by Tony Black
Clay wasn’t proud of the fact that he claimed the man known as Vegas as an acquaintance, but he wasn’t too stuck up to deny it. They’d met at a party close to ten years ago and had hit it off in the way typical of 1 a.m. introductions. Clay had been the really drunk guy looking to get high and Vegas had been the really high guy who had the drugs. They’d bonded over lines of speed, the remainder of a bottle of butterscotch schnapps, and a love of South Park and stoner rock.
Clay was also not proud of his drug use, but again, he wasn’t too stuck up to deny it. Aside from his recent increased usage of marijuana, he was a party dabbler. He never touched heroin or ice, but if pretty much anything else got offered his way at a gathering, he rarely said ‘no’. Clay understood drugs could be bad, but as far as he was concerned, the bad things only happened to the stupid and careless people. He was neither.
As a result, he’d kept in contact with Vegas. Clay would be the first to admit most of their contact centred around Clay buying the occasional bit of pot from him, usually when he couldn’t get any from Al at the office. But Clay and Vegas had a few friends in common and had enjoyed a few drinks together at the Hotel Warrnambool or The Loft or some other bar in town.
‘I’m pretty sure he still lives here,’ said Clay. He and Bec were parked outside what he presumed was Vegas’ house. It was situated in Wanstead Street, an address regarded around town as the worst in Warrnambool. The street name was known to make police officers shake their heads, journalists give a wry smile, and real estate agents cringe.
‘First a prostitute and now a drug dealer,’ said Bec. ‘You sure know how to treat a girl to a fun Saturday. I have to say that while I have really enjoyed tagging along with you for all of this, even when I didn’t need to, maybe I should have sat this one out.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Look at this neighbourhood. I feel like I’m going to get knifed for just being here. It’s so….’ She searched for the word.
‘Mish?’ offered Clay.
‘“Mish”? What’s mish?’
‘It’s a Warrnambool word, local slang,’ he said. ‘It’s short for “commission”, which is short for “housing commission”. But basically it means this is a government housing area. So “mish” has become slang for the lowest of the lower class, with all the horrid connotations that come with it.’
Clay watched her look around, taking in the unmown lawns, the rusted out cars, the busted toys, the weeds, the fallen-down wire fences, drab brown-brick houses, the torn curtains, the broken security doors.
‘Mish,’ she said, as if she was tasting the syllable. ‘It’s a good word.’
Clay nodded and looked over at Vegas’ house. ‘I’m glad you came along, Bec. I like having you around. It makes me feel less crazy, or less like I’m completely in over my head. And it makes me feel like someone’s got my back.’
He could feel Bec looking at him but he didn’t turn his gaze. Instead he opened the car door and went to step out. He felt a hand on his arm and finally turned back to face Bec.
‘Wait – what are we doing?’ she said, with more than a hint of concern in her voice.
‘We’re just going in to have a talk to my mate Vegas.’
‘You’re about to go into a drug dealer’s house in the mish.’
‘You’ve already got the hang of the word. I’m impressed.’
Bec scowled at him. ‘This is no time for jokes, Clay. I’m not going in there with you. You shouldn’t go in there, either.’
‘Bec, I’ve been in there before. I’ve bought drugs here before. Hell, I’ve been to a party here once before. And to be honest, you’re probably safer in there than sitting out here by yourself.’
‘It’s the middle of the day, I suppose. What’s the worst that could happen?’
‘Probably nothing,’ said Clay. ‘But before I leave you here, you should probably know a few things.’ He pointed a little way down the street. ‘A woman was murdered in that house in 2003. They never found the killer.’ He turned and pointed back down the other way. ‘That house on the corner was set alight by a bunch of punk kids about ten years ago. Or rather, that house was built on the site of the one the punk kids burnt to the ground.’ He pointed at another house nearby. ‘Someone put two bullets through the door of that house last year—’
‘OK. OK. You’ve made your point. Y’know, Warrnambool seems less and less charming, the more time I spend with you.’
‘Every town has its dark side. This is Warrnambool’s. The other ninety-nine per cent of it is brilliant. The dregs tend to get concentrated into the mish.’ Clay still had his car door open and began to step out of the vehicle. ‘So are you coming or not?’ He finished the sentence by closing the door behind him.
Clay didn’t look back as he began walking across Vegas’ front yard, but he heard Bec’s door open and close, followed by the sound of feet speed-walking to catch up to him.
Like all the houses in the neighbourhood, Vegas’ place had a metal security door in front of its regular wooden door. Clay rapped on the security door, making a harsh clatter. As the last rattles died away, Clay heard the music within the house get turned down.
The door opened and there was Vegas – a skinny, pale guy in a basketball singlet, with a baseball cap over his bleached-blond hair.
‘Oh, hey Clay,’ Vegas said. He seemed confused.
‘Hey, Vegas.’
‘Did you text me?’
‘Nah, man, I just dropped by for a chat.’
Vegas relaxed. ‘Oh, cool, I thought I’d just gotten all forgetful and stuff. Come on in.’ He unsnibbed the lock on the security door.
‘Who’s the chick?’ asked Vegas, as Clay and Bec entered the lounge room. It was just as Clay remembered it. The room was dominated by a huge TV and sound system, situated in front of a pair of curtains that never opened. The TV lorded over a coffee table covered in the detritus of a hundred late-night video game sessions – a hubcap used as an ashtray, empty cans of beer and energy drinks, junk food bags, a bong – and two impressive armchair recliners.
‘This is Bec. We work together. Bec, this is Vegas.’
‘Cool,’ said Vegas. ‘So, ahh, what’s goin’ on, man? You chasin’?’
‘Nah, man. Like I said, I wanna talk to you about something.’
‘You ain’t gonna put me in the paper or nothing?’
‘No. It’s all off the record.’
‘Sweet.’ Vegas plonked into one of the armchairs and grabbed the bong. He didn’t offer Bec or Clay the other armchair.
‘Vegas, did you know Jacinta Porter?’
‘Oh, yeah. Misty. That was her hooker name… sorry… working name. Yeah, she was a cool chick. I heard she died or something.’
Clay watched Vegas as he packed the cone-piece with a mixture of marijuana and tobacco. ‘You didn’t hear how she died?’
Vegas shook his head, hardly breaking concentration.
‘She was shot,’ said Clay.
Vegas stopped packing his bong for a second, looked up. ‘Whoa. For reals?’
‘Yep. Do you know who did it?’
‘How would I know, man?’ He picked up a lighter and was about to light his bong, but seemed to be carried off by a rapid stream of thoughts.
‘Do you know a guy called Lerner?’
Vegas stopped again, but this time his whole body froze. He was already a pale-skinned person, but Clay could have sworn Vegas went another two shades paler at the mention of Lerner’s name.
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No… just… no… Tell me Lerner didn’t shoot Jacinta.’
‘So you do know him. I don’t know that Lerner killed Jacinta for certain, but that’s the best guess at this stage.’
Vegas sat the bong and the lighter on the coffee table, his interest vanished. He stood up, putting his hands to his face as he looked at Clay. ‘No way,’ said Vegas. He began walking around the lounge room, turning this way and that in a state of agitation. ‘No way,’ he repeate
d.
‘What’s wrong, mate?’ said Clay.
Vegas paced a bit more, grabbing his singlet in his hands, looking for comfort in the action. He was distressed, uneasy in his skin. He sat back down again and grabbed the bong, lit the cone-piece and inhaled the resulting smoke with one quick, well-practised move. Clay pulled out a cigarette and lit it as Vegas exhaled, the journalist watching the smoke rise to the ceiling, which was stained a light-brown tinge above Vegas’ reclining armchair.
‘Lerner came round here, like three weeks ago,’ said Vegas, as he sat the bong back on the table. ‘He was coming down, edgy as. Been on a week-long ice binge and was flippin’ out so he wanted some weed.’ He had been talking to Clay but he turned his attention to Bec for a second. ‘I don’t sell ice, that stuff’s messed up,’ he said, before turning back to Clay. ‘So I sell Lerner a stick, but he doesn’t leave, wants to use my bong and hang out. We pull a few cones and chill for a bit, he calms down, it’s all cool. But he still won’t leave. I mean, I don’t like the guy, but he scares me so I don’t wanna tell him to get out or nothin’. Anyways, we kinda talk and play some Grand Theft Auto for a bit and have a few more cones and he starts bangin’ on about Jacinta Porter. And I’m like, hey, I know that chick. And he starts gettin’ a bit edgy like “how do you know that chick?” like he thinks I’m sleepin’ with her or somethin’, which I would never do. I mean, I don’t need to pay for it, ya know what I’m sayin’, and the idea of bangin’ a hooker outside of her work hours…’ Vegas screwed up his face by way of illustration. Clay felt Bec’s angry glare boring into the side of his face as Vegas continued.
‘Anyways, so I says, “Nah, man, she just comes around here and buys some weed occasionally.” And then, and I don’t know why, but then I says, “Actually, she’s been buyin’ all kinds a shit lately.” Lerner’s real interested and I can’t shut up. Probably ’cos I’m stoned. So I tell him how I got her some real primo MDMA, like a big bag of the powdered shit, and then how another time I got her a big bag of coke. Hardly anyone buys coke around here, it’s way too dear, like you can get twice as much speed for the same amount, ya know what I’m sayin’? And Lerner’s all like, “Where’d she get so much money?” And I’m just flappin’ my lips like an idiot and I tell him how she told me she hooked up with this real rich suit who drives a top-notch BMW, and how he was paying her top dollar, like well above her goin’ rate. She’s got it made. Sees him a couple of times a week.’
‘How did Lerner take that information?’ said Clay, quietly adding to the collection of smoke in the room.
‘Not well, dude. Not well. He started getting angry again. I made him have another bong or two to chill, but it did nothing. He starts goin’ on about how “that bitch owes me money” and how she ruined his life, and I’m just like, whoa, how the hell do I get this guy out of my house? Eventually he just took off. Like real abrupt.’
Vegas had grown increasingly animated during the telling of his story, racing out his words, but he went quiet for a moment, like a vacuum cleaner getting turned off, leaving a strange silence in the room.
‘Jacinta was dead two days later. I didn’t piece it together until now, but yeah, Lerner was here two days before Jacinta died. That dude’s mental. Someone said they saw Lerner out at one of the pubs recently and he was off his head on ice and he just went nuts, takin’ on the bouncers and shit. He’s a freakin’ psycho. He’s… oh, shit… I shouldn’t have told him all that stuff about Jacinta buyin’ coke and havin’ money, should I? Oh man, I did bad, didn’t I?’
Vegas looked up at Clay then looked back down at his own shoes, but it was enough for Clay to see the genuine sadness and remorse in Vegas’ eyes.
‘It’s not your fault, Vegas,’ said Clay. ‘You’re not to blame for the actions of a psychopath like Lerner.’
‘Yeah, but if I hadn’t…’
‘Not your fault. Don’t beat yourself up about it. If it’s any consolation, Lerner will be found sooner or later and brought to justice.’ Clay could feel Bec bristle beside him and out the corner of his eye he could see the confused look she was throwing him.
Clay finished his cigarette and thanked Vegas for his time, promising to come round soon for a beer under better circumstances. With that, he and Bec made their goodbyes and headed back out into the sunshine, which seemed brighter than usual after the dark air of Vegas’ lounge room.
‘He’s going to be caught and brought to justice?’ said Bec, as they walked back to the car. ‘What are you on about?’
‘Yeah, well, I had to say something.’
‘Eh, my point remains the same – we’ve seen precious little justice for anyone so far. And the way things are going we’re far more likely to see more trouble, especially with this Lerner nutcase on the loose.’
Clay shrugged as they climbed into the office Subaru. ‘I wanted to put his mind at ease. Poor guy went and blabbed the wrong thing to the wrong guy and he feels bad about it. I felt sorry for him. That could have happened to anyone.’
‘No,’ said Bec, as she started the car and pulled away from the kerb. ‘Telling meth-heads about what drugs their prostitute exes have been buying and how they made their money screwing rich guys in BMWs does not happen to anyone. You have to have made some bad life choices to have ended up in that situation.’
‘Come on. Vegas is a nice enough guy. He means no harm, and he’s going to be shaken up for a bit. I just tried to tell him something to make him feel better.’
‘Yeah, but the hell do we do now?’ said Bec. ‘We’ve got two people pointing the finger at Lerner, but you can’t print any of it, and you can’t go to the cops with it. If they don’t care about this case, they’re certainly not going to care about what a hooker and a pothead told you about it.’
Clay nodded. ‘True, but we do have one cop on our side. We need to talk to your boyfriend.’
‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ snapped Bec.
‘Whoa, sorry. I didn’t mean to hit a nerve. What’s the matter? Did you guys have a fight or something?’
Bec swerved to the side of the road with a savage twist of the wheel and slammed on the brakes. Clay had to put his hands out to stop his head hitting the dashboard.
‘Why do you keep doing that?’ she said.
‘Doing what?’
‘Having subtle little digs at me and Eddie. Like high school crap.’ Her voice changed, switching to a tone dripping with exaggerated sarcasm and teenage fakeness. ‘Ooh, he’s your boyfriend, ooh, you love him, ooh, you had a fight.’ Her expression returned to normal, albeit an agitated version. ‘What are you? Fifteen? Do you have a problem with me sleeping with Eddie? He’s your mate, you introduced us, but I’m not allowed to shag him? Is that it? Women aren’t supposed to have sex with men unless they’re our boyfriends. Is that it?’
Clay felt ambushed. Something had been brewing he wasn’t aware of, but he conceded maybe his own feelings had been manifesting in a way he hadn’t intended.
‘Hey, I’m sorry,’ he said, hands raised in a don’t shoot gesture. ‘I was just trying to make a joke.’
‘Well, cut it out. Do I go around saying Gabby is your girlfriend just because you two are doing it?’
Clay shook his head. ‘No, but to be fair, you have made jokes at her expense before, and passed a vaguely snide judgement on me and my choices in relation to her.’
There was silence in the car. Clay wanted to say something. Deep inside, a feeling was struggling to get free, but he couldn’t even bring himself to put it into words in his own head, let alone say it out loud. The emotion died before it even reached his lips, and the moment passed.
Bec put the car into gear and they drove back towards the centre of town in silence.
Chapter 27
‘Are you OK?’
Bec realised with a start she was miles away. She should have been in the present – Saturday night with Eddie at the Pickled Pig, which he had assured her was Warrnambool’s classiest restaurant – but her mind was
stuck several hours in the past, playing through the day’s events. Talking with June, visiting Vegas, the weird and uncomfortable fight she’d had with Clay after leaving Vegas’ house.
Bec had dropped Clay off at his apartment and Clay had said something about telling Eddie what they’d learnt from June and Vegas. She’d muttered a ‘yeah, yeah, yeah’ and driven off in a mood. Why had they fought? She wasn’t even sure why she’d snapped at him. There was tension between them, she knew that, but frankly she was getting tired of it. She was tired of Clay’s juvenile asides about her relationship with Eddie, yet she knew she was edging dangerously close to doing the same thing to Clay in regards to Gabby. What the hell did that mean?
‘I’m fine,’ said Bec. ‘Sorry, long day. Weird day. Really weird.’
‘Wanna talk about it?’
Bec looked around the restaurant. It was full but it didn’t have a sense of bustle or busyness to it. The lighting was low, the music was quiet and the conversations were low-key. The waiting staff glided between the tables as if on hoverboards. All in all, it hardly seemed the place to discuss prostitutes, drug dealers, and potential murderers.
‘I dunno… I spent the day following Clay to some odd places.’
Bec caught a flicker of something in Eddie’s expression at the mention of Clay’s name, but it was gone before she could pin it down. ‘Oh, you definitely have to tell me now,’ he said, the interest spiking in his voice.
Bec sipped on her Sauvignon Blanc and began detailing the occurrences of the day. It took all of five minutes and she laid it out in a low, rushed voice, wary of the next table hearing. She talked about Clay’s chats with June and Vegas, and about how they both pointed to the ex-boyfriend, Lerner, as prime suspect number one in Jacinta Porter’s murder. Bec had just finished recounting the day’s events when the first course arrived.
Bec thanked the waitress and stared at Eddie, waiting for a reaction. Deep thought lines dug their way across his forehead. He paused, seemed to be considering his words for a moment. ‘I think you guys need to back off a bit,’ he said eventually.
