Sharp Shooter

by Marianne Delacourt

  He kept up the same behaviour out of the lift and into the offices of Positoni & Kizzick.

  Giggler Francine was at the desk, listening to her dictaphone and clacking on the keyboard with her acrylic nails. When she saw Wal, her eyes bugged and I noticed her right hand reach under the desk. Then she saw me and her hand relaxed.

  So Peter Delgado had one of those buttons. I wonder who it was hooked up to. I bet it wasn’t the local police.

  ‘Take a seat, please, Ms Sharp and Mr . . . ?’

  ‘Grominsky,’ said Wal with just enough surliness to be scary.

  While we dropped our butts on the appointed chairs, Giggler removed her dictaphone, got up and walked over to the filing cabinet. Her red skirt was so tight, and so short, she reminded me of a frankfurt sausage that had been dropped into hot water.

  Obviously it didn’t conjure the same image for Wal. He sat bolt upright like someone had shoved a packet of frozen peas down his pants.

  ‘You didn’t tell me to wear white to the party,’ I said to her in a conversational tone.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You were supposed to tell me to wear white.’

  We locked eyes for a second. Hers were wide and feigned confusion. Mine were glowering and full of ‘I won’t forget it.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure I sent you a message. You must have forgotten.’

  ‘No,’ I said steadily.

  She looked away first, a flush rising up her bare neck.

  I settled back in my chair with folded arms, and continued to give her my stare. I was psyching myself into controlled anger mode. Best antidote I knew for being scared witless.

  Delgado walked through the door a moment later. His dark brown aura was pulsing a little but it rippled when he saw Wal.

  Wal, thank whoever, had stopped ogling Giggler and assumed his most menacing look: faint sneer beneath the cheap sunglasses, legs wide apart, muscular forearms crossed in front of a barrel chest.

  I stood up.

  ‘Morning, Ms Sharp and . . .’

  ‘This is my associate, Mr Grominsky. He works with me from time to time,’ I said.

  Wal liked the ‘Mr’ tag, I could tell from the slight lift of his stubbly jaw.

  ‘This is a private meeting, Ms Sharp,’ said Delgado. ‘Between you and me.’

  ‘Of course,’ I nodded. ‘Mr Grominsky is accompanying me on to my next appointment. He’ll wait right here.’

  Delgado looked annoyed. ‘Very well.’ He held the door open for me.

  ‘Back shortly,’ I said to Wal, and walked in.

  This time I was too nervous to enjoy the luxury of the Chesterfield.

  Delgado shut the door and sat down behind his desk. ‘Last Saturday night has had some unfortunate ramifications for you,’ he began.

  ‘It sure has,’ I agreed. ‘I don’t remember you mentioning anything about the likelihood of a drug raid at the party.’

  ‘I was referring to the fact that you eavesdropped on my client. Mr Viaspa is not happy. However, I’ve convinced him to overlook your faux pas, if you provide useful feedback to us.’

  ‘My . . . faux pas?’

  ‘Yes.’ He stared at me. ‘Now, Nick Tozzi . . .’

  Crunch time! Did I outright refuse and leave? Did I tell him maybe, and then do no such thing? Or did I do as he and Johnny Viaspa wanted me to – spy on Tozzi?

  I discounted the last one immediately. Nick Tozzi had bought me croissants and picked me up, soaking wet, out of the river. My alliances were cast. Besides, in some ways Eireen Tozzi scared me more than Johnny Vogue.

  The first option didn’t thrill me much either. I liked to think I had reasonable integrity, but I didn’t want to end up wearing concrete boots because of it.

  ‘Getting close to someone takes time. And our first meeting got interrupted, so I think you’re going to have to be a lot more specific if you want information quickly. What exactly did you want me to find out?’

  ‘We believe that Mr Tozzi is in some financial difficulty. We want you to ascertain how much.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You already know more than is healthy for you, Ms Sharp. Keep your curiosity for Tozzi. And then bring the answers back to me. You have a few days.’

  ‘Or?’

  Delgado got up and walked around the desk. I didn’t like the way his aura was vibrating, or the tense, coiled look of his body, so I jumped up off the Chesterfield and backed towards the door.

  He followed me until I was pressed against the handle.

  ‘Your faux pas may be considered irredeemable.’

  ‘That sounds like a threat, Mr Delgado.’ The undercurrent of his psychic energy was drowning me. ‘What will you do? Try to run me over on the street?’

  To any normal observer Delgado didn’t appear to react. But I saw a number of signs suggesting he didn’t take my bait. For one, his aura didn’t change. Second, his eyes widened the tiniest amount and his eyebrows rose. Third, the psychic undertow stopped sucking me down.

  He was surprised.

  Crap. Maybe it hadn’t been Sam Barbaro. Or, at least, not on Delgado’s bidding.

  ‘You wouldn’t want to put ideas in my head,’ he replied. ‘Saturday then, Ms Sharp.’

  I fumbled behind for the handle and almost stumbled out of the door when it opened suddenly. Wal must have been standing at the door because he caught me.

  He looked at Delgado and then me. ‘I was just coming to get you,’ he said, meaningfully. ‘We’re late for our next appointment.’

  I nodded, relieved.

  Chapter 26

  I OFFERED TO BUY Wal a coffee and cake. He’d surprised me by acting pretty much the way I’d wanted him to: threatening but passive.

  If that was the silver lining on my day then maybe I needed to reconsider the direction my life was going in.

  I mulled over that, and other things, while I waited in the queue at the OBH cafe, one of the most popular hotels on the beachfront. On summer weekends the foot traffic completely outnumbered the cars as the stylish young ones migrated up and down to the different pubs, like gorgeous butterflies sampling pollen. I’d done it myself a few years ago, but now I preferred to avoid that area on Sunday afternoons.

  I picked the OBH cafe because Wal wasn’t a Latte Ole kind of guy. And call me shallow, but I didn’t really want anyone I knew to see us and think we were together.

  My message bank carolled when I switched my phone on. I’d missed calls from Mr Honey and Nick Tozzi.

  My heart did a little bit of a hoola. I called him right back.

  ‘Tozzi,’ he answered.

  ‘Sharp,’ I snapped back.

  He paused and I wished I could see what that warm aura of his was doing.

  ‘Are you alright?’ he asked.

  ‘Are you?’

  He expelled a breath into the phone. ‘Hold on a moment.’ A few rattling, crunching moments later he came back on. ‘I’m not the one somebody tried to run over.’ It sounded like he was out in the wind with his hand cupped over the phone.

  ‘Oh that,’ I said airily. ‘No problem.’

  ‘I hear you made a social call on my mother?’

  ‘Umm . . .’ The conversation wasn’t going the way I’d hoped.

  ‘Whatcha want?’ interrupted the waitress in a timely manner.

  ‘One English Breakfast tea, one short black and two custard tarts,’ I replied. ‘I gotta go, Nick.’

  ‘Hang on a –’

  I snapped my phone shut and stuffed it in my pocket. A light sweat had broken out over my body. I hadn’t expected that Eireen would tell Nick about her Sunday visitors – but in a way, it was kind of endearing that she had. And Joanna would approve – a son who talked to his mother.

  Speaking of which, I didn’t think mine was talking to me. I sighed and returned to Wal, who was jiggling his leg and darting looks around.

  ‘Everything alright?’ I asked, plonking our number 23 table weight down.

  He fixed on me for about
a second before resuming his routine. ‘No offence or nothing, Teach, but don’t really wanna be seen with you.’

  I nearly laughed. ‘No offence taken.’

  ‘It’s just . . . you’re OK and everything . . . but if any of me mates see me in a caff like this, with a chick like you –’

  Chick? Right On? Wal was trapped in an eighties time warp.

  The tea and tart arrived, delivered by a young guy who looked half asleep. After he’d shuffled away, Wal continued. ‘That stiff you just met works for Johnny Vogue, doesn’t he?’

  I nodded unhappily.

  ‘I’m thinking that you’ll be needing my services again then.’ He picked up the custard tart in one hand and sort of siphoned it into his mouth like it was a line of jelly, then he swallowed the short black in a gulp. ‘Next time you might want to think about guns or knives. Later.’ He got up and slouched off.

  My nerves, which had been starting to settle, took up with their own version of the salsa. ‘Later,’ I managed to whisper in his wake.

  I ate my tart with a spoon, in ladylike bites that would have made Joanna proud. Each mouthful of custard seemed to soothe all that was wrong in my world.

  By the time I’d squeezed three cups from the little Bodum teapot I felt calmer; enough to walk across the road and find a seat on one of the grassy terraces above North Cottesloe Beach.

  I needed some time to think.

  How was I going to get Delgado and Johnny Vogue off my case? Delgado was smart enough not to threaten me with anything specific. I could go to the police but then things would get out of my control – which meant I had to find out about Nick Tozzi. Why did Johnny Vogue want to ruin him? If I knew more, I might be able to figure something out.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a text from Mr Hara. ‘Back Friday. Freeze.’

  What in the sugar-daddies did that mean? He was freezing? Or he wanted me to freeze? When your boss writes less comprehensible English than he speaks, text can be a tricky way to communicate.

  ‘Pardon?’ I sent back.

  ‘Yes. OK,’ he replied.

  Aaaagh!

  Chapter 27

  I TOOK SOME DEEP breaths. The sea was sparkling today, slapping into the large man-made rock wall (referred to by locals as the Groin) like they were old friends. Inside the protective arc of the Groin, foam curled around a concrete pylon, the one remaining evidence of a long-decayed shark net. The seagulls were on-song, squawking in annoying unison. They seemed to be telling me that the time had come to ring Mr Honey.

  Somehow the morning’s interlude with Peter Delgado had given me back some perspective. I knew what I was going to say.

  I found Mr Honey’s number in my directory and hit the call button.

  He answered it on the second ring.

  ‘Hello, Lloyd?’

  ‘Ms Sharp, is that you?’ he sounded so anxious, poor fellow, that I wanted to reach through the phone and pat his shoulder.

  ‘Yes it is. Would you prefer to talk on the phone or in person?’

  ‘Where are you now, Ms Sharp?’

  ‘Err . . . North Cott on the high wall.’

  ‘I could be there in ten minutes.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Make it fifteen and bring some hot chips for the seagulls.’

  I settled into people watching while I waited, but not much was happening midmorning on a weekday. Just some kids wagging school and a few retirees working on their baked-potato suntans.

  ‘Ms Sharp?’ Lloyd was standing behind me holding a greasy paper bag.

  I patted the seat. ‘Well done, Lloyd.’

  He sat down and passed me the bag. I reached into it and threw some chips down the embankment. Gulls came from everywhere – the roof of the tea rooms, the tip of the pylon, from underneath parked cars. The squabbling was cacophonous but gratifying. We waited for them to quieten before either of us spoke.

  I went first. ‘So, what would you like to know? I’ll give you a written appraisal but I do like to talk face to face with my clients as well.’

  ‘No. Nothing written,’ he said hurriedly.

  ‘Then fire away. And please call me Tara.’

  Silence returned for a bit. It was hard for anyone – especially a guy – to discuss personal things with a near-stranger. I sat staring at the sea, giving him time to work up to it.

  ‘Do you think she really likes me, Tara?’

  I turned and gave him a square-on look. ‘Absolutely and without a doubt.’

  Happiness transformed his face. ‘Really?’

  I nodded. ‘Really. All her non-verbal cues indicate so.

  And I was able to discreetly question her as well. She thinks you’re –’ ‘Thank you so much.’ He reached into his wallet and peeled out three hundred-dollar notes.

  ‘Woah!’ I held up my hand. ‘Yes, I did work two hours, expenses included. But don’t you want to know anything more?’

  He peered at me through his many layers of optical glass. I think his eyes were blue, but it was hard to tell. The colour was washed out by the glare. ‘Well I already know a lot of things about Jenny. For instance, she’s a woman of appetites that I could never hope to satisfy. If I wanted to uncover all her secrets I’d hire a private investigator. The truth is I don’t really care about them. What I didn’t know was if her feelings for me were genuine. That’s why I came to you, Tara. A private investigator couldn’t tell me that. Nor could a clairvoyant.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  ‘If she likes me then we’ve got a chance of making a real go of our marriage. Do you see?’

  ‘Likes you or loves you?’

  ‘I personally think “like” is what gets you through the long term.’

  I let all that sink in for a moment. ‘So you’re happy with my services?’

  He held out the cash again. ‘It might seem silly to you, Ms Sharp,’ he said, reverting to formality again. ‘But you’re an independent viewpoint with nothing to gain. You would have gotten paid no matter what you’d told me. Therefore I’m calculating that you’re telling the truth – at least from your perspective. I can’t get that non-bias from friends or family.’ He stood up. ‘Thank you again. I’ll make sure I recommend you. And if I can ever do anything to help you, I’m more than willing. I run a genealogical databank as one of my internet businesses. It can be quite useful for background information.’

  Handy! ‘Bye Lloyd.’

  I watched him go, not quite knowing how I felt about what had just transpired. On the one hand, I felt a bit flat. He hadn’t really believed in my expertise, just my lack of bias. I had a long way to go before my talent had credentials. On the other hand, I had three hundred dollars cash, which meant I could buy phone credit and some petrol and still have some leftover. YAY!

  I decided to stick with the latter feeling, and bounded across the road and around the corner into the Cott car park.

  My good mood deserted in an instant.

  Mona had been covered in graffiti. Eloquent words like ‘bitch’ and ‘whore’ written all over in fluorescent paint. There was no one else in sight, other than the bottle shop attendant, who peeked out of the doorway from behind his till.

  I stormed over to him. ‘Did you see who did that?’

  He shook his head. ‘I just started. Came in through the hotel. Looks like you’ve pissed off someone,’ he said unhelpfully. ‘Cost a bit to get that re-sprayed.’

  I felt like punching him. I wanted to find the vandal even more, and strangle them. My car was holy ground.

  Fighting back tears of rage, I rang Wal. I couldn’t go home with Mona in this state. Not to Euccy Grove. Not to JoBob. ‘It’s me again.’

  He didn’t seem surprised. ‘Yeah, Teach?’

  ‘Do you know any cheap spray painters?’

  ‘I know a guy over Bunka way.’

  Bunka was a light industrial area adjacent to Perth’s more dubious suburbs. Lots of business got done in the Bunka, most of it involving cash. It was also the place Johnny Vogue ha
d mentioned on the phone. Monday, he’d said. Well, today was Monday. Maybe I’d get lucky and find the warehouse. It couldn’t hurt to look. ‘How much for a re-spray?’

  ‘Your car?’

  ‘Yes.’ I told him what had happened.

  ‘Wait and I’ll call you back.’

  I examined Mona while I waited. I wasn’t a person to bear grudges – life was too short – but if I ever found out who’d done this . . .

  My phone rang. ‘Wal?’

  ‘This guy owes me a favour. Throw in a hundred bucks cash for beer money if you don’t mind what the colour is. Will take a couple of days though.’

  ‘Awesome. Thanks.’

  He gave me the address. ‘His name is Bog.’

  ‘B-o-g?’

  ‘Yeah. Spray painter’s joke.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  I put on my sunnies and dug around under the back seat until I found a cap. Jamming it down over my head, I headed for Bunka territory.

  Chapter 28

  EVERY TRAFFIC LIGHT ON the way to Bunka seemed to be red, every road congested. It seemed that The Almighty wanted the entire population of the western suburbs to see my graffitied car, slowly and in graphic detail.

  A police car passed me going in the other direction – Cravich and Blake. They clocked me, their heads turning simultaneously to gape at Mona. I half expected them to turn around and follow me but they continued on.

  I drove east, across the causeway, along the Eastern Highway towards the ranges. Veering north, I followed the street directory and found Wal’s spray painter in a tin shed on a back block in Bunka. The yard reeked of thinners and was cluttered by dead car bodies. Razor wire ran along the top of the fence. I parked between a nineties Landcruiser and an even older Datsun.

  Bog was inside the shed prepping a metallic blue and rust Holden. A mask hung from his neck and his long black ponytail was speckled with a rainbow of paint, unlike his aura which was thick custard yellow.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Wal sent me.’

  Bog looked me up and down. ‘Grominsky’s taste’s gone upmarket.’

  I swallowed hard, not knowing who should be more upset by that notion – Wal or me? ‘We’re just . . . friends.’