Three hours later Wu still hadn’t called and I began to realise the stupidity of my makeshift plan. What if she’d gone straight back and told Neville and Emery? I closed all the windows, drew the curtains and deadlocked the door.
In between regretting what I’d told her, I thought of Sean. I lay on the couch and felt his absence like a solid weight on my chest.
I wondered what he was doing and imagined him wandering through a night market, the moist air full of smells: exotic flowers, spices, rotting food. I listened to his CD, then turned it off because it was making me cry, sipped water and thought about how when you weren’t drunk the night stretched on forever. It was kind of terrifying.
At nine the phone rang and I jumped.
‘Hello?’
It was Wu. ‘Alright. I believe you. I want that bastard to go down. Emery too. I never liked the prick.’
‘So you’ll come to the police with me?’
‘No. I know what happens to so-called protected witnesses.
But I’ll get you some evidence that proves Wade had his father killed. Meet me at Golden Sun Noodle on Springvale Road tomorrow at eleven. No cops.’
Eleven am. My hearing was at two. It was doable.
‘Thanks,Wu,’ I said.
‘Fuck you,’ she replied.
Chapter Forty-five
I arrived at the Golden Sun Noodle bar at quarter to eleven and ordered a duck soup, then sat by the window and watched the street. The restaurant was brightly lit and laminated. Red and gold paper lanterns hung from the ceiling and incense burned at a shrine in the corner.
My soup arrived with a small saucer of chili and soy and pot flask of green tea. Red-skinned roast duck floated between noodles, bok choy and spring onions. I sipped salty broth and nibbled on fatty duck meat. Delicious, but my heart was beating double time and I was way too nervous to eat. I doubted my plan again. What if it was a set-up? Why didn’t I have any back-up? What back-up?
Sean was gone, Alex had a life and Tony Torcasio a business to run, despite a major liability in the form of yours truly. I’d caused enough trouble as it was, made a mess of things and fucked up my life. But if Wu came through I could fix it. I’d be the one to bring Emery Wade down.
At eleven fifteen I thought she must be running late. Eleven thirty I imagined she’d been knocked. Twenty to twelve my soup was cold and I felt like a fucking idiot.
The phone rang behind the counter and the waiter answered, then yelled out: ‘Simo? Simo Kirs?’
I scraped back my plastic chair and hurried over. It was Wu.
‘Where the hell are you?’ I hissed.
‘About to board a plane to somewhere no one will ever find me, with my son and retirement fund in tow.’
My heart sank. ‘Why’d you even bother calling?’
‘Wasn’t lying about that evidence. It’s in my best interests to have Neville and Wade put away.’
I was back up again. A delirious joy. ‘What is it?’
‘A video recording Neville made in eighty-three. He liked to keep up with the new technology and never trusted Wade as far as he could kick him, he said. Wanted some insurance in case things went wrong. It’s in the safe in the office at the GT Club. In the wall behind the filing cabinet. Combination 31-15-72.’
I grabbed the waiter’s pen and scribbled the number on the back of my hand.
‘You’re going to have to hurry though,’ Wu said. ‘I’m supposed to pick up Neville from the hospital at midday. When I don’t show he’ll eventually call a cab, come home and find out I’ve cleared out the safe.’
‘How much?’
‘Enough. More than enough where I’m going. I replaced the cash with the photos of him and Ling Sun.’
‘Nice touch.’
‘After that he’ll head straight to Good Times to check the safe there. It contains another twenty grand as well as the tape and he’ll take both. I know him.’
I did some quick calculations in my head. Neville could get home at one, be in South Melbourne by half past. The clock above the cash register said it was eleven fifty.
‘Shit, Wu, that’s not enough time to contact the police, get a warrant.’
‘Well, you’ll have to go there and get it.’
‘Won’t be admissable as evidence.’
‘Not my problem. I’m out of here.’
‘Wait. There’s just one thing I want to know before you go.’
She sighed. ‘What?’
‘You show all this concern for Wade’s parents, who you never even knew, yet you import women as sex slaves. What gives?’
She laughed down the phone line. ‘You believe everything you read? The girls I bring in want to come. They’re on a waiting list. Don’t mind paying back the money it takes to bring them in, because once they do they earn so much more than they ever would in China. How else are they going to get here? Walk into the embassy and ask for a visa for sex work? It’s how I came over in nineteen eighty. Best thing I ever did.’
‘But the girls say—’
‘Of course they say that when they get busted. Makes the authorities go easier on them. Look, I’ve got to go.’
So did I. It was eleven fifty-five. I had to get to the GT Club.
Chapter Forty-six
At twelve thirty I was parked across the road from the GT Club in a no standing zone. Bloody South Melbourne. I used my mobile to call the brothel and was relieved to find that Marla wasn’t on reception that day. First hurdle overcome. I had a feeling Neville would have told her not to let me back in. The girls I ought to be able to deal with. I had a feeling they’d be on my side.
I pulled my bag of disguises from the back seat, wiggled into a miniskirt, stay-up stockings, a tight red top that hid the stitches and my rather ratty looking Marilyn Monroe wig. I reckoned it looked fake as hell, but guys always thought it was my own hair.
Go figure. I slashed red lipstick across my mouth, smudged a whole bunch of black shit around my eyes and at the last minute ditched normal heels for my old stripping boots. Thigh high black latex, platform and a metal spike heel. I’d missed these babies, hadn’t worn them for four months and what better place than a skanky brothel?
I grabbed my handbag and slammed the door shut. The outfit was obviously doing it for a bunch of panelbeaters having a footpath smoko because they whistled and catcalled. I smiled graciously and waved like the queen, crossed the road and rang the bell. A forty something lady with short blonde hair and a pants-suit answered and looked surprised to see me. I pushed past her into the dim interior like I hadn’t noticed.
‘How you doing? I’m Candy the new massage girl. Sorry I’m late but Marla said it’d be cool since I was coming all the way from Geelong.’
I headed for the girls’ room but stopped when she said: ‘No one told me we had a new girl starting. You’re not on the roster.’
‘You’re fucking kidding.’ I walked over to the desk, leaned on it and made a show of checking the names written on a small whiteboard. ‘I organised this a couple of weeks ago with Neville and Marla. What, I’m just supp osed to turn around and go home ’cause someone forgot to write my name on the roster?’
The woman patted my arm. ‘No, no, love, it’s alright. In fact it’s good to have you here. We’re having a really busy day and we’re short a couple of girls. It’s just bloody typical. Place is all over the shop since Nev’s been in hospital. I’m Phillipa, by the way.’
I nodded sympathetically. ‘I can understand. It was such a shock to hear about the shooting. He doing okay?’
‘Oh yes. Recovering nicely.’
‘So glad to hear it.’ Not.
The bell rang and when she crossed to open the door I scanned the desk for the office key. There it was, on a hook with a little purple tag that said OFFICE. Nice of Nev to make it so easy for me. I was just about to snatch it up when Phillipa turned from the doorway.
‘Candy?’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘Better put your stuff in the gir
ls’ room. Got an intro coming up.’
‘Sure.’ Shit.
The room was empty except for Janine, still knitting and still busting out of the hot pink dress like an overcooked footy frank.
‘Hi, I’m Candy.’ I dropped my bag on the floor and adjusted my wig in the mirror.
‘Janine. You look familiar. Did you used to work at Westside X?’
‘Nuh.’
‘Ladies for Gentlemen?’
‘Nope.’
The intercom went off and Phillipa said: ‘Intro, ladies.’
I followed Janine down the hall and heard her spiel. I knew what full service and Greek were, but what the hell was roseleafing? And more importantly, did I even want to know? When she’d finished I entered the lounge. The man on the couch was fat, wore a taxi driver’s uniform and smelled like he’d just finished a long shift. I didn’t want him to pick me, didn’t want anyone to pick me, but unfortunately Janine wasn’t much competition. With any luck he was hell-bent on roseleafing.
‘Hi, I’m Candy.’ I said. ‘I don’t do sex, I don’t do oral, I definitely don’t kiss and there’s no touching.’
‘What do you do?’
‘A very clinical sort of massage.’
‘Hand relief?’
‘I guess so.’
I went back to the girls’ room and heard Phillipa over the intercom: ‘Candy. Half an hour massage in room three.’
Damn it. The boots had been an awful mistake. No man could resist them.
Back in reception I glanced at the wall clock. It was one.
Neville could be here in half an hour. My hearing was at two.
I eyed the office key.
‘Don’t take this the wrong way, love,’ Phillipa said. ‘But I’d work on your introduction a little. Rather than outlining the things you don’t do, why not emphasise the things you do? Hi, my name’s Candy and I provide a wildly erotic full body nude massage?’
‘Thanks, Phillipa, I’ll take that on board.’ How to get her away from the desk? ‘Uh, could you show me where the towels go after a booking?’
‘Show you after. Better get a move on. I’ve got another two back to back bookings for you after this. Everyone wants to see the new girl!’
Room three was the same one Marla had taken me into when I’d first set foot in the GT Club. When had that been? Three weeks ago? A month? Seemed like a lifetime. I noticed the office was two doors up and tried the door in case it was unlocked. Of course it wasn’t, that would be way too easy. Back in the room I closed the door and found that although the taxi driver had showered it hadn’t made a shred of difference to the smell. He had a threadbare pink towel wrapped around his ample waist, lots of belly hair, and below the belly the towel had, well, made a tent.
He stretched his arms wide and I watched in horror as the apex of the tent led him towards me, like some kind of homing beacon.
A song by Wet Wet Wet, “Love is All Around”, came on the radio.
He smiled. Stained teeth and a three day growth. ‘Give us a cuddle.’
I backed away so the massage table was between us. I’d had just about enough of guys coming at me with erections. Did Phillip Marlowe have to deal with this stuff? Kinsey Millhone? I was sure Tony Torcasio didn’t. I thought about karma again. Maybe in my last life I was the Greek god Priapus, running around with a permanent stiffy, and now I was paying for it.
‘Come on, all the other girls do.’
I patted the table. ‘Why don’t you lie down.’
‘On the bed?’
‘No.’
‘You do oral?’
‘I’ve already told you I don’t.’
‘Sex?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
Why not? A few things went through my head. Like, ’cause I don’t need the money that badly, I wouldn’t if you were the last dick on earth, and if I was going to shag for money, I’d be a high class hooker and not working in a dive like this, fucking taxi drivers for thirty bucks a pop. I checked the clock. Quarter past one. The only way I could imagine ever getting that office key was to march back out to the desk and take it off Phillipa by force. Shit, I was desperate but I couldn’t whack an innocent woman on the head. Maybe I could evacuate the building? Fire, smoke alarm? My eyes darted around the room, and stopped on a little red knob by the bed.
Looked like the panic button Dahlia had talked about at the Daily Planet.
‘Are you frigid?’ he asked. ‘Don’t you like sex?’
I backed up to the button and hit it with my heel while slowly unzipping my top.
‘Honey,’ I said, ‘I like sex so damn much I couldn’t possibly do it for a job. It’s my reason for living, it’s what motivates me—hell, sometimes I think it’s my religion. Imagine if I turned this wonderful, transcendent experience into mere work and was turned off forever . It would be a tragedy.’
‘Fair enough,’ he said, and then Phillipa kicked the door in.
She stood there, Charlie’s Angels style, brandishing a can of mace. ‘Get away from her!’ she yelled.
‘Wha—’ he turned.
I screamed something unintelligible and ran out, straight to the desk where I grabbed the key. Tearing back past room three on my way to the office I saw Phillipa coming towards me.
‘Candy, come here! What’s going on?’
I grabbed the doorknob, pulled it shut and held on while she tugged from the other side. I looked around for something I could slide in front to block her in. Nothing. The voice of one of my tutors from PI school floated around my brain. Failing to plan is planning to fail. Tell me about it, buddy.
Through the door I heard the taxi driver say, ‘Give me a go.’
I held on, heels dug in and shoulder to the doorframe as he wrenched at the inside knob. I heard a grunt, the sound of someone hitting the carpet and the knob came off in my hand.
The door was still closed. They couldn’t open it.
Phillipa banged the wood. ‘Candy! Let us out!’
I ran to the office, my hand trembling so much I could barely fit the key in the lock. It had to be nearly half past one. I opened the door to a small, windowless room with a pitted wooden desk and shelves full of X-rated videos and towels even thinner than those in the rooms. Framed nudes leaned against the walls. Perhaps too tasteful to qualify as fully fledged brothel art?
The filing cabinet was on the other side of the room, a metal four drawer number, and I leaned my back against it and pushed with all my weight, ignoring the sting as my stitches strained to burst. The cabinet wouldn’t budge so I tipped it over instead.
There was the safe. I checked the numbers on my hand, turned the dial and the lock clicked free. About time things got a little easier for me. I swung the door open and gazed at a pile of cash, thick wads of hundreds and fifties bound with rubber bands.
A devil on my shoulder told me to stick one of the wads down my knickers. Didn’t I deserve it for my troubles? I couldn’t.
I’d never stolen anything except kisses, not even when I was ten and all my little hippy mates would shoplift Kmart dry every time we went into town. Even my mum ripped stuff off in those days.
Always told me it wasn’t illegal unless you got caught.
I felt behind the money and my fingers closed around a video in an ordinary cardboard case. I snatched it up and ran out the door.
Straight into Neville Annis.
Chapter Forty-seven
Neville had always been ugly as a hatful of arseholes. Rage made him more so. His pocked nose was bright red and broken capillaries flared across his craggy cheeks. He carried a screwdriver which he’d obviously used to let Phillipa and the taxi driver out of the room. I heard them in reception arguing about a refund.
I guessed he’d been expecting Wu, because it took him a few seconds to realise it was me under the wig. And to see I was holding the video.
I used his hesitation to pull my fist back and punch his chest where I thought the bullet had hit him. Must
have been pretty accurate because his ruddy face went white and he fell back against the opposite wall, gasping for air.
I ran to reception on tippytoes so my slut-boots wouldn’t break my ankles.
‘Stop her!’ He yelled as he struggled to his feet. Phillipa blocked the front door and taxi man came at me. I feinted left, he lunged, and I darted right, up the other corridor and into the girls’ room, where Janine was still knitting. I glanced behind and saw Neville a few metres away, grabbed my bag and was out the back door. Just before I slammed it I heard Janine say, ‘Palace Playmates, am I right?’
The concrete yard comprised a high cinderblock wall, padlocked back gate, two wheelie bins full of stuff that didn’t bear thinking about and a plastic milk crate. I shoved one wheelie bin against the door just as Neville crashed into it. Knowing it wouldn’t hold long I rolled the other to the wall and used the milk crate to climb up, careful not to catch my metal heels in the holes.
Kneeling on the bin, I slapped my hands on top of the wall and realised too late it was embedded with broken glass. Shit. Just then Neville pushed open the door, knocking the bin over and spilling soiled tissues and plastic bags of used condoms onto the concrete.
He jumped over the mess and came at me, slashing the air with the screwdriver. I didn’t hesitate and pulled myself over. The glass punctured my palms, sliced a gash in my left side, ripped up my stockings and scratched my thighs. I half slid, half fell to the footpath and ran around the corner to my car.
It was gone.
One of the panelbeaters came out of the workshop and lit a smoke, pointing it toward the no standing sign.
‘Towed it ten minutes ago.’ He leaned forward when he saw the blood. ‘Shit, are you alright?’
Neville ran out the front door of the GT Club and right at me, waving the screwdriver. Panelbeater dropped his cigarette and darted inside. He was out a few seconds later with the rest of the guys, all bearing tools.
Neville pointed at me and said, ‘That bitch—’
‘Oi, mate, show a bit of respect. What did you do to her?’
They advanced on him, smacking hammers against their palms.
Simone Kirsch 02 - Rubdown Page 23
