Thrill City (32 page)
At the Caltex I used a public phone to ring JJ’s home and mobile numbers and, as per usual, got no answer on either. I wondered if Watto had got to him already. I discovered the bus arrived at midday but didn’t leave until twelve thirty, after all the passengers had been forced to chow down on deep-fried food at the diner. It was only ten forty-five and Nick already had a substantial head start so I decided to hitch it, hoping I’d be able to tell if an outback serial killer type tried to give me a lift. As it was, an old couple picked me up and proceeded to harangue me for the next hour and a half about hitchhiking’s dangers. They got so frothy about all the perverted things that could happen to a young lady on our nation’s highways that I brief ly wondered if they intended to take me back to their purpose-built dungeon and have their evil, senior-citizen way. They didn’t, instead dropping me off at JJ’s address so I wouldn’t have to wander the mean streets of Adelaide alone. I left them with effusive thanks and a sincere-sounding promise to never get in a car with a stranger again.
JJ’s place was in North Adelaide, on the fringes of the city, a rendered-brick thirties-style apartment block on a wide, flat road. The street was lined with paperbark trees and rustic-looking renovated cottages and was deserted. Actually the whole city had seemed deserted as we’d driven through it, past churches, parks and historic buildings. Maybe everyone had gone on holiday, down to the coast.
Heat radiated up from the pavement and the air smelled like hot tar, gum trees and dried-out grass. The temperature had to be in the mid thirties at least, but there was very little humidity and the dry air scoured my throat and nose.
I followed the signs to flat number two, which had its own stone stairwell and small balcony and was sheltered by a European-looking leafy green tree. Acting like a normal person, I knocked first on the old-fashioned wooden door. There was no answer and no sound or movement when I put my face to the opaque glass panel. I tried the handle. Locked tight.
I descended the stairs, walked around to the back of the apartment block and got a shock. My car was parked next to a Hills hoist. Nick had got rid of the zebra seat covers, dangling mirror ball, St Christopher medal and various other accoutrements that made my vehicle look like it belonged to a Mexican pimp. I put my hand on the bonnet and although it was warm from the sun, I could tell it hadn’t been driven recently. I wondered if Nick had dumped it, or if he was still around.
I climbed a set of wooden stairs leading to a small porch at JJ’s back door, and saw a broken window.
‘Nick, it’s Simone!’ He was armed and jumpy so I identified myself real loud.
Carefully avoiding the jagged glass I stuck my arm through the hole, turned the interior lock, and found myself in a small, bright kitchen with renovated period features and diamond-patterned black and white linoleum. An antique cabinet took up one wall and held cups and crockery. A built-in table and chairs, the sort of thing estate agents called a ‘breakfast nook’, nestled next to the windows.
The floor was clear of glass, which had been swept up and dumped in the bin, along with an empty baked beans can. There was a bowl with a swipe of tomato sauce in it, and a dirty coffee cup in the sink. I checked out the calendar on the fridge. It was for December the previous year and there was a line running from the fifteenth until the end of the month. Above the line, written in red, were the words
Broken Hill Residency.
Little wonder no one could find him. He was probably still in Broken Hill. I crept through the rest of the house, feeling like a burglar and hoping I wouldn’t find anything dead. The lounge room was neat. Polished floor, woven rug, fireplace and lots of art on the walls, some of it Aboriginal, most abstract prints. The furniture was an eclectic mix of thirties sofa, fifties wing chair, and modern stainless steel shelves filled with books.
The first bedroom had been converted to an office filled with more books, boxes and a desktop computer. I switched it on and explored the second bedroom while it booted up. JJ owned a wooden-framed bed set high off the floor, made up with dark blue linen. It had been slept in. A clothes rack appeared to have been riff led through, and shirts and pants were piled up on the bed.
The bathroom was tiled, with a bath and sink in a pale green colour that had been popular in the thirties. A damp towel lay crumpled on the floor with the clothes Nick had been wearing when I’d last seen him in the motel. So he’d stayed the night. Where was he now?
Back in the office I sat down in front of the computer and was relieved to find it had broadband internet and hadn’t been password protected. I brought up Google search and got ready to type in
JJ Broken Hill
but after the first J the computer suggested the phrase for me. I really was hot on Nick’s trail. The link he’d selected was a different shade from the others, so I clicked on it and was directed to the Broken Hill library’s online newsletter, which informed me that their current writer in residence was Jerome ‘JJ’ Jones and that he was going to be there until January six. He had already conducted a few poetry and spoken word workshops at the library, and was MC-ing a ‘Summer Slam’ poetry competition at a Broken Hill pub that night.
I wrote down the library’s number and went into the lounge room to call from the phone. Before I punched it in I hit redial, just to find out the last place called.
A woman picked up. ‘Kit Kat Club, Adelaide’s home of adult entertainment. How can I help you?’
I hung up. Interesting. Next I phoned the library.
‘Broken Hill Library, Karen speaking.’
‘Hi, Karen, I’m a good friend of Jerome Jones, your writer in residence at the moment? Uh, he’s not answering his mobile and I was wondering if you had a contact number for him. Either that or an address.’
She gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Is this some kind of a joke?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You’re the third person to call up asking for him today. We take the privacy of our artists and writers very seriously. They come up here for some quiet time in which to create, and if he’s not answering his phone I’m sure it’s for a reason. The third person! What on earth is going on?’
‘What if I said please? It really is quite urgent.’
‘That’s what the others said. And when I told them to leave a number so I could get Jerome to call them back they hung up! Would you like to leave a number?’
I hung up.
Three people? Me, Nick and who else? Watto? How did he know so damn much? Had he been here too? Back on the computer I checked the search history. Nick had looked up the Indian Pacific train line, and the Kit Kat Club combined with the name Travis. I scribbled the address for the club and checked out the Indian Pacific timetable. The train had left Adelaide at ten am and would reach Broken Hill at six thirty that night. What do you know, Nick would get there just in time to meet up with JJ at the poetry slam. He must have thought the car was too conspicuous to drive, and he couldn’t take a plane with those guns he was toting. I searched airlines to find out which companies flew to Broken Hill from Adelaide and came up with one. REX, Regional Express. A five-fifty pm flight got in at seven and there was a seat available. Looked like I’d be able to make the Summer Slam too, if I had any money. I couldn’t risk using my own credit card so there was only one thing for it. I called Chloe.
‘Oh my god!’ she squealed as soon as she heard my voice.
‘Shut up and listen,’ I said, before she could blow it. ‘Where are you?’
‘Still at the hotel, by the pool.’
‘Is there a cop in earshot?’
‘Yeah, he’s pretty cute. I got him to rub Hawaiian Tropic on my back before. I think he got a hard-on.’
‘Hang up and tell him you’re going down to the business centre to check your email. Go straight there. Take your handbag. I’ll call in ten.’
Ten minutes later I rang back.
‘You there?’
‘Yep.’
‘Where’s the cop?’
‘Out in the lobby, reading the paper. Don’t worry, he can’t hear. My god, Simone. Where are you? Are you okay? The cops have gone ballistic. Sean’s freaking out. Alex was here a little while ago and they had a big argument. Sean found out you went to Alex for help and wants to know why you did it and why Alex didn’t tell him. Major scene. Are you with Nick?’
‘Not anymore. Long story. I’m in Adelaide and I need to get to Broken Hill on a REX flight this evening. Can you book it with your credit card, give me a false name?’
‘Won’t you need ID?’
‘Not without luggage. I can print out a boarding pass myself, walk straight onto the plane. Just email the itinerary to me and don’t tell anyone.’
‘Okay, doing it now. Aren’t you worried they’ll recognise you at the airport? You’ve been all over the papers and the telly here.’
‘Somehow I don’t think that’ll be a problem.’
‘What are you doing in Broken Hill?’
‘Finishing this thing once and for all.’
Chloe did as I told her and I checked in over the internet and printed my pass. I closed the web browser and was just about to shut off the computer when I had an idea. I minimised the internet window and ran a search on all the files and folders using the term ‘Travis’. In a couple of seconds I had a JPEG file, a photograph titled ‘JJ and Travis’. I opened it. JJ had his arm around a blond surfie-looking guy in a neon-lit bar.
I checked the time. Two thirty and I didn’t have to be at the airport till five. Searching the flat I found a small backpack, emptied my large one onto the lounge room floor, and packed a couple of outfits and some toiletries into the smaller one, leaving behind crap like the wig and my ugly grey trackie-daks that had so disturbed Nick all those weeks ago. When I was finished I stood up, nearly fainted, and realised I hadn’t eaten anything for what seemed like days. I found a small tin of tuna in the cupboard and scarfed it over the sink, washed it down with a glass of water, then called a cab.
‘Where to?’ asked the dispatcher.
‘Hindley Street. The Kit Kat Club,’ I said.
H
indley Street was full of pubs, pokies and restaurants, all quiet on a hot afternoon in the middle of the summer holidays. The Kit Kat Club was in a plain brick building, jazzed up with pictures of bikini-clad females set into frames that lit up at night. In a nod to glamour and sophistication a small wine-red canopy covered the doorway, and a carpet of the same colour led to the interior where a yawning bouncer, obviously mistaking me for one of the girls, waved me through without demanding the ten-dollar entry fee.
I pushed through a heavy metal door and walked down stairs with orange lights twinkling at their edges, into a dimly lit, cave-like bar. The stage hugged the left-hand side of the room and an abbreviated catwalk jutted out from the middle. A dancer with waist-length blonde hair held onto a pole and gyrated half-heartedly in front of a lone customer. The only other guy sat at the bar, chatting to a buxom barmaid. He was the surfie from the picture, tangled blond hair and tanned, desiccated skin. His lips were pale and thin, burned by the sun. I slid into the seat next to him, immediately comfortable in the familiar environment, and ordered champagne.
‘Travis?’
‘Yeah.’ His voice was raspy and wrecked. Cigarettes, seawater, late nights, all of the above.
‘I’m Vivien.’ I stuck out my hand and he shook it.
‘Oh hey, you starting today or—’
‘I’m here because I’m pretty sure Nick came in last night and I wanted to know what he spoke to you about.’
Travis just stared at me.
‘Nick Austin?’ I lowered my voice so the barmaid wouldn’t hear. ‘Australia’s most wanted? He’s changed a bit. Black hair, goatee, looks like he should be up on stage in an RSL club making the audience cluck like chickens.’
The barmaid put the champagne down and looked at me with a curious, searching expression and I resolved to keep an eye on her, make sure she didn’t use a phone. It had been a risk to come, but Travis didn’t exactly look the type to call the coppers or make a citizen’s arrest.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Travis said. ‘I’ve never heard of anyone called Nick Austin.’
‘Everyone’s heard of Nick Austin. What about JJ? You know him? Jerome Jones. Black guy, performance poet, likes to wear Blues Brothers suits and a trilby hat? Him and Nick got involved in something a couple of years ago and now someone’s trying to kill them. You know anything about that?’ I sipped my champagne. It was flat.
‘I’ve never met anyone called—what was it? JB?’
Clumsy. Travis might’ve been able to carve some gnarly pipes, but he was a terrible liar.
‘Yeah you do. I’ve seen the photos of you on his computer. Look, I’m not a cop. I’m a friend of Nick’s. I’m trying to help him. Trying to help all of us. I know there was some money stolen. I just need to know who it was stolen from because I reckon that’s who’s trying to kill us. If you can just tell me what you and Nick talked about . . .’
Travis lost it. He jumped off his stool and loomed over me.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re off your head. Get the fuck out of my bar!’ Emery boards scraped his larynx when he yelled.
The dancer had stopped swaying and the customer was looking around. Despite all the noise Travis looked more scared than enraged. He wasn’t going to tell me anything. I finished the champagne and slid off my chair.
‘Sorry to have disturbed you. I’ll tell JJ and Nick you said hi.’
Travis looked horrified, as though a venomous snake had just slithered across his path. The barmaid was staring at me open-mouthed.
I walked back up the stairs. The bouncer was on his walkie-talkie and he bristled and squared his shoulders when he saw me, like a cat fluffing up and coming in sideways. After the madman with a chainsaw it just seemed lame, and I almost laughed.
‘See ya, mate,’ I said.
I walked down the street to look for a cab. Bit of a useless trip, except I now knew Travis had something to do with it. Why hadn’t someone tried to knock him, though?
I saw a cab rank up ahead and made for it, until I felt a tap on my shoulder and whirled around. It was the barmaid. She was on the chunky side of voluptuous, wearing tight black pants and a sleeveless black top with a very low V-neck. Her face was pretty, doll-like, and her wavy, shoulder-length hair looked like it had come out of the same bottle as mine.
