Sharp Shooter

by Marianne Delacourt

  Bok took the tea and the slice away from me and put them on my bedside table. Then he grabbed my shoulders and made me look him in the eye. ‘You’ve had a shock, T. But you’ve got to get a grip and think things through.’

  I shrugged him off and buried my face in my pillow.

  ‘I mean,’ he continued. ‘I suppose it’s possible that it wasn’t Barbaro who tried to run you down. You didn’t really see who it was. The whole connection with Nick Tozzi could be accidental. I mean you’ve only got a very little piece of the picture.’

  He was trying to calm me down. And it worked. My survival instinct righted itself. I let go of the pillow and sat bolt upright. ‘You’re right.’ I need to know more.

  ‘Good girl,’ said Bok, relieved I’d stopped blubbering.

  I kissed him on the cheek. ‘What would I do without you?’

  His relief turned to suspicion and he tapped my head. ‘What’s going on in there?’

  I gave him a determined smile. ‘Nothing. Now you go home and I’ll call you later. I’ll be fine. I won’t go out.’

  It took a few minutes and a promise, but I managed to convince him.

  ‘You will call the cops if things don’t pan out well with Delgado tomorrow, won’t you?’ he begged. ‘I don’t want to be the one identifying you when they pull you out of the Swan.’

  ‘Cross my heart and hope to –’

  He kissed me back. ‘Don’t say that, T. Never say that.’

  I locked the door behind him and counted to a hundred to make sure he’d gone. Then I made a couple of calls.

  The first was to Nick. He didn’t pick up so I left him a message, thanking him again and asking him to ring me ASAP.

  Next I turned on my LT and opened up my class files, looking for a contact number for Wallace Grominsky.

  Wal answered quickly. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘It’s Tara Sharp.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘From your Saturday class.’

  Silence. ‘You mean Teacher Tara.’

  ‘Err, yes.’

  ‘’Sup, Teach.’

  ‘Did any of you tidy up my flat before you left the other day?’

  ‘Uuh?’

  ‘You, Harvey or Enid?’

  ‘Nah. Least there was no one around when I woke up. I jus’ left. Didn’t notice no tidying.’

  ‘Oh. OK. Anyway, I’m ringing because I might need a part-time bodyguard. Would you be interested?’

  ‘True?’ His voice brightened. ‘Can do. Any night but Friday this week. I’m gigging for the Scorched Torches.’

  ‘I’m a bit strapped for cash, Wal, but I can offer you free classes. How does that sound?’ OMG, what was I saying?

  There was more silence while he considered it. ‘Guns or knives?’ he asked.

  ‘Just you,’ I said, my heart fluttering. ‘You know, just a presence.’

  ‘Oh.’ That disappointed him. ‘Well, I guess so. As long as I don’t get bored.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll call you when I need you.’

  He hung up before I did.

  Chapter 24

  BEFORE I COULD DWELL too much on hiring someone who was mentally unbalanced as a bodyguard, I bundled my dirty washing into a towel and headed up to JoBob’s.

  Dad was sitting in his chair reading the Sunday papers and the Vampire was poking around her Doulton china collection with a miniature feather duster.

  ‘Morning all, is the washing machine free?’ I asked, detouring via the fridge. Hmmmm . . . Leftover homemade peach kuchen and some caviar on slightly soggy biscuits; JoBob had been entertaining. If only I hadn’t just eaten a vanilla slice . . .

  ‘Hello, love.’ The newspaper didn’t move.

  ‘Tara, what was that fellow doing here so early in the morning?’ asked the Vampire.

  ‘His name is Martin, Joanna, and you’ve known him for fifteen years. And we . . . err . . . went out to breakfast.’ It seemed ridiculous having to answer questions like that at my age – but you try living at home when you’re an adult.

  ‘And who was that pleasant well-mannered man that rang for your number the other day . . . Nick someone or other?’

  ‘Tozzi,’ I said, and then immediately wished I could take it back.

  The duster froze. ‘Tozzi? You mean The Tozzis?’

  I sighed. It was always The Tozzis or The someone or other.

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Then he’s one of Eireen’s boys? They’re the only Tozzis in our area.’

  ‘How do you know he’s from our area?’

  ‘Tara!’ said Dad, in a warning tone.

  I popped my head out of the fridge. ‘You know Eireen Tozzi?’

  Joanna looked surprised. ‘Of course I do. She was friends with my Aunty Bel. She sponsored your father and me into the golf club.’

  I grabbed a celery stick to keep my hands away from the kuchen. This might be the opportunity I needed to join some dots on the Johnny Vogue and Nick Tozzi picture puzzle. ‘Actually I’ve been thinking of visiting her. You know, to see if she’s alright after the burglary the other night.’

  ‘You have?’ Joanna carefully put down the cream jug she was holding and gave me a full motherly scrutiny.

  I crunched the celery noisily and grinned. ‘I just thought it would be good manners to introduce myself, and, of course, I’m very well brought up.’ I hadn’t pulled the ‘Good Manners’ card in a long time.

  In the long, loaded pause that followed I noticed the newspaper twitching. Dad knew I was up to something.

  ‘Well . . . I suppose I could call her and see, if you promise to dress appropriately,’ said Joanna. She eyed my trackies and ribbed singlet.

  ‘I’m free this afternoon,’ I said. ‘And I have a nice white Laura Ashley dress that I just bought.’ If I wash and dry it quick smart.

  ‘Laura Ashley,’ mused Joanna, as she walked to the telephone. ‘How nice. Then I’ll wear my Perri Cutten suit.’

  Damn.

  Eireen Tozzi lived in an old Euccy Grove mansion that posed arrogantly in the middle of its eighteen hundred squares. The long paved driveway was lined with white gums and paper-bark trees, and curved like a gracious sweep of a hand to the front door.

  I half expected a butler to let us in but it was Eireen herself, wearing a jinky little hound’s-tooth suit and smart black pumps. She was small but solid for a lady of seventy, with thick shoulders that would have once rivalled my own. They were a little hunched now though, and she leaned on a tortoiseshell-coloured stick. Her hair was defiantly black, dyed within an inch of its life and stiff with hairspray. Her nails were pale pink and beautifully manicured. Most interesting though was her electric blue aura, which was strong and bright and flowed around her like a river. On Mr Hara’s colour chart, electric blue meant powerful and domineering. Well, I was guessing he got that right!

  ‘Hurry up, Joanna, the dust will get in,’ she scolded, ushering us past. ‘Who have you got there?’

  ‘Good afternoon, Eireen. This is my daughter, Tara.’

  The sharp eyes looked up at me through the gloom of the topaz-marbled entry hall. ‘Nice big girl.’ She pointed her stick. ‘This way. Jessica’s put out some cake and sherry for us.’

  Joanna and I perched on an enormous peony-patterned couch while Madame Tozzi settled into a matching armchair and popped her legs up on a footstool. ‘Joanna, get that girl of yours to serve.’

  Clearly, Eireen was used to giving orders. I found myself wanting to curtsy, and say ‘yes ma’am’. Instead I went over to the sherry decanter and poured three stiff ones. It was only three o’clock in the afternoon, but I, for one, had had a bad start to the day. I popped a glass and a slab of Madeira cake on Eireen’s occasional table and then passed Joanna hers. As I took my first gulp of plonk, Eireen cut to the chase.

  ‘So what is it you want, young Sharp. Girls like you don’t visit old women like me on Sunday afternoons, especially with their mother. Are you in love with my Lui maybe? I do wish he’d settle down. No, I
think you’d better suit my little Nicky, if he wasn’t already wed to one of those skinny inbred Falks. All the girls love my Nicky. I can tell you right now I won’t hear a word against my boys.’

  The sherry climbed into my airways, bringing tears to my eyes. ‘I’ve come to see how you are after the burglary, Mrs Tozzi. I’m the one who knocked the burglar down.’

  Eireen swallowed the entire glass without wetting her lips. Her bright eyes bored into me. ‘Yes, the police spoke to me. What on earth were you doing in my laneway without your pants on?’

  Joanna looked as if she might faint. Instead, to my dismay, she hastily copied Eireen, downing the contents of her glass in one go. Mum didn’t – couldn’t – hold her liquor. This did not bode well.

  ‘I was dressed, Mrs Tozzi, it’s just that one of our pet birds escaped and I was chasing it. It flew into a tree. My pants were too tight to climb the fence in . . . it was dark . . . I didn’t think anyone would see me.’

  ‘Hmmm . . . expected you would have brought your child up better than that, Joanna,’ said Eireen with disapproval.

  Mum thrust her glass at me for a refill and gave a nervous laugh. ‘Oh you know the young, Eireen. They have different notions about modesty than we did. And of course she did help catch your burglar for you.’

  OMG. Joanna was sticking up for me! Go Mum!

  ‘Yes, yes. I suppose.’ Eireen waved her glass. ‘While you’re there, girl, top-ups all round.’

  Girl? I checked my Laura Ashley dress to see if it’d suddenly sprouted a maid’s apron? Nope.

  This time I filled their glasses to the brim, and returned to my allotted spot on the couch on top of a purple peony.

  ‘Did the burglar take anything, Mrs Tozzi?’ I asked.

  The old girl gave me a sharp look, which I countered with something meek and innocent. ‘What I mean is . . . we only live a few streets away from you, I worry about my parents,’ I said.

  Mum’s icy stare of disbelief snap-froze the hair on my arms.

  ‘He was just trying to scare an old woman, I’m sure. Took nothing. Just made a mess. Tipped things out all over the place. My Nicky’s things from college. Everywhere.’ She covered her face with trembling fingers. ‘How will I ever clean it all up? Nicky says he’ll help but he’s so busy with his work. He’s very important, you know. And Antonia . . . she wouldn’t even help a person into their grave.’

  It struck me that Eireen was foxing, playing helpless. I wondered why.

  ‘What about your housekeeper?’ ventured Joanna, downing the second glass almost as quickly, her cheeks flushed.

  Eireen put her hand to one side of her face and whispered aloud. ‘Never trust the staff with personal things.’ Her aura faded to a pale eggshell blue and suddenly she looked like a lonely old woman.

  ‘I’ll help you tidy things, if you’d like?’ I offered.

  Mum’s eyes bulged.

  ‘Would you?’ said Eireen, fluttering her stubs of eyelashes. She reached over and patted Mum’s hand. ‘Joanna, what a good girl you have here. Come on Tuesday at three.’

  After a bit more chitchat, the housekeeper, Jessica, arrived to take away the sherry and let us out.

  Joanna wobbled down the driveway without speaking a word to me.

  In fact, the walk home was conducted in the worst of mother–daughter silences. When we arrived at the front door she turned on me. ‘I will only say this once, Tara. Never, EVER take your pants off in public again.’

  Chapter 25

  I WOKE ON MONDAY morning feeling heavy with dread about my meeting with Peter Delgado. How could I face the man who’d probably tried to have me run over yesterday?

  And what would I say when I called Mr Honey? Your fiancée likes you well enough but she’ll never be faithful.

  I lay in bed suffering a huge reality check about what I’d got myself into. Maybe trying to turn my ‘talent’ into a business opportunity had been yet another bad choice in a long series of bad choices. Not that my previous bad choices had got me in trouble with the local bad guys. They’d all been silly things: falling in love with a Mauritian con man, skinny-dipping in the fountains of the old Parliament Place, growing pot in the uni hydroponics lab.

  Now it seemed that my choices were getting worse not better. Even Mr Hara’s lessons hadn’t been enough to save me from myself.

  Mr Hara.

  I fumbled for my phone and sent him a text. ‘Wen r u back? Need urgent advice. Tara.’

  That done, I rolled out of bed and into gym shorts.

  My first mouthful of cereal got stuck in my nervous throat and I abandoned the idea of breakfast. I started worrying again over who had tidied my room while I was out. What if Peter Delgado and Johnny Vogue had sent someone in after Los Trios left, and planted a bug?

  I rang Garth. He sounded early morning grumpy. ‘Wilmot.’

  ‘Garth, it’s Tara. What does a bug look like?’

  He paused. ‘Six legs, exoskeleton –’

  ‘No, I mean a surveillance bug.’

  ‘Why are you ringing me at 7 am in the morning to ask that?’

  ‘You read spy novels. I just thought you might know.’

  ‘Well, I don’t.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Tara? What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t discuss my recent past with anyone.’

  ‘You mean Constable Bligh?’

  ‘If the name fits . . .’

  ‘So you want me to lie to the police? You can be so annoying, Tara. I mean, it’s your fault they were asking questions in the first place.’

  I’d give him annoying! ‘And you’re such a pompous prat sometimes, Garth,’ I said and hung up.

  Bok rang almost immediately. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Dandy.’

  ‘I want you to cancel your appointment with Delgado.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t come with you. The national head of marketing is flying in from Sydney unexpectedly. I have to pick him up from the airport.’

  ‘No probs,’ I said calmly. ‘I’ve got a contingency plan.’

  ‘T?’

  ‘I’ve hired a bodyguard. Nothing major, just someone to watch my back.’

  ‘You’ve whaat!’ shrieked Bok, his voice rising to that kinda strangled, can’t-get-enough-air-in-my-lungs pitch.

  ‘Take a deep breath,’ I said. ‘It’s under control. Delgado’s not going to do anything to me in broad daylight at his office. I’ll call you straight after. Bye.’

  I sent a quick text to Wal telling him where and when to meet me, then switched my phone off so Bok couldn’t call me back. Chucking the phone in my backpack, I headed out the door to the gym.

  Like lots of people, I have a love–hate relationship with exercise. I love being fit but I hate doing the work to get there. On top of that, many years of competitive sport has given me an overdeveloped conscience: too long without a workout of some sort and I begin to feel guilty.

  Plus, the way things were going in my life I might need to be able to run fast.

  This morning’s class was boxercise, which I’d found I had a reasonable talent for. In my very first class, I’d accidentally punched Craigo in the jaw, knocking him down on his tight arse. Since then, he’d always stood behind me to correct my movements.

  I let all my worry and frustration work its way out during class until I’d raised a huge sweat and cleared the space on the floor with my flailing limbs.

  Craigo came over to me as I was stuffing my towel back in my gym bag. ‘Everything alright, Tara?’

  His accent was slightly European and his aura was a tasty green, like mint jelly.

  ‘Sure,’ I replied. ‘Why?’

  He shrugged in his way. ‘No reason. Listen, I’ve entered a team in a triathlon next weekend and the girl doing the running section has pulled out with an Achilles injury. Is there any chance you could fill in? I’ve heard you used to be a runner.’

  ‘Triathlon? How fa
r?’

  ‘Just a standard ten-k run. Three thousand dollars prize money split three ways.’

  I hadn’t run ten kilometres in over ten years – but the thing about ex-athletes is this: we hate letting anyone know that we’re not fit. And what the hell, we might win, and I needed the money. I’d made some crap decisions lately, this one couldn’t be worse than the others. ‘Sure,’ I said.

  ‘Fabuloso!’ He pulled a flyer out of his bumbag. ‘Here are all the details. I’ve also written my phone number on the back. See you at the course an hour before the start.’

  I tucked it in my bag on top of my sweaty towel. ‘No problemo.’

  I sauntered nonchalantly over to the noticeboard, as if I accepted invitations to do team triathlons all the time. Nothing new had been posted, but I spared a moment to smirk at the over-fifties photo again.

  By the time I climbed into Mona, though, I was cursing my stupid ego for accepting, and trying to think of which illness I could suddenly develop. The whole dilemma kept me distracted while I drove home, showered, got into jeans, heels and a t-shirt, and headed for Klintoff House.

  Amazingly, Wal was early, loitering outside the front door like a criminal, in black, skin-tight jeans, a black singlet that showed off his maze of tattoos and brawny roadie’s shoulders, and black Dr. Martens boots. His hair was in a plait secured by an elastic band that sported a dangling skull’s head. To top it off he was smoking a black Sobranie.

  Bogan City channelling Russian Mafia.

  ‘Nice ciggies,’ I said.

  He nodded and blew a smoke ring. ‘Keep them for special occasions.’

  I didn’t dare ask why this was a special occasion. ‘OK. I don’t need you to say anything or do anything. Just sit in the waiting room and look like you might tear the place apart if I don’t come out of my meeting.’

  ‘Right on.’

  Right on? Who said ‘right on’ anymore?

  I started to walk in the front door but Wal jumped in front of me, maintaining a head-swivelling surveillance as we crossed the lobby and headed up in the lift.

  ‘We’re in the lift, Wal,’ I said. ‘And it’s just you and me.’

  ‘Vigilance is next to godliness,’ he replied.