Sharp Shooter (17 page)
‘Hang on a –’
I snapped my phone shut and stuffed it in my pocket. A light sweat had broken out over my body. I hadn’t expected that Eireen would tell Nick about her Sunday visitors – but in a way, it was kind of endearing that she had. And Joanna would approve – a son who talked to his mother.
Speaking of which, I didn’t think mine was talking to me. I sighed and returned to Wal, who was jiggling his leg and darting looks around.
‘Everything alright?’ I asked, plonking our number 23 table weight down.
He fixed on me for about a second before resuming his routine. ‘No offence or nothing, Teach, but don’t really wanna be seen with you.’
I nearly laughed. ‘No offence taken.’
‘It’s just . . . you’re OK and everything . . . but if any of me mates see me in a caff like this, with a chick like you –’
Chick? Right On?
Wal was trapped in an eighties time warp
.
The tea and tart arrived, delivered by a young guy who looked half asleep. After he’d shuffled away, Wal continued. ‘That stiff you just met works for Johnny Vogue, doesn’t he?’
I nodded unhappily.
‘I’m thinking that you’ll be needing my services again then.’ He picked up the custard tart in one hand and sort of siphoned it into his mouth like it was a line of jelly, then he swallowed the short black in a gulp. ‘Next time you might want to think about guns or knives. Later.’ He got up and slouched off.
My nerves, which had been starting to settle, took up with their own version of the salsa. ‘Later,’ I managed to whisper in his wake.
I ate my tart with a spoon, in ladylike bites that would have made Joanna proud. Each mouthful of custard seemed to soothe all that was wrong in my world.
By the time I’d squeezed three cups from the little Bodum teapot I felt calmer; enough to walk across the road and find a seat on one of the grassy terraces above North Cottesloe Beach.
I needed some time to think.
How was I going to get Delgado and Johnny Vogue off my case? Delgado was smart enough not to threaten me with anything specific. I could go to the police but then things would get out of my control – which meant I had to find out about Nick Tozzi. Why did Johnny Vogue want to ruin him? If I knew more, I might be able to figure something out.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a text from Mr Hara. ‘Back Friday. Freeze.’
What in the sugar-daddies did that mean? He was freezing? Or he wanted me to freeze? When your boss writes less comprehensible English than he speaks, text can be a tricky way to communicate.
‘Pardon?’ I sent back.
‘Yes. OK,’ he replied.
Aaaagh!
I
TOOK SOME DEEP
breaths. The sea was sparkling today, slapping into the large man-made rock wall (referred to by locals as
the Groin
) like they were old friends. Inside the protective arc of the Groin, foam curled around a concrete pylon, the one remaining evidence of a long-decayed shark net. The seagulls were on-song, squawking in annoying unison. They seemed to be telling me that the time had come to ring Mr Honey.
Somehow the morning’s interlude with Peter Delgado had given me back some perspective. I knew what I was going to say.
I found Mr Honey’s number in my directory and hit the call button.
He answered it on the second ring.
‘Hello, Lloyd?’
‘Ms Sharp, is that you?’ he sounded so anxious, poor fellow, that I wanted to reach through the phone and pat his shoulder.
‘Yes it is. Would you prefer to talk on the phone or in person?’
‘Where are you now, Ms Sharp?’
‘Err . . . North Cott on the high wall.’
‘I could be there in ten minutes.’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Make it fifteen and bring some hot chips for the seagulls.’
I settled into people watching while I waited, but not much was happening midmorning on a weekday. Just some kids wagging school and a few retirees working on their baked-potato suntans.
‘Ms Sharp?’ Lloyd was standing behind me holding a greasy paper bag.
I patted the seat. ‘Well done, Lloyd.’
He sat down and passed me the bag. I reached into it and threw some chips down the embankment. Gulls came from everywhere – the roof of the tea rooms, the tip of the pylon, from underneath parked cars. The squabbling was cacophonous but gratifying. We waited for them to quieten before either of us spoke.
I went first. ‘So, what would you like to know? I’ll give you a written appraisal but I do like to talk face to face with my clients as well.’
‘No. Nothing written,’ he said hurriedly.
‘Then fire away. And please call me Tara.’
Silence returned for a bit. It was hard for anyone – especially a guy – to discuss personal things with a near-stranger. I sat staring at the sea, giving him time to work up to it.
‘Do you think she really likes me, Tara?’
I turned and gave him a square-on look. ‘Absolutely and without a doubt.’
Happiness transformed his face. ‘Really?’
I nodded. ‘Really. All her non-verbal cues indicate so.
And I was able to discreetly question her as well. She thinks you’re –’ ‘Thank you so much.’ He reached into his wallet and peeled out three hundred-dollar notes.
‘Woah!’ I held up my hand. ‘Yes, I did work two hours, expenses included. But don’t you want to know anything more?’
He peered at me through his many layers of optical glass. I think his eyes were blue, but it was hard to tell. The colour was washed out by the glare. ‘Well I already know a lot of things about Jenny. For instance, she’s a woman of appetites that I could never hope to satisfy. If I wanted to uncover
all
her secrets I’d hire a private investigator. The truth is I don’t really care about them. What I didn’t know was if her feelings for me were genuine. That’s why I came to you, Tara. A private investigator couldn’t tell me that. Nor could a clairvoyant.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘If she likes me then we’ve got a chance of making a real go of our marriage. Do you see?’
‘Likes you or loves you?’
‘I personally think “like” is what gets you through the long term.’
I let all that sink in for a moment. ‘So you’re happy with my services?’
He held out the cash again. ‘It might seem silly to you, Ms Sharp,’ he said, reverting to formality again. ‘But you’re an independent viewpoint with nothing to gain. You would have gotten paid no matter what you’d told me. Therefore I’m calculating that you’re telling the truth – at least from your perspective. I can’t get that non-bias from friends or family.’ He stood up. ‘Thank you again. I’ll make sure I recommend you. And if I can ever do anything to help you, I’m more than willing. I run a genealogical databank as one of my internet businesses. It can be quite useful for background information.’
Handy! ‘Bye Lloyd.’
I watched him go, not quite knowing how I felt about what had just transpired. On the one hand, I felt a bit flat. He hadn’t really believed in my expertise, just my lack of bias. I had a long way to go before my talent had credentials. On the other hand, I had three hundred dollars cash, which meant I could buy phone credit and some petrol and still have some leftover. YAY!
I decided to stick with the latter feeling, and bounded across the road and around the corner into the Cott car park.
My good mood deserted in an instant.
Mona had been covered in graffiti. Eloquent words like ‘bitch’ and ‘whore’ written all over in fluorescent paint. There was no one else in sight, other than the bottle shop attendant, who peeked out of the doorway from behind his till.
I stormed over to him. ‘Did you see who did that?’
He shook his head. ‘I just started. Came in through the hotel. Looks like you’ve pissed off someone,’ he said unhelpfully. ‘Cost a bit to get that re-sprayed.’
I felt like punching him. I wanted to find the vandal even more, and strangle them. My car was holy ground.
Fighting back tears of rage, I rang Wal. I couldn’t go home with Mona in this state. Not to Euccy Grove. Not to JoBob. ‘It’s me again.’
He didn’t seem surprised. ‘Yeah, Teach?’
‘Do you know any cheap spray painters?’
‘I know a guy over Bunka way.’
Bunka was a light industrial area adjacent to Perth’s more dubious suburbs. Lots of business got done in the Bunka, most of it involving cash. It was also the place Johnny Vogue had mentioned on the phone. Monday, he’d said. Well, today was Monday. Maybe I’d get lucky and find the warehouse. It couldn’t hurt to look. ‘How much for a re-spray?’
‘Your car?’
‘Yes.’ I told him what had happened.
‘Wait and I’ll call you back.’
I examined Mona while I waited. I wasn’t a person to bear grudges – life was too short – but if I ever found out who’d done this . . .
My phone rang. ‘Wal?’
‘This guy owes me a favour. Throw in a hundred bucks cash for beer money if you don’t mind what the colour is. Will take a couple of days though.’
‘Awesome. Thanks.’
He gave me the address. ‘His name is Bog.’
‘B-o-g?’
‘Yeah. Spray painter’s joke.’
‘Fair enough.’
I put on my sunnies and dug around under the back seat until I found a cap. Jamming it down over my head, I headed for Bunka territory.
E
VERY TRAFFIC LIGHT ON
the way to Bunka seemed to be red, every road congested. It seemed that The Almighty wanted the entire population of the western suburbs to see my graffitied car, slowly and in graphic detail.
A police car passed me going in the other direction – Cravich and Blake. They clocked me, their heads turning simultaneously to gape at Mona. I half expected them to turn around and follow me but they continued on.
I drove east, across the causeway, along the Eastern Highway towards the ranges. Veering north, I followed the street directory and found Wal’s spray painter in a tin shed on a back block in Bunka. The yard reeked of thinners and was cluttered by dead car bodies. Razor wire ran along the top of the fence. I parked between a nineties Landcruiser and an even older Datsun.
Bog was inside the shed prepping a metallic blue and rust Holden. A mask hung from his neck and his long black ponytail was speckled with a rainbow of paint, unlike his aura which was thick custard yellow.
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Wal sent me.’
Bog looked me up and down. ‘Grominsky’s taste’s gone upmarket.’
I swallowed hard, not knowing who should be more upset by that notion – Wal or me? ‘We’re just . . . friends.’
‘Sure,’ he said.
We walked out into the yard to look at my car. He gave a low whistle. ‘Nice wheels. Used to own one like it. Heavy on the corners but craps it down the straight.’
‘Yeah. I used to dream about racing it.’
‘True?’ His eyebrows shot up. ‘Let me know if you ever do. I got a hankerin’ that way meself. Meantime, looks like you got yourself some trouble.’
‘Shit happens,’ I said in my plumiest voice.
He started laughing at that, grabbing his belly and rocking back and forward on his feet. When he finally stopped, he wiped his eyes. ‘Can do a freebie but only got this colour,’ he said, grabbing hold of his ponytail. He isolated a section of it and waved it at me.
The section of hair was tinted with burnt-orange paint reminiscent of a far north sunset. A great colour in the right context. Western suburbs was not the right context, being more black, powder blue or white. ‘Uuuh, that all you got?’ I asked.
He frowned. ‘What d’ya want for free? Gold plate? Diamond studs?’
I sighed. Having no money stunk. Still, Mona wasn’t really a western suburbs kind of car anyway. ‘Sorry. That’ll be fine.’
‘Fine,’ he said, mimicking my accent.
I pulled a face.
‘Gimme two days.’ He reverted to his normal accent and held out his hand.
I rotated the key off my key chain and passed it to him.
His hand stayed outstretched.
It took me a second and then I clicked, extracting a hundred dollars cash from my jeans pocket. ‘Enjoy.’ My teeth weren’t quite gritted. Almost. Now I only had two hundred left from my first job. ‘Say Bog, you don’t happen to know if Johnny Vogue keeps a warehouse around here?’
His expression got shifty and his aura contracted a little. ‘He ain’t good company, that one.’
‘Sure,’ I said, and waited.
His gaze drifted to my purse and stayed there.
I caught his drift quicker this time. ‘How much?’
He didn’t answer but lifted his chin and rolled his eyes.
Reluctantly, I pulled another fifty from my pay and waved it at him. ‘Don’t be shy.’
He snaffled it faster than Brains swiping an almond. ‘I heard he’s got somethin’ a coupla blocks over, jus’ before you hit residential. Machinery out the front. Can’t miss it. But you don’t want to be walkin’ round there without some muscle.’
