‘Sweet. How was Slim doing before you came over?’ ‘See for yourself. He’ll be here soon.’
Bon sounded grumpy and preoccupied. Despite that, I took a breath and asked him something that had been bugging me since the day we met. ‘How do you know Johnny Viaspa?’
His gaze shifted from the ceiling and settled on me. ‘And you’d be askin’ me that because . . . ?’
‘I thought you might know why he was here—you know . . . in Brisbane.’
He waited to see if I had more to say and his silence somehow compelled me to keep talking.
‘It’s just that . . . Wal’s in trouble and I think it’s got something to do with Viaspa.’
‘Grom?’
‘I think he’s in hiding. He sent me a message to watch my back . . .’
Bon stroked his beard. If the light had been brighter I could have read his aura but in the gloom it was coming off dull and diffuse.
‘You got history with Viaspa?’ he asked.
‘Yeah,’ I admitted. ‘A bit. A, er, colleague of his went to jail because of me.’
Bon frowned, and I immediately knew what he was thinking—that I was a narc.
‘Nothing like that,’ I assured him. ‘He sent someone to kill me. I got away and the guy didn’t.’
His frown stayed right where it was for a bit. ‘Finn Fiegal?’
I nodded wordlessly.
He grunted with surprise. ‘You put the Finn away?’
‘Well, not exactly. The cops did that. Hope he wasn’t a friend of yours . . . but in my defence, he did try to kill me.’
‘Pricks like that don’t have any friends,’ he said in an approving kind of way.
I let out the breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding. ‘Anyway, something’s telling me that Stuart might be in danger.’
‘Why?’ A curt demand.
I took a deep breath. I didn’t know if I was doing the right thing but I had to share this with someone. I didn’t want to disappear forever without at least one person knowing the full story. That I was trusting Bikie Bon to be that person was a sign of my desperation.
‘Well, two guys roughed me up last night as I walked back to where I’m staying. They told me to go home and take you with me.’
One giant paw shot out and crushed my shoulder. ‘Describe them!’
I did my best but it wasn’t until I mentioned the guy’s American accent that Bon reacted.
‘You sure?’
‘I watch NCIS: LA,’ I said. ‘He sounded just like LL Cool J.’
‘Who?’
‘Never mind.’
Bon fired a bunch of questions at me in rapid succession. How tall? What was he wearing? Was he armed? Did he mention any other names? I got a taste of what it might be like to be interrogated by him. I didn’t like it much, but I’d opened this can of worms.
‘What do you think?’ I asked when he eventually fell silent.
‘When are you going home?’ he asked.
‘Sunday morning, after the gig.’
He nodded. ‘I’m bringing in some more help. You square it with Stuart.’
‘You think they’re serious then? You think Johnny Viaspa sent them?’
‘Maybe.’
I tried my original question from another angle. ‘At the airport you said you knew Viaspa. I heard you call him a snake.’
The grip on my shoulder eased. ‘I’m sergeant-at-arms for the West Coast Cheaters. What do ya think?’
I nearly said ‘Over drugs?’ but caught myself in time. Really, I didn’t want to know. And if he told me, no doubt he’d have to kill me. ‘I think that I appreciate your concern, but I don’t know that Stuart can afford more help.’
Then he said the words I’d been half expecting to hear for a while. ‘You’ll owe me.’
‘I guess . . . I will.’ My moment of relief ebbed. What would that mean down the track—owing the sergeant-at-arms of an outlaw motorcycle gang a favour? Best not dwell on it now. That worry could join the queue.
Bon’s phone rang. It was Stuart; they were outside in the car.
‘Let’s go,’ said Bon.
I followed him out of the dressing room. The Hoods were running through their act with Levin, and Ed was now dressed in faded jeans, a torn jacket and no shirt, and he had a cap on backwards. If he hadn’t been so perfect in every way, his look would have said ‘street’. As it was, it said ‘way too good-looking to be out alone’. Levin had set him up in a corner by a picture window where he squatted down while they discussed camera angles.
Further along the wall a girl sat in a second make-up chair. She was drop-dead stunning: long brown hair, oval face, big eyes. If Bon and I hadn’t been striding through the room on a mission, I would have stopped to stare. Instead, I kept pace with the bikie out to the roadside.
Slim was in the back seat with Juanita. Stuart was in the front talking to the limo driver. They all got out together and Bon and I closed around them. I noticed Bon was glancing up and down the street with more than usual suspicion. He even glanced at the top of the surrounding buildings. That sent a shiver down my back. What the hell was he looking for? A sniper?
‘Everything alright inside, Tara?’ asked Stuart. He didn’t look much better than when I’d seen him that morning; bags cradled the bags under his eyes.
Juanita, on the other hand, was fresh and ravishing in a blue dress and black spike heels. Her hair was pinned up with some soft curls escaping at the back.
‘We’ve done a check,’ I said.
‘Excellent. You hear that, Slim?’ beamed Juanita.
‘Morning, Slim.’ I held out my fist for him to knuckle-five me but he left me hanging.
‘You been ignoring me, bitch?’
Bon rolled his eyes and Stuart’s breathing got heavier. Only Juanita wasn’t bothered. I swear it would take an apocalypse to faze that woman.
‘Now, Slim, Tara’s been busy making sure that nothing gets in the way of your success,’ she said.
Slim lost his sulky expression. ‘That true, ho’?’
‘I’m not a ho’, Slim. Or a bitch. And yes, that’s true.’
He stared at me hard for a moment then pointed to my jaw. ‘Say, baby, who gave you some trouble?’
‘I fell over,’ I said.
‘We should get off the street,’ growled Bon. ‘Now.’
It was impossible not to obey Bon when he used that tone. Even Slim did what he was told without a quibble.
Inside, Juanita swung into action. She had Slim’s dirty canvas chair swapped for a make-up recliner and was sorting out food and drinks before Levin could open and shut his mouth.
Stuart introduced the Hoods to Slim, and then Ed and the other model came over and it was all matey for about three minutes until Levin stood on a stool and shouted, ‘Places.’
I found a crate behind the crew and settled in to watch my favourite band and my almost-boyfriend do their stuff.
•
The first hour flew past with me in fan-girl heaven. It was only in a break that I realised Bon wasn’t in the room. I sidled around the wall to the main door and slipped out into the entry hall. The hired security guy was still there, sitting on a stool, reading from his iPad.
‘You seen Bon Ames?’ I asked.
‘The big bikie guy? He went down to the mill.’ He pointed down the street to a white building.
‘What’s down there?’
He shrugged. ‘Old bread mill. Closed up for renovations now.’
‘Oh.’ I hedged for a moment. I knew I shouldn’t leave the shoot but I was curious about where Bon had gone. Besides, Slim was surrounded by professional musicians and there was a security guard on the door.
My justification gave my feet permission to run half a block, past a public phone booth and a graffitied brick letterbox out front of a vacant cottage, to see what was going on. But after a full circuit of the base of the old mill I’d found nothing, certainly no giant bikie.
The sign outside said Closed for Renovations. I was
about to head back to the shoot when I heard a muffled noise inside. Perhaps the builders were in there? Yet I couldn’t see any sign of that kind of activity.
My phone rang, interrupting my sticky-beaking, and I pulled it out of my pocket. I didn’t recognise the number.
‘Hello?’ I said cautiously.
‘It’s Inigo,’ she whispered.
‘Hi! How did you get my . . . Never mind. Is everything alright?’
‘I’m at Stuart’s. There’s someone outside.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I sensed a disturbance. Right now I’m standing on the toilet looking through the little window into the backyard. Someone is fiddling in the fuse box.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘He has dark hair and he smokes.’
‘You can see him smoking?’
‘I can see the cigarettes in his top pocket.’
‘Is he wearing jeans and a tight black shirt?’
‘Yes.’
‘Dark joggers?’
‘Yes. How did you know that? Are you channelling me?’
The question wasn’t a joke. ‘No. He was following me earlier.’ I stepped back from the mill’s door, heart pounding. ‘Inigo, I’ll call you back in a minute. Keep watching him.’
I hung up and ran back to the public phone box. From there I dialled the number on the slip of paper Ben the book guy had given me.
It was answered on the third ring with a whispered, ‘Yes?’
‘Get away from the fuse box or I’ll call the cops,’ I said in a deeper, rougher voice than my own.
There was a pause and I imagined him glancing over his shoulder.
‘I know you’re plannin’ to start a fire,’ I said. ‘Get away from the fuse box and don’t come back or I’ll have the cops crawlin’ all over you.’
He hung up.
I rang Inigo back straight away on my own phone.
‘What’s he doing?’
‘He’s bolted like someone’s after him.’
‘Good,’ I breathed. ‘I doubt he’ll be back. Thanks for ringing me—I think you just saved Stuart’s street from arson.’
She didn’t reply.
‘Inigo?’
‘You need a cleansing.’
‘A what?’ I asked as I walked back down the road to the mill.
‘Your spirit is stained. I will arrange it.’
‘Um . . . well, thanks, but I’m heading home on Sunday and tomorrow’s going to be pretty busy.’
‘It will be done,’ she declared, and hung up.
I walked back to the mill and rested my head against the door in despair. What the hell was a cleansing?
From inside came a sound like a strangled scream. On instinct I grabbed the iron door ring, twisted it and shoved hard. It gave a groan and swung inward. I followed it, stumbling over the threshold before regaining my balance.
Bon had a guy pinned up against the wall on my right side, his huge hands tight around the fellow’s neck. He stared at me with cold eyes. ‘Get out of here.’
I wanted to do what he said more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life, but my traitorous feet would not move.
He raised his voice. ‘Get out!’
‘I can’t, you’ll kill him,’ I squeaked.
Bon made a face that caused every hair on my body to stiffen at their roots. Then his hands tightened until the man in his grip passed out.
‘Oh my god! He’s dead!’
Bon lowered the body to the floor and stepped over it. He walked over to me, grabbed my arm and hauled me outside, pulling the door shut behind us.
He didn’t speak until we reached the garden hedge near the brick letterbox. There he suddenly stopped and said, ‘Get down.’
My feet were still having trouble with instructions, and when I didn’t move, he yanked me down so hard that I fell on top of him. A Bon/Tara sandwich was not a pleasant experience.
‘What—?’
‘Shut up!’
I held my breath and listened. A car drove along the road and stopped close by. Bon parted the hedge just enough so that we could peer through without being seen.
The car had parked next to the phone booth. Two men got out and walked across to the mill. I only recognised one of them and it made me break out in a cold sweat. Johnny Viaspa. Even from here I could see his pus-filled aura.
‘Who’s the other guy?’ I whispered in Bon’s ear.
‘Ash Machete.’
‘He met Viaspa at the airport.’
Bon let go of the hedge and slapped his hand over my mouth, half suffocating me. ‘Shut the fuck up!’
I could feel my eyes popping in fright as I nodded. He let go then and went back to spying through the leaves.
Viaspa and Machete were at the mill door, trying to get it open, but Bon had slammed it so hard they were having trouble. Machete went back to his car and grabbed a tyre iron from the boot. With a bit of gouging around the lock, they got the door open and went inside. A few minutes later they came back out with the guy Bon had half strangled hanging limply between them. They dumped him in the back seat and the car vanished up the street.
We lay there for a few moments, to be sure they weren’t coming back.
‘Everything alright?’ said a voice.
I looked up from my horizontal position and saw the security guard from the shoot leaning over the hedge. I was up and off Bon in a flash. The bikie was much bulkier than me and took a few seconds to get his feet under him.
‘Saw you fall behind here, and then that car pulled up near the mill. Thought youse might be in trouble.’
I opened my mouth to reassure him but Bon beat me to it. He reached across and seized the security guy by the shoulder. I winced, knowing just how that felt.
‘Best you forget you saw any of that,’ said the bikie.
The guy knew enough not to argue or question.
‘Who’s watching the door?’ I asked.
‘Pretty quiet over there. Thought it’d be alright while I checked you were okay,’ said the security guy.
No sooner had the words left his mouth than there was a shriek from up the end of the street. The three of us swivelled in that direction. Fran Dickle and a posse of ten or more fans were peering in the windows of the house where the shoot was taking place.
‘Shit. How did they find out?’ I was off and running before the other two reacted.
At a flat-out sprint I wasn’t going to make it to the door before them, so I fumbled in my pocket and rang Stuart.
He answered straight away. ‘Where the hell are—’ ‘Dickle’s on the doorstep,’ I panted into the phone.
‘Head her off. I’m coming.’
‘But where’s the guard? And Bon?’
‘Not there. Long story.’
I was fifty metres away and Dickle’s hand was on the door.
‘Oi!’ I shouted, forgetting that only a short time ago I’d been trying to stay invisible on this street. ‘Fran Dickle, you’re not allowed in there.’
She squinted at the madwoman running at her. Realising it was me, she gave me the finger and pulled the door open. The others piled in behind her.
Heavy breathing in my ear told me Bon or the security guard had caught up. I didn’t even turn my head to see which one, but leaped up the small set of stairs after the fans.
They were crowded into the entry hall, facing off against Stuart and Juanita.
I pulled up sharp behind them, chest heaving. ‘Please leave the premises,’ I panted. ‘This is a private event. We’ll have to call the police.’
The tall skinny guy who’d been with Dickle at the airport spoke for them. ‘We just want an autograph. Doesn’t Slim appreciate his fans?’
Alarm bells screamed in my brain as I recognised him. He was the guy who’d poked me in the chest at the airport. The one I’d kneed in the tenderloins. And he was the one I’d seen in the laundromat with Jade earlier today. Which meant Aprile and Jade had to be the ones trying to sabo
tage the tour.
He turned and, seeing me, began to back away.
I squeezed between two girls so I could get closer to Dickle. I didn’t trust her at all, and if it came to a scrap, she’d take Stuart down in a heartbeat.
She saw me coming for her and shoved one of the girls, trying to block me. I squeezed out from between them like toothpaste, but my momentum had a ripple effect. The posse started falling like tenpins, the tall guy collapsing onto Stuart like a toppling crane.
‘What the fuck is going on?’ roared Bon from the doorway, in a voice that could’ve parted the sea. Unfortunately, it was too late to stop the Tara Sharp domino effect.
Dickle sidestepped the melee and ducked into the room where the shoot was taking place. I shot after her but tripped on a power cord.
The whole room had frozen in disbelief; Hilltop Hoods lounging on their chairs, camera and crew about their business, Shari madly stitching one of her garments, Ed and the model having their make-up retouched. Slim Sledge stood in the middle of the room under lights like a true star. Or a rabbit in the headlights—he’d seen Dickle.
‘Ed, stop her!’ I shrieked.
My voice broke the paralysis and Ed lunged out of his chair towards Slim and the converging Dickle. But Juanita beat him there. She stuck out a stiletto and tripped Dickle, who tumbled to the floor just in front of her idol.
Though stunned, Dickle was still close enough to touch him. Slim saw her hand reach out and lost his composure. Terror dawned on his face and his aura went colour-ballistic. He began to scream in the way you do when you discover a large huntsman on the dashboard as you’re driving along a freeway and can’t stop.
OMG, don’t kick her! I pleaded silently. She’ll charge you with assault.
His foot drew back and I seemed to be stuck in molasses. Even Juanita could only stare with wide, incredulous eyes.
Ed, on the other hand, kept moving. He stepped right in between them and kneeled down to help Dickle up.
‘You took a bit of a tumble,’ he said sweetly and calmly. ‘Are you alright?’
All the fervour and combativeness went out of her face when she saw who was talking to her. Both her expression and her aura liquefied into something resembling melted butter.
I didn’t blame her really. In his set make-up, wearing street clothes, Ed looked like a Latin James Dean but much more exotic: hip, beautiful and totally irresistible.
Stage Fright Page 17
