Simone Kirsch 02 - Rubdown

by Leigh Redhead

  ‘Do you think she was murdered?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘I think she was.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Her spirit told me.’

  Of course it did. ‘What did she say?’ I kept all traces of sarcasm from my voice.

  ‘It’s not like we had a conversation but I can tell the difference between a suicide and a murder victim. The soul of a suicide kind of mopes around, all depressed, but a murder victim is like, seriously pissed off. I’ve had dreams about her, did a bit of Ouija board stuff with some friends. I asked if she was angry and the pointer slid to “Yes” so fast it flew off the board. One time I was lying in bed about to fall asleep and the room got icy cold. I went paralysed, and felt this weight on my chest. She was trying to contact me, I know it.

  And now you’re here. I was right.’

  ‘I was watching the flat the night she died. No one came in or out.’

  Morgana shrugged and stubbed out her ciggie. The rat was on her shoulder again, rubbing its front paws together like an obsessive compulsive hand-washer.

  I checked my watch and struggled up from the beanbag.

  ‘Thanks for your help. I’d better go.’

  ‘Don’t you want to see the bin?’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The removalists chucked out a fair bit of Tamara’s junk.

  I forgot to take the rubbish out last week so it’s still there.’

  Chapter Nine

  The wheelie bin assigned to the flat lay on its side. Maggots spilled onto the concrete, wriggling like animated grains of rice.

  I tried breathing shallow but the ripe stench of rotting food crept up my nostrils as I dragged out plastic bags oozing liquid filth.

  I was glad I’d taken Tony’s advice and kept a box of latex gloves handy in the car.

  Morgana had thrown on a satin robe decorated with Chinese dragons and sat on a step watching me, occasionally picking at her black toenail polish. Aleister Crowley was upstairs in his fishtank.

  ‘That’s hers,’ she said when I’d pulled out two thick green garbage bags. I ripped open the first one and discovered Tamara was a Tampax girl who smoked Winfields, ate microwave lasagna and was hopelessly addicted to Coca-Cola. The second yielded more interesting booty. As well as a whole bunch of trashy magazines, broken pencils, takeaway pamphlets and a half empty blister pack of Panadol, I found a couple of glossy brochures. One advertised apartments for sale on the Gold Coast and the other appeared to be a travel brochure for Melbourne, written in Chinese. An English language sticker on the back told me it had come from Fong Chan Travel in Springvale. I transferred the brochures to a plastic Coles bag and thanked Morgana for her help.

  ‘Don’t thank me. Thank Tammy,’ she said.

  I got to the Good Times Club just as Neville pulled up outside in a bright red Subaru Forrester. He unlocked the door, went inside and a couple of minutes later Marla the receptionist showed up, then the girls. I saw Lulu, Rachel of the investment obsession and four others I didn’t recognise. I pulled my mobile from my bag and rang the club.

  ‘Good Times Club. Your pleasure is our business,’ Marla singsonged.

  ‘Oh hi, can I talk to Lulu? I’m a friend.’

  The phone clattered and a minute later Lulu was on the line, voice deep and breathy. ‘Hello?’

  I talked in a rush in case she got any ideas about hanging up.

  ‘My name’s Simone Kirsch and I’m an inquiry agent. I’ve been hired to look into your friend Tammy’s death. I was wondering if you could talk to me confidentially.’

  Silence on the other end.

  I said, ‘Hannah can vouch for me.’

  ‘Okay, when?’

  ‘When would suit you?’

  ‘I’m doing a double today but I’ve got tomorrow off. How about five pm at Mario’s on Brunswick Street.’

  ‘Sure. What was all that about between you and Billy Chevelle at Tammy’s funeral?’

  ‘I’d rather not talk about it over the phone.’

  ‘Fair enough. And please, don’t mention this to Neville or anyone at Good Times.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  I pressed end. Damn I was good. People were cooperating and things were going swimmingly. If Tony had known what I was up to he’d surely be proud. Right after he’d finished being angry.

  The front door opened and Neville trotted out, a beige sportscoat over his red polo shirt. I turned the key and gave thanks as The Beast started easily. She’d been running really well. I hung four cars back as I followed him along Queens Road and onto Dandenong. Where was he off to this fine Saturday morning? My question was answered a couple of k’s past Chadstone shopping centre when he pulled into the car park of a cheap-looking brick motel. I parked on the street in a no standing zone, twisted on the bench seat and trained my camera on him, zooming in. He stood in the car park and made a call on his mobile. A few moments later the door to room number five opened and a young Asian woman with waist length hair stood with one hand up on the frame, wearing a black lace slip, stockings, suspenders and high heels. Hubba hubba. I started clicking off shots, feeling like one of those sleazy old fashioned PIs who skulked around in the days before no-fault divorce. Neville walked to the door and scooped her up in his arms, kissing her passionately. It would have been quite romantic and noir if he hadn’t been so incredibly vile.

  I hung in the car wondering how long all this would take. It was hot in the sun and pressure was building in my bladder. Lucky for me Neville must have been a one minute wonder ’cause they were out in five, the woman dressed in jeans, heels and a sparkly top with shoulder pads. They left Neville’s Subaru outside the room and walked up the street. I started the Futura but kept her idling while I saw where they went. Not far. Half a block up they walked into a massive, new-looking hotel with a Tabaret sign on the roof. I pulled out from my spot, zipped into the pub parking lot and stopped out of sight behind a yellow panel van, eyeing the hotel entrance through its windows.

  They hadn’t come out after ten minutes so I decided to go in.

  A risky proposition without a cunning disguise. I reached into a big stripy washing bag that I kept on the back seat and grabbed a shapeless Vinnies jumper and a pair of big round glasses that made me look like an owl. I pulled my hair back into a low, daggy ponytail, hunched my shoulders and affected a Rainman shuffle as I approached the pub.

  Neville’s arse was parked in front of a card machine and his girlfriend played the one next to him. They pressed buttons like zombies, chain-smoking and sipping bourbon and coke.

  I hung a quick piss to avoid any future funnel action then ordered a soda water and sat at a machine with my back to them, slowly putting coins in the slot and watching their reflections in the glass on the screen. The woman spoke first.

  ‘So when are we moving?’

  ‘Listen, Ling, there’s a lot of stuff I’ve got to sort out first.

  I don’t want to go into this halfcocked. Gotta finish this next job, that’ll bring in some cash, and then I want to put the business on the market. We’re looking, I dunno, end of the year.’

  ‘I can’t wait that long.’

  ‘You’ve been waiting a year and a half. What’s another nine months.’

  ‘Sure you want to leave her?’

  ‘Sure I’m sure. Why would I want that old moll when I’ve got you? But we need a lot of money for Perth if we’re going to buy you that business.’

  ‘What about the money in your safe?’

  ‘We just need a bit more.’

  In the reflection I saw a big guy approach Neville and I hazarded a glance. The bloke had tousled, sandy hair, a crooked nose, was at least six two and built like a circus strongman. He wore stonewash jeans and a Holden guernsey.

  Neville transferred the cigarette to his mouth and shook the man’s hand. ‘Hey, Craig, still got some credits left. Giss a sec and we’ll go.’ Craig the drug dealing nephew?

  Craig
and Ling nodded at each other.

  Neville kept pressing buttons and the cardy made a shick-shick sound. He said to Ling. ‘We’ll be an hour or so, you right to stay here?’

  I slipped off my stool, out of the pub and scribbled what I could remember of the conversation into my notebook while I kept the Futura idling. A minute later I was tailing Craig’s gold, late model Ute as they turned off Dandenong and right onto Clayton Road. Another right on North and they scooted left down a side street that ran by the railway line. I pulled into a clearway, waited thirty seconds, then followed. The Ute was three hundred metres up the road and I pulled in behind a rubbish skip overflowing with bricks and broken gyprock.

  I leaned out the driver’s side window and used the zoom lens on my camera like a telescope. They were parked outside a red brick unit block enclosed by a chain link fence. The rest of the street was a rundown mess of potholes, vacant lots and houses slated for demolition. They got out of the Ute and leaned against it, smoking cigarettes. I snapped off a couple of shots and waited. A silver Holden Astra drove up from the opposite direction and parked in front of the Ute . Another Asian woman, this one with bobbed black hair and a pink, Chanel style suit stepped out, walked over to Neville and kissed him on the lips. Gross. How many chicks did an ugly old bastard like Neville have? I took more photos as they approached the building, unlocked a gate in the fence and disappeared inside. Ten minutes later they were out and stood around chatting. Neville had his arm around the woman’s waist and she’d stuck her hand in the back pocket of his slacks. Was this the ‘old moll’ Ling wanted Neville to leave? From where I sat she didn’t look a day over thirty-five. She pecked his cheek and then took off in the Astra. Neville and Craig got back in the Ute. What on earth were they up to?

  I debated whether to keep following Neville or check out the units and decided on the latter. I’d probably pushed my luck following them in the Futura as long as I had.

  He did a U-turn and I slunk down in my seat until they’d passed, then checked the rear-vision mirror to make sure the coast was clear.

  Holy shit. The Ute had braked twenty metres from me. Even worse. It was reversing.

  My first thought was to jam on a cap and sunnies so he wouldn’t recognise me from the week before. Then I turned the key in the ignition and prepared to hightail it out of there.

  She wouldn’t start. The bitch wouldn’t start.

  My heart hammered and sweat beaded on my upper lip as I turned the key again and again. Each time nothing. The Ute pulled up beside me and Neville and Craig got out. I thought to cut and run, but it was too late. Craig was circling the car, kicking tyres like he was in a yard. Neville approached the passenger side window.

  Just in time I remembered the camera on my lap and covered it with a Melways street directory. Maybe I’d look lost. I kept turning the key. Nothing. Neville leaned his forearm on the roof and rapped his knuckles on the window. I leaned across the bench seat, cracked it open and tried to act like I didn’t know who he was.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I squeaked.

  He reached into his jacket.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Open the window,’ he said.

  I was still turning the key. ‘Sorry—’ I tried to sound breezy—

  ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry.’

  ‘Open the window.’

  I wound it halfway down. I was fucked anyway. The glass wouldn’t stop a bullet. Craig quit circling, sat on the bonnet and the car dipped with his weight. I looked at Neville and in my heightened state of awareness noticed red capillaries on his cheeks, black nasal hair and that his front teeth were false.

  ‘This your car?’

  ‘Yeah,’ my voice was strangled.

  ‘Want to sell it?’

  The words didn’t get through to my brain. ‘What?’

  He pulled his hand out of his jacket and gave me a card. My hand trembled as I took it.

  ‘My mate collects classic cars. Does them up.’

  I just stared at him.

  ‘You having trouble starting her? Pop the bonnet.’

  Was this a trick? I popped it. Craig jumped off and propped it open. Neville had a look-see. ‘Got a crowbar?’

  I shook my head. Neville ambled over to the Subaru and grabbed a crowbar from the back. He was going to bash me to death? Seemed a bit messy. He poked his head under the bonnet and I heard five loud metallic clanks. What was he smashing my engine for? This was too weird, bad guys didn’t do this shit in the movies. Neville’s face appeared at the window. ‘See if she’ll turn over now.’

  I twisted the key and The Beast responded with a throaty roar.

  Craig slammed down the bonnet and headed for the Ute.

  Neville said, ‘Sometimes helps with these old cars if you smack the alternator a couple of times. Give me a call if you want to sell.’

  When they’d left I lay down on the bench seat and gave in to the shakes. No more bodyslamming for me today. I couldn’t even get the guts up to check out the units. What I really needed was a drink.

  Since I’d been using my old non-digital camera I had the photos developed at a one hour place, then called Alex. He was at the MCG watching a football match, no Suzy, and was keen to meet for a drink at the Hilton at five. I didn’t tell him I wanted more information and thought he’d assume I wanted to take up where we’d left off the night before. I didn’t know when I’d become such a vixen. Perhaps PI work brought it out in me.

  I made myself up, dressed in faded jeans and an off-the-shoulder jumper and caught the 246 bus to East Melbourne, seeing as how alcohol was involved whenever Alex and I got together. Feeling lazy I jumped on a tram at Wellington Parade, one of those new space-age ones with seats moulded out of bright green plastic, and got off two stops later at the Hilton.

  A porter in a navy jacket opened the glass door and I smiled like a visiting dignitary and turned left at the lobby. The Park Lounge was a typical hotel bar full of overstuffed furniture, bronze fabric and dark wood. Over in the corner a guy in a tuxedo played ‘Someone to Watch Over Me’ on a baby grand. The crowd was mostly middle aged blokes in town for the footy, a few with wives of the big hair and gold jewellery variety.

  Alex had saved me a seat by a picture window overlooking a courtyard of small conifers and neatly raked gravel. He’d even dressed up to watch the football—black pants, charcoal sweater, and a long wool coat draped over the back of his chair. A double whisky and a glass of champagne waited on the table.

  He smiled and I noticed he had sexy teeth. ‘I didn’t know what you’d like, so I got both.’

  ‘Good call.’ I sat down and took a hefty gulp of champagne.

  ‘How was the game?’

  ‘We lost.’

  I grimaced for him, not that I gave a shit about football. I just hoped he wasn’t one of those guys who went into deep depression over a bad result. Scientific studies had shown a footy fan’s testosterone levels could plummet when their team bombed out, and although we were friends first, Alex’s testosterone was the real reason he was meeting with me now.

  ‘Who do you support?’ he asked. It was what everyone wanted to know in Melbourne, sometimes even before your name.

  ‘I don’t have a team.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘I’m from Sydney originally. I never got around—’

  ‘Ah, the Swans then.’

  As I sipped my champagne Alex gave me The Look. And a sort of half smile. I pulled my photos out and spread them on the table.

  He picked up the one outside the flats and the smile disappeared.

  ‘Shit, Simone. That’s Neville and Craig Annis, and Neville’s girlfriend Wu Chan.’

  ‘What about this other chick?’ I pointed to the woman from the motel.

  ‘No idea. Thought I told you to stay away from this bullshit.’

  ‘I didn’t do it on purpose. I was following Neville, like, from afar, and he met up with them.’ I didn’t tell him about my close encounter. ‘What do you
reckon they’re up to? Dodgy real estate deal?’

  ‘Wu Chan’s into illegal brothels, among other things.’ He rubbed his hands over his face and suddenly looked tired. For the first time I noticed fine lines radiating out from his eyes and right then he looked older than thirty-five. He sighed. ‘Here’s what we do. I’ve got a mate works in the Asian Squad. I want you to meet with him, informally, give him everything you’ve found, finish your report and tell your client there’s nothing to the case. I’m playing squash with Sean at the World Trade Centre gym tomorrow morning. Meet us there at one.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘You play squash?’

  ‘Just got back into it.’ He pointed to his shoulder. ‘It’s a bit stiff,’

  ‘Like last night?’

  He grinned and didn’t look so tired anymore. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘And go where?’

  ‘We could get a room upstairs.’

  ‘Alex, you’ve got a girlfriend.’

  ‘She’s not exactly my girlfriend.’

  I tipped the last of the champagne down my throat. ‘Try telling her that.’

  ‘She didn’t worry you last night.’

  I felt my cheeks getting hot, reached for the whisky and looked away. Jesus. Emery Wade and one hit wonder Billy Chevelle were sitting at a table on the other side of the bar. I turned back quickly and put my hand up to hide my face.

  ‘Over there,’ I whispered, tilting my head. ‘Emery and Billy.’

  ‘So? Blaine’s just played, they were probably at the game.

  Anyway, they’re getting up to leave.’

  ‘Let’s follow them!’

  ‘Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Please. It’ll be fun.’

  He looked doubtful. ‘How much fun?’

  ‘A lot.’ The vixen was back. It worked.

  Moments later we were out the door, into Alex’s car and following Emery’s metallic blue Audi down Wellington Parade towards Punt Road.

  ‘Tell me again why we’re doing this?’ Alex asked.

  ‘Billy Chevelle had a fight with a trannie named Lulu at Tamara’s funeral. I get a bad vibe about him.’