Simone Kirsch 01 - Peepshow

by Leigh Redhead

  I said yes although I probably shouldn’t have. I was knocking them back like water to quell the nerves and it was certainly working. With Alex gone I turned my attention to the band. They played that cool, honky-tonk kind of country. Songs about whisky and prison and heartbreak. And about Melbourne too.

  Doug Mansfield sat on a stool at the front. He had a beard and cowboy hat, and walked with a cane. A guy in a checked shirt played pedal steel, the drummer and guitarist wore Stetsons, and the bass player, handsome and dressed in black like Johnny Cash, looked over at me.

  ‘That guy’s checking you out.’ Alex was back with the drinks.

  ‘I go to all their gigs,’ I explained. ‘He probably thinks I’m stalking him.’

  That statement led to another uncomfortable silence.

  Alex broke it.

  ‘So, Vivien,’ he said, ‘tell me about yourself.’

  ‘Not much to tell really. I grew up in a trailer park, always wanted to go to beauty school and got into the entertainment industry to pay the tuition.’

  ‘Is that right?’ he smirked.

  ‘Yes indeedy. What about you? How long you been a cop?’

  ‘Ten years.’

  ‘That’s a long time. How old are you?’

  ‘Thirty-five.’

  ‘You married?’

  ‘Was.’

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘No. Do you have a boyfriend?’

  ‘Nuh-uh. It’s difficult when you’re in . . . show business . . .’

  ‘Girlfriend?’ He raised his eyebrows hopefully.

  ‘You wish.’

  Alex laughed. ‘You’re an unusual girl. I don’t think I’ve met anyone quite like you before.’

  ‘I’m trouble with a capital T.’ I was getting a little tipsy. ‘I don’t doubt it.’

  I took another large sip of champagne. More of a gulp really. ‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘enough of this flirting. Let’s get down to business.’

  ‘Business?’ Alex looked amused.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, ‘I know you’re dying to ask me more about the Parisi murder. Although I’m not sure what your angle is.’

  ‘My angle?’

  ‘I know you’re one of Farquhar’s boys . . .’

  Alex’s look of surprise only lasted a second.

  ‘And I know Farquhar had some kind of deal going on with Frank. Word on the street is he and possibly his whole unit is corrupt.’ I had made that bit up. ‘Now I’m wondering if he sent you to the club to find out if anyone knows anything, or if you’re operating on your own or maybe for someone else. What’s your agenda, Detective Christakos?’ While I talked I leaned forward and rested my bare knee against his leg. It would have seemed accidental except I kept increasing the pressure in small increments. After a couple of drinks I was a regular Mata Hari.

  Alex sipped his scotch and smiled enigmatically. The band was between songs and I heard balls click on the pool table and the dull roar of drunken conversation.

  Outside the sky had gone molten orange. He leaned forward too and rested his hand where the hem of my dress met my thigh.

  ‘And what’s your agenda, Simone Kirsch?’ My shocked expression lasted a fair bit longer than his had and seemed to please him. How the hell did he know my name?

  ‘You can’t have been working at the Red long as you weren’t interviewed in the initial investigation.

  Let’s see . . .’ He took a small notebook from his pants pocket and began reading. ‘You’re twenty-eight years old, live on Broadway in Elwood, drive a nineteen sixty-seven Ford Futura and your work history’s a bit hit and miss. Jill of all trades, huh? You’ve moved around the country a lot, been in Melbourne three years, had a few parking tickets and done once for speeding. No criminal record though. Applied for the Victoria Police earlier this year but got knocked back—probably because you admitted you worked as a stripper—not that anyone will tell you that’s the reason because the department doesn’t want to get sued for discrimination. And here,’ he pointed to his pad, ‘here’s the clincher. You applied for and received your inquiry agent’s license two weeks ago.’ His palm was hot against my leg and his face unbearably smug. ‘So I’m wondering why you’re so interested in the murder, who you’re working for and what you want from me.’

  I pulled my leg away from his hand, sure I’d gone bright red, and excused myself to go to the toilet. I sat down heavily in the graffiti-ridden cubicle and groaned.

  It was because I’d called him from my home phone—what an idiot. On the wall opposite a poster warned that one in eight young Australians had genital herpes.

  Cheery stuff. Probably one in four if you picked up at the Greyhound. I stopped at the bar on the way back and downed two cocksucking cowboys before purchasing more champagne for me and scotch for Alex.

  ‘You still haven’t answered my question,’ I told him when I got back.

  He shook his head. ‘You are something else.’ Then he leaned in close and whispered in my ear, ‘How’d you like to work as an informer for the police? You’d get paid.’

  ‘I already get paid, and very well,’ I said. ‘How about a simple exchange of information?’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ he said.

  ‘Well, if you can’t then neither can I.’ I shrugged.

  The band asked for requests.

  ‘ “Achy Breaky Heart”,’ shouted one of the backpackers.

  ‘How does “fuck off ” grab you?’ Doug swigged from a can of Melbourne Bitter.

  ‘ “She Dances on Tables”!’ I yelled. As the title suggested it was a song about a Melbourne table dancer.

  Doug and the boys conferred briefly about the key and started playing.

  ‘This one’s my absolute favourite,’ I shouted in Alex’s ear.

  Doug sang: ‘Well she came into the city looking for a better life to live . . .’

  ‘Come up and dance.’ I tugged at Alex’s sleeve. ‘I want to dance.’

  ‘Now you’re really pushing it.’

  I pouted and went over to the backpackers’ table and asked if anyone wanted to join me. A young Swedish guy with white blond dreadlocks leapt up and followed me to the dance floor. We spun around to the chorus, his friends yelling encouragement.

  ‘. . . And she pays the rent, dancing around on tables, shaking it all about for the city boys . . .’

  I was dancing in a style that could best be described as Daisy Duke meets Lola Montez and the Swede loped around like a demented hillbilly: knees up and hands down. The drag queen became inspired and began shimmying about and then the country couple got up, the man earnestly twirling the woman around the floor.

  The crowd watched, whooping and hollering, and the band members grinned at each other. Alex shook his head as if he couldn’t believe he’d gotten involved in something so incredibly uncool.

  I danced over to him and made come-hither gestures with my hands. When he didn’t budge I climbed up onto the table. It was a bit wobbly so I swayed without moving my feet, swinging my hips and lifting my skirt.

  The blokes went wild, whistling, yelling and stamping their feet. Doug Mansfield chuckled as he tried to sing.

  I spun my skirt higher and was glad I’d worn my good undies when suddenly I felt a sharp pressure behind my knees. Alex had karate chopped me. My legs buckled.

  I started to fall and he caught me on the way down and dragged me out of the pub to a chorus of boos. It happened so fast we were halfway out the door before I had the presence of mind to start abusing him.

  ‘Let go of me. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

  He hauled me into a laneway behind the pub and let me go near a wall. The sun had set and the twilight was purple. ‘You just can’t help yourself, can you?’ He looked really pissed off. I rubbed my arm where he’d held it.

  ‘How dare you,’ I said.

  ‘You’re an idiot.’ His dark eyes flashed. ‘Don’t you care about your own safety? Carrying on in a place like that. You could get yourself raped.’ />
  ‘What fucking century do you live in?’

  ‘You’re insane,’ he spat.

  ‘And you’re boring.’ I went to walk off but he pulled me back and held me by the shoulders.

  ‘You’re just a stupid little girl playing at being a detective. You’re so out of your mind that the Victoria Police wouldn’t even take you. You’re living in some whacked-out fantasy world and you don’t know shit about the murder. You don’t know shit about anything.’

  I went to slap him but he grabbed my wrist and pushed me against the wall. I glared at him. ‘Dick Farquhar argued with Frank on the night of the murder,’

  I said triumphantly. The expression on his face told me he hadn’t known. ‘Now give me something.’

  ‘Stay away from Dick Farquhar,’ he said, and kissed me hard.

  I kissed him back, bit his bottom lip and tasted scotch. He still held my arm up and he touched my breasts with his free hand and then slid it underneath my dress.

  He rubbed my pussy through my knickers and I felt his erection pressing against my thigh. When he released my wrist and fumbled with his belt buckle I snapped out of it, put one hand on his chest and pushed him away as hard as I could. I’m not anti sex-against-a-wall but never on the first date, you know?

  ‘Get away from me.’ My lips were bruised and wet and I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Alex’s hair was dishevelled and his shirt untucked. Lipstick was smeared on his face. ‘Get the fuck away from me.’

  I backed down the laneway, not because I was scared but because I had lifted his notebook from his pants pocket and was holding it behind me. I turned right at the Greyhound and then right again down Mozart Street. I had just stuffed the notebook in my bag when I noticed a dark car following me. Alex. I whirled around to face him and the back door opened.

  ‘Get in,’ said Sal.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I stayed on the pavement, swaying slightly.

  ‘Don’t you want to talk to your friend?’ Sal waggled a mobile phone at me, so tiny it made mine look like a house brick. Desire to find out about Chloe overtook my better judgement and I got in. The interior was roomy and leather upholstered but the new car smell was overpowered by the cloying musk scent of Sal’s aftershave. The driver had black hair and he stuck to the fifty k limit, going slowly over speed bumps.

  ‘You’ve been drinking,’ said Sal.

  ‘Damn right I have.’

  ‘Women shouldn’t drink,’ he said. ‘It’s unladylike.’ I glared. I wasn’t about to argue the finer points of feminist theory with him. ‘Who was that man you were with?’

  ‘A cop. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell him about you. He’s a source. Cops have access to the best information. I’m just doing my job.’

  ‘Have you found Francesco’s killer?’

  ‘Not yet, but I’m getting close. I’ve narrowed it down to a couple of suspects and I’ll definitely have the proof you need by Thursday week. Gotta wait for the proof.

  Wouldn’t want to wreak your terrible vengeance on the wrong person now, would you?’ I laughed. He didn’t.

  ‘How do I know Chloe’s all right?’ I asked.

  He flipped open the mobile and dialled, then pressed a button to convert it to speakerphone and rested it in his lap.

  ‘Hello?’ I said.

  ‘Mate!’ It was her.

  ‘God, Chloe, are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah, fine. I’m just bored shitless and tonguing for a bong. Blue here won’t get off his arse and score me some weed. Will you, ya slack bastard?’

  I heard Blue say something and laugh in the background.

  ‘Has he hurt you?’

  ‘No, but he bought me the ugliest trackies in the world. And all we eat is takeaway for breakfast, lunch and dinner, so my arse is getting huge. You’ve got to find the killer, mate. I don’t have a hairdryer, or makeup, and all Blue wants to do is watch action videos. Steven Seagal and Jean-Claude Van Damme. Blue thinks he is Van Damme.’

  More muttering from Blue.

  ‘Yes you do,’ Chloe replied.

  Jesus Christ, it was like talking to an old married couple. Was it the Stockholm syndrome? Was Chloe turning into Patti Hearst?

  Evidently Sal thought we’d talked long enough and pressed the end button.

  ‘You see,’ he said, ‘I am an honourable man.’

  That was debatable.

  ‘But I stand by my word. If you do not prove someone else killed my brother, she will die.’ The car stopped and he opened the door. We were outside my flat. ‘See you later,’ he said.

  ‘Adios, amigo,’ I replied with more bravado than I felt.

  The next day I drove to Tony Torcasio’s office in North Melbourne, checking for tails the whole way. I changed lanes, turned suddenly—all the stuff Tony had taught us in class. I didn’t see anyone but it didn’t mean they weren’t there. The day was stinking hot and overcast and I was sweating behind the knees and underneath my breasts. As I passed the deserted Vic Markets on Peel Street I popped another two pain tablets and washed them down with a bottle of water. Why did I have to drink so much? Because it was there? Maybe I should give it a rest for awhile. Go healthy and detox with wheatgrass juice and colonic irrigation. Eat raw foods and gobble antioxidants and get into yoga and turn into Gwyneth Paltrow. God, I felt like a drink.

  I turned into Victoria Street then drove around some back lanes until I found Tony’s agency. It was a small shopfront on the edge of a row of terrace houses that had been converted for commercial use. The front wall was opaque glass and covered in red and black lettering. A1 Investigations, it read, Corporate, Industrial, Domestic. A buzzer went off as I pushed open the door and I found myself in a small reception area. An Italian-looking girl sat at a desk, typing on a computer.

  ‘Can I help you?’ She had a sleek black bob and big lips.

  ‘I’ve got an appointment with Tony for midday.

  Name’s Simone Kirsch.’

  ‘Take a seat.’ She pointed to a black vinyl sofa. ‘He won’t be long.’

  The lounge squeaked when I sat down and I looked around the waiting room. A fake palm squatted in the corner and framed certificates hung on the walls. The black melamine coffee table in front of me was strewn with magazines. Elle for wronged wives, FHM for suspicious husbands and Investigator for would-be private eyes. I flipped through it, skimming articles on crime scenes and ads for spy cameras and surveillance gear. I must subscribe, I thought, as the door buzzed open and Tony Torcasio walked in. He carried a can of orange mineral water and a white paper bag with a beetroot stain expanding on its surface. A salad sandwich, I surmised, using my superior powers of detection.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘Just in here.’

  I followed him through a door beside the reception desk into a small office with a desk, two chairs, filing cabinets and a TV and VCR. I sat in a chair and Tony perched on the edge of his desk. He wore his usual shorts and Hawaiian shirt ensemble. It suited him. He was short and stocky with a barrel chest and muscly legs, the human equivalent of a Staffordshire terrier.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse me.’ He ripped open the bag and took out a white bread sandwich. ‘This is breakfast.’

  ‘Go right ahead. So, the nerve centre of A1?’ I looked around.

  ‘It’s nothing fancy but it does the job,’ he said.

  Shredded lettuce fell onto his shorts and he brushed it to the floor. ‘Why the sudden interest in Richard Farquhar?’

  ‘I’m helping out a friend and his name keeps coming up.’

  He watched me as he chewed his sandwich, waiting for me to elaborate.

  ‘It’s . . . confidential,’ I said. Tony rolled his eyes, balled up his paper bag and lobbed it into a small bin.

  ‘You know, just because you’ve got a license doesn’t mean you’re an inquiry agent.’

  ‘But the course—’

  ‘Between you and me, the course is bullshit. I can’t teach in a couple of months w
hat it took twenty years to learn on the street. I was serious when I said I was going to give you some work. Out of all the students you seemed like a smart cookie, seemed to have your head screwed on right. But taking on a case that involves Farquhar—that’s madness.’

  ‘She’s in trouble,’ I said, ‘and he’s involved.’

  ‘Let me tell you about Farquhar.’ Tony got up and paced around the room. ‘He’s a bad bastard, old school.

  Grew up in Richmond before it got all trendified, with his violent mother who was an alcoholic and a whore.

  Worked vice in the eighties and was rumoured to stand over pro’s and have a stake in a brothel, before prostitution was legalised. One of the girls that worked there got picked up in a heroin bust and wanted to dob him in, in return for immunity from prosecution. When she got let out on bail she died of a hot shot.’

  ‘Farquhar?’

  ‘Couldn’t be proven.’

  ‘How does he keep getting away with stuff?’

  ‘Friends in high places. Well, not exactly friends.

  He got a lot of young coppers into the graft twenty years ago and made sure he had proof of them doing it. There’s rumours of videotapes, photos. Those cops have moved up the ranks now.’

  ‘Why hasn’t internal affairs got him?’

  ‘You’re watching too many American cop shows. It’s called Ethical Standards here.’

  ‘I thought they were cleaning up all the corruption.’

  ‘Farquhar’s a smart bastard. He’s been investigated.

  They couldn’t find enough evidence and no one would talk. Besides, he’s a bit of a hero, arrested the Bayside strangler in the early eighties.’

  ‘So they just let him carry on.’

  ‘Evidence, Simone. Makes the law enforcement world go round.’

  ‘And what about Alex Christakos? Did you find out about him?’

  Tony shuffled through some papers on his desk and found the one he was looking for. ‘He works with Farquhar all right. Transferred from Richmond twelve months ago. What’s this Christakos’s story?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ It was true. Tony sat behind the desk flicking a pen between his fingers. In class he’d been a fun guy, always joking around. Now he was serious.