

  ‘Tozzi’s PA,’ I said as I sent back a confirmation. ‘He’s taking me to A Place On the River for breakfast.’

  ‘It’s not open for breakfast on Sunday,’ said Bok, who knew every posh restaurant in Perth by virtue of having to entertain mag people. If he said it wasn’t open for breakfast, then it wasn’t.

  ‘Dunno,’ I said. ‘Guess I’ll see.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘You don’t have to come, hon. Honest, I’ll be fine.’

  Bok gave me a superior, knowing look. ‘Let’s see how we get through this evening first.’

  On cue, a shriek went up from the gym girls. Lloyd Honey’s fiancée had pulled Edouardo onto her lap and was running probing hands up and down his thighs. Edouardo was politely trying to disengage himself.

  Catching my eye, he cast me a desperate look.

  ‘Back in a tick,’ I told Bok.

  I jumped up and marched over to Edouardo.

  ‘What sort of a boyfriend are you?’ I shouted. ‘You ask me to bring my brother down for a drink, and here you are lap dancing with another woman.’ I slapped a hand on the table, causing the accumulated shooter glasses to jump, then I drew myself up to my full, bicep-worthy height. ‘Explain yourself, Edouardo, before I tear your manhood from you.’

  Mrs Honey-to-be dropped Edouardo off her lap like a hot potato.

  He collected himself from the floor and gave me an apologetic peck on the cheek. ‘Bella, it’s not what you . . .’

  ‘A little mish-undershtanding,’ interrupted the three-quarters-pissed Mrs Honey-to-be.

  I propped my hands on my hips, ignoring Bok’s despairing body language in my corner sight. ‘How is it?’

  ‘Lishen,’ she said. ‘Bring your brother over here and I’ll buy you both a drink and s’plain.’

  I pretended to consider it for a few moments before grabbing my opportunity to check her out. ‘Very well. But hands off my man!’

  The girls raised their hands in the air and giggled, and Edouardo scuttled off.

  ‘Now, what’s your brother’s name?’ Mrs Honey-to-be asked.

  I dragged Bok from our booth. ‘You’re nuts,’ he hissed at me. ‘What’s with the Spanish accent?’

  ‘I’m a jealous Latino woman. Don’t knock opportunity,’ I growled back.

  We squeezed in on either side of Honey-to-be, and I introduced us simply as Martin and Tara.

  Edouardo brought a fresh round of shooters, and Mrs Honey-to-be threw her credit card at him. He caught it with a deft hand and gave me a heart-melting smile of gratitude.

  ‘Are you all celebrating?’ I asked them innocently.

  The girls raised their shooters at my enquiry and in one accord, downed them.

  ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ squealed Mrs Honey-to-be. She nuzzled up to me and I got the distinct impression that she didn’t mind which side of her meat she got gravy.

  It’s hard to see a person’s aura when you’re too close to them but sometimes I get a little charge from it, like static electricity. Mrs Honey-to-be’s aura was an annoying prickle, neither pleasurable nor strong enough to be really awful.

  Bok slid his shooter along the table in my direction. ‘I’m driving, remember?’ The girl on the other side of him was already playing with his hair.

  I drank the two small glasses of murky liquid in two gulps. ‘What’s the occasion then?’

  ‘We-ell,’ she drawled, confidingly. ‘I’ve snagged a rich geeko and I’m getting married.’

  ‘But do you love him?’ I asked lightly.

  She brushed her arm against my breast and gave a little flutter of her eyelashes. ‘As much as I can, as much as I can.’

  I mumbled something about the loo and squeezed up onto the back of the seat, climbing over it rather than dislodging the gym girls from their fawning over Bok.

  I took my time having a breather in the loo, and then stopped for a glass of water at the bar on the way back. Edouardo was only too happy to get it for me. ‘Let me buy you a drink – to say thank you for rescuing me,’ he said.

  I shook my head. ‘Don’t worry about it. I expect you get it all the time. Serve’s you right for being so good-looking. You need a bodyguard or a minder.’

  He looked a bit embarrassed. ‘I never know what to say when a woman grabs me. It seems rude to shake her off but I hate being . . .’

&
nbsp; ‘Pawed,’ I offered.

  He nodded. ‘Thanks again. Maybe . . . can I buy you dinner later instead of a drink?’

  I stared at him, surprised. He had to be five years younger than me at least. ‘No need to take gratitude too far,’ I said, trying to let him off the hook.

  ‘No, really, I’d like to. I’ve only been in Perth a few weeks – I’m from down south. Haven’t met many people yet.’

  He suddenly looked really young; fresh from his mother’s nest.

  ‘Sure.’ I fished in my bag for a business card. Bok had printed them up for me on his colour photocopier at work. ‘Here’s my number.’

  He gave me a huge, gorgeous grin. ‘Great. I’ll be in touch.’ He squinted at the crumpled card. ‘Tara Sharp.’

  ‘Bye, Edouardo.’

  On the way back to the table my phone rang. ‘Ms Sharp, are you in place?’

  ‘Lloyd?’ I whispered.

  ‘Yes. She’s just phoned and I’m coming to pick her up.’

  ‘I’m all set,’ I said. ‘See you soon.’

  I climbed over the back of the seat again and plonked down next to Lloyd’s intended.

  What had I learned about her? She had a prickly but not dangerous aura; she was probably bisexual and damn happy to spend his money. Did she love him? As much as she could.

  All those little pieces of information would mean something in a few moments when I saw them together. Building evidence, like Mr Hara had suggested, was helpful, but until you saw the energy flow between people you couldn’t really know.

  I talked weights with the gym girls while I waited for Lloyd to arrive, cogitating all the while on how opportunity could be so double-edged. I’d grasped it with Peter Delgado and it had landed me in a ‘situation’, whereas tonight it had landed me an invitation to have dinner with Edouardo. Go figure.

  ‘Darling? Are you ready?’ said a honeyed voice.

  I turned around and saw Lloyd, Porsche key ring in hand, brow furrowed.

  What interested me more, though, was the expression on his intended’s face; beneath her solarium tan her skin was aglow. Her aura ceased prickling me and smoothed out.