Stage Fright

by Marianne Delacourt

  Joel Aprile—bitter about Stuart leaving and setting up his own business. Having an affair with Strawberry Jade, Stuart’s current date. Is she the leak?

  Johnny Viaspa—in Brisbane. Why? Who met him at the airport?

  Slim Sledge—neurotic recovering addict. OCD. Broke.

  Bon Ames—scary bikie.

  Juanita Venture—talented media and people wrangler.

  Little Paolo—club owner, lolly lover. Took instant dislike to Bon.

  Harvey—why did he pretend he didn’t know me?

  I tried to see connections between the people on my list but it wasn’t giving up its secrets yet. No amount of staring at the paper helped, yet I must have been lost in thought for a while because suddenly I heard my number being called in an impatient voice, as if it had been called a couple of times already.

  I stuffed my piece of paper into my bag and hurried over to the woman standing in the open office doorway. She was everything a heritage officer should be: ancient, bespectacled, cardigan-wearing, thin. The only thing saving her from being a caricature was a flaming dyed-red fringe set at the front of a crop of mousy brown hair.

  ‘Come in,’ she said in a weary but refined tone.

  I plopped in a chair while she closed the door and resumed her place at an orderly desk.

  ‘How can I help you, Miss Sharp?’

  ‘It’s about my dad’s place,’ I said glibly. ‘He died just recently and left it to me.’ I paused as if letting a wave of sadness well and ebb.

  She nodded sympathetically. ‘Take your time, dear.’

  ‘I just want to know where I stand. My friends say I can’t do anything to my house or even sell it because there’s a heritage-listed house next door. Is that true?’

  ‘I can assure you that you are perfectly entitled to sell your property.’

  I feigned relief. ‘Cool. And can I knock it down and build a new place?’

  She frowned. ‘Redevelopment is another issue. Permission must be given to redevelop land adjoining a heritage-listed property in case it affects the preservation and aesthetics of the building.’

  I wrinkled my nose. ‘Aesthetics? What do you mean?’

  She gave a superior smirk. ‘How it looks. It wouldn’t do to put up something . . . unsuitable next to a gracious old building, would it?’ She peered at me in such a way that I wondered if she was thinking of herself as the gracious old building and me as the trashy nouveau apartment.

  I set my expression to dumb and stared back at her. ‘Who gives permission then?’

  ‘The Heritage Council appraises every application and makes recommendations to the environment minister.’

  ‘Oh. Can I talk to him about my dad’s—my house, then?’

  ‘No, my dear, you cannot. Should you wish to develop your property you can go through the application process like everyone else and you will be advised of the decision in due course.’

  I got some gum out of my bag and made a show of unwrapping and chewing it. ‘Wow,’ I said eventually. ‘So, like, some government dude somewhere can say no to me redecorating.’

  She gave me a quizzical look. ‘I suppose you could put it like that. The thing is, Miss Sharp, our job is very important. We never make an ill-considered decision.’

  Unless someone pays you off, I thought sourly. Or your minister. ‘’Kay. ’Kay,’ I said, intentionally chewing with my mouth slightly open. ‘Got it. Well, thanks a lot then.’

  She saw me out the door with a palpable sigh of relief. I waved breezily at the man in the booth as I headed for the lift.

  Sandwiched among the other lift-goers heading for the lobby, I thought about what I’d learned. It looked like the only way they could develop Stuart’s property—which was adjoining the old church—was if an act of God destroyed his place or made it unsafe. Since I didn’t think that Andreas, or anyone else for that matter, was capable of commanding flood or earthquake, it left fire as the only potential way to destroy Winne Street. Once gone, the minister could green light an office development.

  As soon as I got out of the lift, I ran through the revolving door and along the street until I found a laneway. Ducking down it, I pulled out my phone and rang Stuart.

  ‘Hi,’ he answered.

  ‘Look, it’s only a hunch but I think someone might be going to set fire to Winne Street.’

  ‘What? Slow down.’

  I could hear Juanita in the background asking him who was on the phone.

  ‘Look, I’ll explain in person. But can you ask Inigo to scope the street out for any disturbances?’

  ‘What’s a “disturbance”?’

  ‘She’ll know what it means.’

  There was a pause. ‘Tara?’

  ‘Just trust me,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not liking where this is going,’ he said.

  I glanced up and down the street to check for a possible tail. ‘Me neither.’

  CHAPTER 16

  There was only a day to go before Slim’s Brisbane performance and every time I learned something that might be helpful, the jigsaw I was trying to assemble got messier. It was like all I had were the blue sky pieces and none of the image.

  One thing I knew for sure, though: if tomorrow night’s gig at Little Paolo’s went down in flames then Stuart might as well put Slim Sledge on the next plane home. Not even a successful gig in Perth next week could help him recoup his money.

  Asking Inigo to scope out Winne Street was a bit of a shot in the dark but if she was as psychic as she claimed to be, it might be the only advance warning we would get that trouble was brewing. But I still had to find out what was going on with Joel Aprile and Jade before I pointed the finger squarely at Andreas Giannoukakis.

  On impulse, I went for another walk past Vixens. It was mid-afternoon now, around the same time I’d been here yesterday. This time, I walked along the other side of the road and went into the shop next to the Chinese food store. One barbecue duck in my life was more than enough.

  It turned out to be a phone shop and the guy pounced on me in seconds. I only half paid attention while he prattled on about connectivity and good looks (the phones’—not mine). There was no action over the road and after a few minutes I decided to cut my losses and walk to Jade’s apartment.

  ‘Yeah, look, I’ll think about it, mate,’ I said, cutting through his flow of talk.

  He handed me his card and I escaped before he could sign me up for twenty-five years’ hard labour on a Siberian railroad or an expensive phone deal that would make me wish I had.

  Outside, I planned a route using Google. The Hoods’ video shoot was in a house in Spring Hill at the top of the CBD; a twenty-minute walk or five minutes by taxi. Jade’s flat was along the same route, which meant I wouldn’t have to go too far out of my way. If I walked I might be able to pick up if I had a tail. If I went by taxi, there was a good chance I could lose them. The latter option was more appealing but the former more useful.

  I headed off, dawdling then suddenly speeding up, ducking at random into clothes shops and crossing roads. By the time I got close to the Central train station, I had spotted my tail: a short, stocky, dark-haired guy who periodically spoke into his phone. Who was he updating about my movements?

  Just before the Central Station traffic lights I spied a little arcade. I waited for a break in the traffic then bolted across the street. The second door along opened into a tiny boutique bookstore called Fine Fiction. There was no one in the shop other than a young guy behind the counter. On impulse I ran past him and ducked down behind the counter.

  ‘Whoa!’ he called. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  I smiled appealingly. ‘I’m a private investigator from Perth and I’m trying to lose a guy who’s following me.’

  Seemingly immune to my charms, he reached for the phone.

  ‘Please,’ I whispered. ‘He’ll be along in a moment—short, thickset, dark, wearing a tight black shirt and talking on his phone. I just need him to pass by and I’ll
leave.’

  He looked sceptical. ‘You sure you’re not just crazy?’

  ‘Oh, I’m definitely crazy,’ I replied. ‘But I’m also telling the truth.’

  ‘Why is he following you?’

  ‘Not sure. Could be one of many reasons.’

  His fingers tightened. ‘Tell me one of them.’

  ‘Honestly, it’s in your best interests not to know.’

  He stared ahead for a moment. A bell tinkled, signalling the door to the bookshop had opened. I could see the book guy’s expression freeze into polite. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he said.

  ‘Just lookin’ for my cousin. Can’t remember where I said I’d meet her.’

  ‘No one in here, mate,’ Book Guy said.

  ‘She’s kinda tall with messy hair and big shoulders.

  You haven’t seen her walk by or nothin’, have you?’

  Messy hair and big shoulders! I was sorely tempted to spring up from behind the counter and tackle him for that description. The only thing that stopped me was the knowledge that Book Guy would most definitely call the cops.

  Book Guy maintained his polite face. ‘Sounds like someone you’d notice,’ he said to the tail. ‘Big shoulders, you say.’

  ‘She could have been a weightlifter.’ The tail sniggered.

  ‘Well, I haven’t seen her but I’ll keep an eye out. Pretty quiet today so she should be easy to notice. You got a card? I could ring you if I see her.’

  The tail hesitated before he answered. ‘No card, man. But I’ll write my number down for you.’

  ‘Cool.’

  Book Guy was smart.

  There was some fidgeting and scraping as the tail handed over his number. ‘Thanks, man,’ he said.

  ‘No worries,’ said Book Guy. ‘You want me to give her a message?’

  ‘Nah, mate. Just call me.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So where’re you going to look? Down the arcade? You know, in case I see her a minute after you go.’

  ‘I’ll head to the station across the road. What’s it called?’

  ‘Central?’

  ‘Yeah, that one.’

  ‘You not from here then?’

  ‘Sydney. Listen, mate, I gotta go. Call me.’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  The bell tinkled and I felt a whoosh of the air-conditioning as it adjusted.

  Book Guy fiddled with the cash register for a bit then said, ‘It’s safe.’

  I uncurled and stood up. ‘That was exceedingly cool of you,’ I said.

  He shrugged and handed over the slip of paper with the number on it. ‘Livened up a quiet day.’

  I slipped the paper in my purse and looked around. ‘You sell crime books?’

  ‘Sure do. And science fiction.’

  ‘How weird that I came in here!’ I held out my hand in proper greeting. ‘Tara Sharp, bad-assed PI.’

  He smiled and shook it. ‘Ben Bower, bad-assed bookseller.’ He was a little shorter than me with brown curly hair. Cute as a teddy bear.

  ‘Well, Ben Bower, if I was going to be in town a bit longer, I’d buy you a drink to say thanks.’ I had a thought. ‘Hey, do you like music?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Slim Sledge?’

  ‘The rapper? My girlfriend’s a big fan.’

  ‘I’ll leave your name on the door of Slim’s gig tomorrow night at Little Paolo’s in the Valley.’

  ‘Awesome. Thanks, Tara.’

  I went to the door and peered out into the arcade.

  ‘Maybe see you tomorrow, Ben.’

  ‘Bye.’

  I headed out onto Edward Street and kept up a fast clip past the train station.

  Jade lived in an apartment block directly behind it. The building was about ten storeys high, an ugly 1970s coloured-glass construction that screamed noisy and dirty. The foyer reeked of dog pee and the lift was out of order.

  I walked four flights to Jade’s floor and cruised the corridor. It was as foul-smelling as the foyer and her door stayed firmly shut. Short of breaking in, or knocking and announcing that I was spying on her, there wasn’t much more I could do.

  The lift pinged open and a scruffy guy got out.

  ‘I thought the lift wasn’t working,’ I said.

  ‘That sign’s been up for months. No one took it down when the lift got fixed.’ He saw where I was standing. ‘You looking for Jade?’

  ‘Uh, yeah. You know where she is?’

  ‘Just passed her at the laundromat. Next door.’

  ‘Cheers,’ I said and moved towards the lift he’d just vacated.

  He waited for me to pass and brushed up against me, leering. ‘You work at the club too?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Security. I came to drop off some pepper spray for her.’

  The guy took an involuntary step back. ‘Can’t be too careful.’

  ‘Can’t,’ I agreed, and stepped into the lift.

  I got out of the building as quick as I could and walked next door to the laundromat, pausing to peek around the edge of the glass. Jade was there alright, and she wasn’t alone. A tall, thin guy was talking to her and into his phone at the same time. He was really familiar, but I couldn’t think who he was or how I knew him.

  I set my phone to camera and took a quick shot of the two of them from my possie at the edge of the window.

  Something poked me and I turned to look down into the face of an old woman holding a walking stick. ‘That’s illegal, taking photos of people without their permission.’

  I slipped my phone away. ‘Madam,’ I said, ‘I need you to keep your voice down. I work for the government.’

  ‘The government?’ Her eyes widened. ‘You mean ASIO?’

  ‘No,’ I said smartly. ‘The tax department—in the area of serious non-compliants.’

  She reacted like I’d told her I had leprosy, scuttling off as fast as her Kumfs would allow.

  Time to get out of there. I took a deep breath and crossed the road.

  •

  By the time I reached the venue for the film shoot I was panting and sweating heavily. Minivans lined the street outside a grand old house that looked like it had been rejigged into apartments. I knocked on the front door and was greeted by a security guy. I showed him my Reverb Promotions badge and he let me in.

  ‘They’re filming on the left,’ he said.

  I went through the open doors into a huge room with high ceilings and peeling plaster. It was buzzing with people setting up cameras and rummaging through carry bags.

  Lulu and Shari from the boutique stood next to a rack of clothes. A stylist bent over one of two make-up chairs set up by the window. She was attempting to paint pancake on a face I knew and frequently wanted to kiss. I would have just stood and stared at how beautiful Ed was, but he spotted me and bounded out of the chair.

  ‘Tara!’ He threw his arms around me and lifted me off my feet, planting a noisy kiss on my lips. He smelled and felt so divine that the morning’s traumas almost melted away.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, laughing.

  ‘I’ve got to get ready, back soon.’ He lowered me gently to the floor and returned to the chair. It was only then that I realised he had nothing on but a nude stage G-string. Everyone on set was staring at me.

  ‘Er, hi,’ I said awkwardly, waving my badge. ‘Reverb Promotions. I’m here to check the premises ahead of Slim Sledge’s arrival.’

  ‘She means we’re here,’ said a voice behind me.

  Bon walked in and I pulled the second badge from my pocket. ‘Bon Ames and Tara Sharp,’ I said to our audience.

  Something akin to a group shrug happened and the silence broke. They all turned back to whatever they’d been doing when I walked in.

  A harassed-looking man with bleached hair and a rampant red aura detached himself from the women he was talking to and approached us.

  ‘I’m Levin, the director. Make it quick. We’ll be shooting soon.’

  ‘Do you have a
seat for Slim?’ I asked, surveying the chaos. ‘He’ll need a chair and some space around it. He doesn’t like to be crowded.’

  Levin sniffed. ‘Crowded? He’s from LA for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Please. Things will go a lot better.’

  Levin gave an impatient nod and barked an instruction at one of his assistants who scurried off, returning a minute later with a canvas chair that looked like it had seen one too many barbecues.

  ‘Dust it off and cover it with a towel,’ said Levin. ‘We haven’t got time to source anything else. This isn’t Hollywood.’

  I bit my lip. Levin had some kind of attitude.

  There was a call for ‘On set’ and three rappers came through an adjoining door. I had a complete fan-girl freeze when I recognised Suffa, Pressure and DJ Debris from the Hilltop Hoods. Their hit single ‘Nosebleed Section’ had been my anthem for years—got me through my furniture-stealing ex-boyfriend doing my housemate. I owed these guys big time; nothing like a pub-anarchy evening and a lot of beer to empower a girl going through a break-up. More recently, their song ‘I Love It’ was all over the shop, in sports commercials, on TV ads. We loved our Hoods.

  ‘Sharp!’

  Bon’s gruff tone snapped me from my trance and I reluctantly followed him around the perimeter of the room while he checked that all the windows were locked. By the time we reached the internal door, the music was amped up and Suffa and Pressure were mucking around with cordless microphones. DJ Debris had set himself behind a vinyl turntable and was making scratching noises. I wanted to stand and watch but Bon grabbed my arm and hauled me through the door.

  On the other side was a much smaller, darker room which must have once acted as a servery for the house’s huge front reception room. It was still lined with dusty shelves and there were several sliding hatches in the walls. Clothes hung from a mobile chrome rail in the middle of the room and a heap more were spread over plastic chairs. A lamp set down on the floor was the only light. The makeshift dressing room smelled of rodent. The only other exit—which I assumed had originally led to the kitchen—was locked. Bon Ames rattled the door handle a few times to be sure.

  ‘Looks tight,’ he said. ‘And those hatches go through into the front room.’