ThornyDevils (2 page)

He was always going to clean his desk.
Promise
. It had become something like an alcoholic declaring they were never going to drink again. And there were always the excuses that Peter trotted out:
I’m too busy. I’m hung over. I’m expecting a phone call. I need a coffee. I’m expecting a headache
et cetera, to the point that even Shazza had offered to clean the shit pile, as she had termed it, but Peter had balked when she had wanted a bottle of Jim Beam out of it. But there was work to be done.

He sat down and gently shifted a pile of papers to one side, placing the cup in a familiar area of the desk, already marked by numerous coffee cup circles. Then he realised he didn’t have a cup of coffee.
I really need a cup of coffee.
He looked lovingly at the coffee machine. Mad Dog was still hovering. Could he wait until Mad Dog had made his?

Concheetah
. She was a great source of information about what was happening on the glittering streets of St Kilda—Melbourne’s version of Soho—where high-heeled drag queens rubbed shoulders with Mohawked punks, elderly ladies with their shopping jeeps, and rat-infested druggies. Concheetah and Peter had had a relationship, dating back to the early 1980s. In those days, drag queens could be arrested for wearing women’s wigs and underwear on the streets. Peter had campaigned through articles in
The Truth
for the repeal of such draconian laws. When the laws were changed, Peter had become something of a folk hero to the drag queen community. Free admission to the Vegas showgirl-style extravaganzas at the Duke of Cambridge, the Ritz Hotel in Fitzroy and Bojangles were some of the perks of notoriety that Peter took up, on occasion. The shows were packed every night with voyeuristic patrons. At the centre of the shows was the lusty, sultry Concheetah doing her imitations of Ethel Merman and Judy Garland, or Ava Gardner in death-defying stilettos. Peter hadn’t taken up any of the frequent invites to the backstage parties. Seeing drag queens naked was his greatest fear.

Peter unscrewed the paper Shazza had given him and read the message:
Meet me at the Duke of Cambridge in thirty minutes. Very
important information. Very, very important information. Love C.
What a drama queen, Peter thought as he threw the note in the wastebasket. He’d go. But not before he had had his coffee. He tossed a hopeful glance at the coffee machine again. Mad Dog was gone. Peter wondered whether he should take the crazy photographer to his rendezvous, but decided against it. Concheetah’s recent tattle-tales had been trivial gossip, and a little bit of Mad Dog went a long way. He’d go alone. But not before he had had his coffee.

Peter’s trusty car, a metallic red hardtop 1975 V8 Triumph Stag (nicknamed the
Shag
by Peter when it operated at full capacity, or the
Snag
when it wasn’t, which was often), was parked in a laneway a block away from the office. Peter had won the Shag three years earlier in a bet with a Carlton supporter friend. The friend hadn’t seemed too upset to be handing over the car. In fact, he had looked relieved. Peter had felt like James Bond when the Stag had been delivered to him. That was until it had roared to a shuddering stop in busy traffic on Park Drive five days later. Since then, there had been numerous visits to
Tony Andretti’s Mechanics
on Johnston Street for another
Fix It Again, Tony
plea. Peter always wondered how much longer his lowly salary could support the Snag. After all, it was eating into his expansive drinking budget.

But there were endearing factors to the old beast, he thought fondly as he opened the door, jumped in and pushed the keys into the ignition. It was a place to deposit old newspapers, coffee cups and takeaway packaging. He looked at the passenger side footwell but couldn’t see the floor for litter. Peter usually only cleaned out the car when he had a date.
Had it been that long?
Peter sighed as he cast a critical eye over the burgeoning mound of rubbish. The Stag was a home away from home. On occasion, Peter slept in the car, usually when he had had too much to drink or he was casing a place for a story, or the time when he locked himself out of his flat. The Stag was a haven, a sanctuary from the pressures of the office, the editor, the client, the deadline and
what the hell is that smell? Is there is a small decomposing animal in this car? Ha, ha, I’ve found Jimmy Hoffa!
Peter picked carefully through the litter until he found the rotting half-hamburger.
Eaten when? Can’t bloody remember
. Peter wrapped a newspaper around the slimy mess and opened the driver’s window to throw it into a nearby bin.

He was going to clean the car for certain. He surveyed the mess again.
Maybe if I ask Shazza nicely. Maybe she’ll do it for a bottle of vodka
. Peter flicked over the ignition. The car, as expected, didn’t explode lustily into life with a throaty roar like an Aston Martin. It was more a series of syncopated farts and groans that transmuted into that Triumph Stag racing roar.
Success
. Peter breathed a sigh of relief as he slipped the gear stick into first.
Situation stable, not as shit as expected
, Peter thought as he pressed down the accelerator.

Concheetah was rehearsing a show tune with her band, the Erotics, and a backing troupe comprised of three drag queens when Peter and his first VB beer of the day entered the darkened expanse of the empty Velour Lounge. Peter grabbed a table and chair near the stage. This was no mime-to-a-tune show like the other drag clubs—this was the real deal. The whole ensemble was dressed in mufti today, as you would expect, but on show night they would be attired in their full regalia: the band in silver lederhosen and oiled bare chests and the backing girls in sequins with ample cleavage and two-storey wigs. It was not only the best drag revue in Melbourne, it was the best show in Melbourne. Rehearsal or not, Concheetah, as always, was in full ensemble, and, as always, giving her best performance. She was old Hollywood. A Star. Dietrich. Garland. Gardner.
I’m ready for my closeup, Mister DeMille.

Concheetah blew Peter a kiss as she wrapped up the song and handed the microphone to her personal assistant and live-in lover, Ted, affectionately known as Tapping Ted. Ted was an ex-thespian who had reached the dizzy heights of compering a children’s show in the early 1970s called
Captain Capers,
dressed as a sea captain. He and Concheetah lived together in a high-rise flat nearby, but Concheetah was known to have had a string of lovers during their time together, some famous, some infamous, some gay, some straight.
Poor suffering Ted.
He overdosed every so often, after his inflamed jealousy couldn’t tolerate any more. Once he was revived, Concheetah would rush to his bedside full of guilt and then came the romantic reconciliation.
Of course, Concheetah still slept around, but she tried to be more discreet. It was a truly beautiful Hollywood love story: Bogie and Bacall, Burton and Taylor.

Peter smiled as Concheetah sashayed across the ballroom floor towards him, wriggling her hips, full lips in a pout, followed obediently by the tentative, Tapping Ted dressed in tight shorts and singlet. Tapping? Tapping because he always wore conspicuous, tap-dancing shoes in the club. Was Ted going to rip up the stage as a mincing Irish dancer or maybe perform a Gene Kelly routine or the Swan Lake ballet in taps? It was terrible to imagine. Peter bit his lip at that thought, hoping he wouldn’t burst into howls of laughter. He had noted after coming to several shows, that Ted usually stood at the side of the stage ready with a drink of champagne and an encouraging word and a dry towel to mop Her Highness’s face. And he always cried during the show’s finale, Abba’s
Dancing Queen. Poor Tapping Ted
.

And then there was the Diva Concheetah, herself. Peter knew the truth even if it hadn’t come from the rouged lips of Her Highness: In another incarnation, Concheetah was once Colin, a humble carpenter from country New South Wales. Apparently he had even fathered children. Maybe life looked too short to play it straight.

‘Darling, darling Peter,’ Concheetah breathed with a wild flourish of arms. Peter stood politely, as he would have done for any lady, to be smothered in a tight embrace and French perfume. Yes, she did look like Ava Gardner but the real Ava hadn’t been nearly six feet tall with large masculine hands and a prominent Adam’s apple. Concheetah finished off any remnant of Peter’s restraint by planting a kiss on each of his cheeks. As he fell back, blushing, into his chair, and Concheetah eased herself into hers, a tight-lipped Ted lit a cigarette, attached it to a long-stemmed holder and handed it reverently to his mistress. Peter felt his face still burning. Was he ever going to stop feeling embarrassed in front of the diva? You could take the boy out of outback Queensland but you couldn’t take the Queensland out of the boy. He took a drink while Concheetah took a deep puff of her cigarette.

‘Teddles,’ Concheetah ordered without looking at her companion, ‘Champagne. Glasses. Presto.’

Ted trotted and tapped across the ballroom, arms flapping as if his life depended on it, towards the direction of the bar.

‘Your voice sounds croaky,’ Peter remarked bravely. ‘Straining the vocal cords?’

‘Too many frogs in my throat,’ Concheetah winked, ‘not enough princes.’ She broke into a gale of laughter and took hold of Peter’s hand.
Why did I ask? Why did I bloody ask
, he thought.

‘And how is my Prince Peter?’ Concheetah removed her hand from Peter’s to adjust the cigarette.

‘I’m fine,’ he replied vaguely. ‘Still chasing the dogs. Still searching for the answers.’

‘And you’re looking so ruggedly handsome,’ she cooed back, fluttering her false eyelashes in his direction. ‘Like Dennis Quaid. Definitely, darling. That man could park his boots under my bed anytime.’ Concheetah took several deep draughts from her cigarette holder.

‘Is that a compliment?’ Peter grinned as he drained the remainder of his beer. ‘I get mistaken for Rob Lowe constantly.’

‘Rob Lowe!’ she barked loud enough to distract Ted, who was gathering up the glasses and champagne onto a tray at the bar.

‘He definitely looks too faggy, my dear.’ She smiled quickly at Peter than turned to the direction of the bar. ‘What are you doing over there, Teddles?’ Concheetah demanded in a masculine voice. ‘Making the fucking stuff?’

‘So sorry, my dear,’ Ted answered defensively, ‘I’m having trouble popping the cork.’

‘I know about
that
. Okay. Just bring the bloody thing here,’ she commanded. ‘You’re not butch enough to pop a cork.’

‘Yes, dear,’ Ted blustered as he walked gingerly towards them bearing the refreshments, his tap shoes making gentle clicks on the floor. Concheetah leaned in closer to Peter.

‘He was once my ageing Svengali and I was his Trilby. We were the couple. Now look at us. I’m the star and he’s the decrepit old poof. What am I going to do with him? He hasn’t popped my cork for ages, darling.’ Concheetah looked longingly at Peter who was doing his best not to provide any non-verbal clues that he was in agreement. He tried to fix his stare beyond her Hollywood Highness, to the bandstand where the band members were packing up their instruments or flirting with each other. Concheetah removed her cigarette from the holder and stubbed it out. Ted slapped the drinks tray down on the table, nearly dislodging the glasses and the champagne bottle. His tapping shoes crashed down in unison, as if he were standing to attention, and making his arrival more dramatic.

‘It looks like I’m no longer required,’ Ted said angrily, glaring at Peter. ‘I’ll be rehearsing my piece for the show.’ He added a flick of his head, and marched off towards the bandstand, shoes machine-gunning across the floor.

Concheetah pushed the tray towards Peter.

‘You do the honours, Peter dear,’ she cooed, turning towards Ted so he could hear. ‘It looks like Teddles thinks it beneath him to entertain our friends.’ Ted’s only response was to arch his neck and toss his head, accompanied by a double click of his shoes.

‘That silly old man. He’ll be the death of me. I need a drink,’ Concheetah moaned as she turned back to Peter. Peter grasped the champagne bottle by its neck, placed it between his legs, ripped off the wrapper and started grappling with the cork. It took several attempts before it popped, gushing a fountain of champagne over his jacket.

‘Bloody hell,’ he complained, as he tipped the overflow into a glass for Concheetah first, and then for himself. ‘My best suit,’ he grumbled. He grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Cheers,’ he lifted his glass and took a sip.

Concheetah reciprocated, draining her glass in one motion. ‘It looks like you sleep in that suit, darling. It’s positively organic,’ she sniffed as she pushed her empty glass in Peter’s direction.

‘What else can a poor journalist wear? It would eat into my drinking budget.’ Peter blushed as he poured Her Highness a refill and continued to sip the contents of his glass.

‘I’m sure I could find a suitable replacement that’s affordable and definitely more stylish. You need a woman’s input, my dear,’ she winked, squeezing Peter’s hand once more. ‘I’d love to take care of that wardrobe of yours. You need a total makeover.’

Peter’s eyes were diverted to Ted, now wearing a glittering bowler hat. He was taking his position on stage and instructing a guitarist who was holding an acoustic guitar. His gaze then drifted back to Concheetah, who was staring into his face. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he mumbled, pulling his hand away slowly. He reached into his jacket pocket to retrieve a pen and notepad.
Yes. Time for a change of subject. Quickly.
He pushed away his glass even though it was only half empty. ‘You said in your message that you had important information for me? He lowered his voice in order to sound more professional.

Concheetah took a sip from her glass. ‘We’ve been invaded by the police, Peter.’

‘Why are they hassling you? Is it is the drag show?’

‘No, of course not. Those days are gone. Off duty cops come here all the time.’ She leaned in again. ‘I know of some who are gay and others who like to cross dress,’ she laughed. ‘Can you imagine it? An officer flatfoot dressed in a lovely sequinned gown.
You’re under arrest. I’m going to handcuff you
.’ Concheetah flapped her hand at Peter.