Rubdown (6 page)

‘Morgana. Want some chai? I’m having one.’

‘No thanks.’

She padded into a galley kitchen, separated from the lounge by a breakfast bar, and started clattering around. I tilted my head to read the titles on the bookshelf.
The Complete Compendium of Magick, The Tibetan Book of the Dead and a whole bunch of HP
Lovecraft that appeared to have been stolen from a library. Soon the smell of cinnamon overrode the cigarette ash and melted wax.

‘Mind if I have a look around?’ I asked. Morgana waved a hand, which I took to mean yes, and I wandered down the hall, past the bathroom to the bedroom. It was dark and smelled of dirty sheets and patchouli oil. Black clothing was strewn across the mattress on the floor and a grey army blanket covered the window. Posters for Bauhaus and Sisters of Mercy had been tacked to the walls and built-in robe. I picked my way through the mess of Doc Martens and ripped lace and lifted the edge of the blanket. There was a block of flats and a tin fence with a large gum tree behind, too far away to provide access to Tammy’s window. The ground was five metres below, covered in earth and leaves. I’d seen police check the sills for fingerprints and the dirt for any evidence of an intruder. As far as I knew they hadn’t found anything. I walked back down the hall, avoiding the bathroom. The lounge room window had the same aspect as the bedroom and I tried to recall if it had been open that night, but all I could remember was Tamara’s dead eyes staring at me as she floated on a sea of red. I shuddered.

Morgana was straining chai from the saucepan into a mug.

‘When did you move in?’ I asked.

‘ ’Bout a week after Tamara died.’ She took her drink to the coffee table and reclined on the futon. I crunched down into the beanbag opposite. The rat was playing hide and seek in her hair.

‘I’m not scared of the dead, you know. They’re like you and me, only in a different state of being. Make better company than a lot of live fuckers, if you know what I mean. Didn’t tell the real estate though, instead I bargained them down twenty bucks a week.’ She picked up a packet of Port Royal tobacco and rolled a skinny cigarette. ‘Her stuff was still here when I looked at the place.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. A removal company was packing it up to take to her parents.’

‘What about the bathroom?’

Morgana lit the cigarette and let smoke drift from her lips to her nostrils. ‘Clean. Apparently there’s this company that specialises in mopping up after violent death. Far out, hey? They did a good job, but I found a few blood spots they’d missed. I left them there.’

Her eyes challenged me to say something so I just nodded like I would have done the same. I didn’t quite understand goths, but you had to admire their dedication to the subculture. We had them at my country high school in northern New South Wales and they’d be kitted up in greatcoats and army boots on forty degree days, pancake makeup melting in the sun.

‘Do you think she was murdered?’ she asked.

‘No,’ I said.

‘I think she was.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Her spirit told me.’

Of course it did. ‘What did she say?’ I kept all traces of sarcasm from my voice.

‘It’s not like we had a conversation but I can tell the difference between a suicide and a murder victim. The soul of a suicide kind of mopes around, all depressed, but a murder victim is like, seriously pissed off. I’ve had dreams about her, did a bit of Ouija board stuff with some friends. I asked if she was angry and the pointer slid to “Yes” so fast it flew off the board. One time I was lying in bed about to fall asleep and the room got icy cold. I went paralysed, and felt this weight on my chest. She was trying to contact me, I know it.

And now you’re here. I was right.’

‘I was watching the flat the night she died. No one came in or out.’

Morgana shrugged and stubbed out her ciggie. The rat was on her shoulder again, rubbing its front paws together like an obsessive compulsive hand-washer.

I checked my watch and struggled up from the beanbag.

‘Thanks for your help. I’d better go.’

‘Don’t you want to see the bin?’

‘The what?’

‘The removalists chucked out a fair bit of Tamara’s junk.

I forgot to take the rubbish out last week so it’s still there.’

The wheelie bin assigned to the flat lay on its side. Maggots spilled onto the concrete, wriggling like animated grains of rice.

I tried breathing shallow but the ripe stench of rotting food crept up my nostrils as I dragged out plastic bags oozing liquid filth.

I was glad I’d taken Tony’s advice and kept a box of latex gloves handy in the car.

Morgana had thrown on a satin robe decorated with Chinese dragons and sat on a step watching me, occasionally picking at her black toenail polish. Aleister Crowley was upstairs in his fishtank.

‘That’s hers,’ she said when I’d pulled out two thick green garbage bags. I ripped open the first one and discovered Tamara was a Tampax girl who smoked Winfields, ate microwave lasagna and was hopelessly addicted to Coca-Cola. The second yielded more interesting booty. As well as a whole bunch of trashy magazines, broken pencils, takeaway pamphlets and a half empty blister pack of Panadol, I found a couple of glossy brochures. One advertised apartments for sale on the Gold Coast and the other appeared to be a travel brochure for Melbourne, written in Chinese. An English language sticker on the back told me it had come from Fong Chan Travel in Springvale. I transferred the brochures to a plastic Coles bag and thanked Morgana for her help.

‘Don’t thank me. Thank Tammy,’ she said.

I got to the Good Times Club just as Neville pulled up outside in a bright red Subaru Forrester. He unlocked the door, went inside and a couple of minutes later Marla the receptionist showed up, then the girls. I saw Lulu, Rachel of the investment obsession and four others I didn’t recognise. I pulled my mobile from my bag and rang the club.

‘Good Times Club. Your pleasure is our business,’ Marla singsonged.

‘Oh hi, can I talk to Lulu? I’m a friend.’

The phone clattered and a minute later Lulu was on the line, voice deep and breathy. ‘Hello?’

I talked in a rush in case she got any ideas about hanging up.

‘My name’s Simone Kirsch and I’m an inquiry agent. I’ve been hired to look into your friend Tammy’s death. I was wondering if you could talk to me confidentially.’

Silence on the other end.

I said, ‘Hannah can vouch for me.’

‘Okay, when?’

‘When would suit you?’

‘I’m doing a double today but I’ve got tomorrow off. How about five pm at Mario’s on Brunswick Street.’

‘Sure. What was all that about between you and Billy Chevelle at Tammy’s funeral?’

‘I’d rather not talk about it over the phone.’

‘Fair enough. And please, don’t mention this to Neville or anyone at Good Times.’

‘Of course not.’

I pressed end. Damn I was good. People were cooperating and things were going swimmingly. If Tony had known what I was up to he’d surely be proud. Right after he’d finished being angry.

The front door opened and Neville trotted out, a beige sportscoat over his red polo shirt. I turned the key and gave thanks as The Beast started easily. She’d been running really well. I hung four cars back as I followed him along Queens Road and onto Dandenong. Where was he off to this fine Saturday morning? My question was answered a couple of k’s past Chadstone shopping centre when he pulled into the car park of a cheap-looking brick motel. I parked on the street in a no standing zone, twisted on the bench seat and trained my camera on him, zooming in. He stood in the car park and made a call on his mobile. A few moments later the door to room number five opened and a young Asian woman with waist length hair stood with one hand up on the frame, wearing a black lace slip, stockings, suspenders and high heels. Hubba hubba. I started clicking off shots, feeling like one of those sleazy old fashioned PIs who skulked around in the days before no-fault divorce. Neville walked to the door and scooped her up in his arms, kissing her passionately. It would have been quite romantic and noir if he hadn’t been so incredibly vile.

I hung in the car wondering how long all this would take. It was hot in the sun and pressure was building in my bladder. Lucky for me Neville must have been a one minute wonder ’cause they were out in five, the woman dressed in jeans, heels and a sparkly top with shoulder pads. They left Neville’s Subaru outside the room and walked up the street. I started the Futura but kept her idling while I saw where they went. Not far. Half a block up they walked into a massive, new-looking hotel with a Tabaret sign on the roof. I pulled out from my spot, zipped into the pub parking lot and stopped out of sight behind a yellow panel van, eyeing the hotel entrance through its windows.

They hadn’t come out after ten minutes so I decided to go in.

A risky proposition without a cunning disguise. I reached into a big stripy washing bag that I kept on the back seat and grabbed a shapeless Vinnies jumper and a pair of big round glasses that made me look like an owl. I pulled my hair back into a low, daggy ponytail, hunched my shoulders and affected a Rainman shuffle as I approached the pub.

Neville’s arse was parked in front of a card machine and his girlfriend played the one next to him. They pressed buttons like zombies, chain-smoking and sipping bourbon and coke.

I hung a quick piss to avoid any future funnel action then ordered a soda water and sat at a machine with my back to them, slowly putting coins in the slot and watching their reflections in the glass on the screen. The woman spoke first.

‘So when are we moving?’

‘Listen, Ling, there’s a lot of stuff I’ve got to sort out first.

I don’t want to go into this halfcocked. Gotta finish this next job, that’ll bring in some cash, and then I want to put the business on the market. We’re looking, I dunno, end of the year.’

‘I can’t wait that long.’

‘You’ve been waiting a year and a half. What’s another nine months.’

‘Sure you want to leave her?’

‘Sure I’m sure. Why would I want that old moll when I’ve got you? But we need a lot of money for Perth if we’re going to buy you that business.’

‘What about the money in your safe?’

‘We just need a bit more.’

In the reflection I saw a big guy approach Neville and I hazarded a glance. The bloke had tousled, sandy hair, a crooked nose, was at least six two and built like a circus strongman. He wore stonewash jeans and a Holden guernsey.

Neville transferred the cigarette to his mouth and shook the man’s hand. ‘Hey, Craig, still got some credits left. Giss a sec and we’ll go.’ Craig the drug dealing nephew?

Craig and Ling nodded at each other.

Neville kept pressing buttons and the cardy made a shick-shick sound. He said to Ling. ‘We’ll be an hour or so, you right to stay here?’

I slipped off my stool, out of the pub and scribbled what I could remember of the conversation into my notebook while I kept the Futura idling. A minute later I was tailing Craig’s gold, late model Ute as they turned off Dandenong and right onto Clayton Road. Another right on North and they scooted left down a side street that ran by the railway line. I pulled into a clearway, waited thirty seconds, then followed. The Ute was three hundred metres up the road and I pulled in behind a rubbish skip overflowing with bricks and broken gyprock.

I leaned out the driver’s side window and used the zoom lens on my camera like a telescope. They were parked outside a red brick unit block enclosed by a chain link fence. The rest of the street was a rundown mess of potholes, vacant lots and houses slated for demolition. They got out of the Ute and leaned against it, smoking cigarettes. I snapped off a couple of shots and waited. A silver Holden Astra drove up from the opposite direction and parked in front of the Ute . Another Asian woman, this one with bobbed black hair and a pink, Chanel style suit stepped out, walked over to Neville and kissed him on the lips. Gross. How many chicks did an ugly old bastard like Neville have? I took more photos as they approached the building, unlocked a gate in the fence and disappeared inside. Ten minutes later they were out and stood around chatting. Neville had his arm around the woman’s waist and she’d stuck her hand in the back pocket of his slacks. Was this the ‘old moll’ Ling wanted Neville to leave? From where I sat she didn’t look a day over thirty-five. She pecked his cheek and then took off in the Astra. Neville and Craig got back in the Ute. What on earth were they up to?

I debated whether to keep following Neville or check out the units and decided on the latter. I’d probably pushed my luck following them in the Futura as long as I had.

He did a U-turn and I slunk down in my seat until they’d passed, then checked the rear-vision mirror to make sure the coast was clear.

Holy shit. The Ute had braked twenty metres from me. Even worse. It was reversing.

My first thought was to jam on a cap and sunnies so he wouldn’t recognise me from the week before. Then I turned the key in the ignition and prepared to hightail it out of there.

She wouldn’t start. The bitch wouldn’t start.

My heart hammered and sweat beaded on my upper lip as I turned the key again and again. Each time nothing. The Ute pulled up beside me and Neville and Craig got out. I thought to cut and run, but it was too late. Craig was circling the car, kicking tyres like he was in a yard. Neville approached the passenger side window.

Just in time I remembered the camera on my lap and covered it with a Melways street directory. Maybe I’d look lost. I kept turning the key. Nothing. Neville leaned his forearm on the roof and rapped his knuckles on the window. I leaned across the bench seat, cracked it open and tried to act like I didn’t know who he was.

‘Can I help you?’ I squeaked.

He reached into his jacket.

‘Open the window,’ he said.

I was still turning the key. ‘Sorry—’ I tried to sound breezy—

‘I’m in a bit of a hurry.’

‘Open the window.’