Thrill City (33 page)
‘Are . . . are you Simone Kirsch?’ she asked shyly.
‘No.’
‘You
are
her. I knew it.’
‘I get mistaken for her sometimes, but Simone has dark hair.’ I edged towards the taxi stand.
‘This is so embarrassing. And you can say no, but can I have your autograph?’
‘What?’
She held out a pen and a copy of the
Adelaide Advertiser
, turned to page three where there were photos and an article about Nick and me.
‘I’m a huge fan.’ She squeezed her knees together and bounced a little.
Fan?
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘I’ve been following your career ever since you saved your friend Chloe from that kidnapper. I actually met Chloe a couple of years ago, at the Miss Nude finals at the Crazyhorse? I used to strip, but I put on weight when I had a baby so I don’t anymore, I just work behind the bar, but, like, it’s nice to see a stripper really kicking some arse, you know? I’ve got all your news clippings and—god, I hope I don’t sound like a stalker, I’m not, I just think you’re really cool. Sorry. I should shut up, this is so embarrassing and I’m making such a dick of myself, but if you could just sign this it’d be so awesome.’
I was reeling. I had a fan? Who wasn’t a horny, middle-aged man?
‘Would you like to go for a drink?’ I asked her. We were standing outside an old sandstone building that conveniently housed a pub.
‘Maybe a quick one? I told Travis I was going up the road to get everyone Red Rooster.’
I broke my first fifty at the bar and bought champagne for me, and Malibu and Coke for the barmaid. We sat up the back near the poker machines and I slid the newspaper in front of me and took the pen.
‘Who should I make this out to?’
‘Bethany. Oh god, this is so exciting.’ She drummed her shoes on the polished wooden floor. ‘You’re such an inspiration. I mean, to me you are. Some strippers don’t like you.’
‘No?’
‘They see you in the paper and they reckon it’s not fair that you get so much publicity and they say stuff like, well, she hasn’t even won any competitions, she probably can’t even
dance
and who does she think she is, but they’re just jealous.’
‘Right. Look, Bethany, before I give you this autograph, can I ask you something?’
‘Sure, anything.’
‘Does Travis know a guy called JJ?’
‘Yeah. He was totally lying back at the club. God knows why. Him and JJ have been mates since they were kids. JJ comes into the club a lot, he’s cool and such a hottie. I can’t believe he’s, like, a uni professor. Cracks me up. I always thought poetry was boring as, but his poems are about, like, strip clubs and passion and getting fucked up. They’re sexy!’
‘Do you know of any trouble JJ might have gotten into in the last few years?’
‘No. I know him and Travis used to be into some shit when they were younger, but JJ’s pretty respectable now. He organises poetry nights, goes to that Adelaide writers’ week, writes reviews and stuff for the paper.’
‘Were you working last night?’
‘Yep.’
‘Did this guy come in? Nick Austin?’ I turned the paper around. She frowned.
I took the pen and coloured in his hair and his eyebrows and drew a goatee on him and showed her the picture again. Her eyes lit up in recognition.
‘Yeah! Shit. Was that Nick Austin? God, I had no idea. He was talking to Travis at the bar before they went off into Travis’ office. I noticed ’cause Travis looked real freaked out and they were talking about the Red Devils.’
‘The bikie gang?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What did they say?’
‘I don’t know. I just heard the name in passing. Noticed because the Red Devils are pretty much at war with the Assassins, and the Assassins are part owners of the Kit Kat. Silent partners, not officially on the books. A few years back the Devils firebombed their clubhouse and the leader of the Devils, this bad bastard called Craig Murdoch, he bashed the president of the Assassins in Melbourne and almost killed him and now he’s in jail.’
I vaguely remembered hearing about it in the news at the time.
‘Does the name Lachlan Elliot mean anything to you?’ I asked.
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Ever been to Broken Hill?’
‘No. But I know the Devils have a clubhouse out that way somewhere, some girlfriends of mine have gone up there to do shows. It’s where they get the name. You know, from the red dirt and that.’ She drained her drink and looked at her watch. ‘So, what’s a writer got to do with a bikie gang?’
I signed her newspaper.
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’
•
Soon as I got to the airport I rang Chloe from a public phone. I’d been thinking about our Mexican Christmas party. Tiara, the speed-freak stripper, had said something about murdered investment banker Lachlan Elliot being connected to the Red Devils, but I’d been so drunk by that stage I couldn’t recall the details. I needed her number. Chloe didn’t answer, and I rang at least ten times, getting increasingly frustrated each time a message told me the phone was switched off. She never switched her damn phone off! The only other person I could think to call was Andi. She’d talked to Tiara, and she knew about Lachlan Elliot and the bikie gang. I didn’t really want to ring her—even though she was my friend, she was also a journalist—but I didn’t have much choice.
At least her phone was on.
‘Andi, it’s Simone.’
‘Hellooo . . .’ she said. I heard a click.
‘Are you recording?’
‘Nooo . . .’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Where are you? What’s happening? Where’s Nick Austin?’
‘I can’t tell you. I’m safe, though, and I need some information about Lachlan Elliot’s connection to the Red Devil’s.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘I’ll grab my notes. Let’s see. Red Devils outlaw biker gang, started in the nineties, a breakaway group from the Lucifer’s Warriors. Chapters in Victoria, South Australia and New South Wales, pretty small, estimated membership about eighty-five. Involved in all the usual stuff, drugs, particularly manufacture and supply of amphetamines, prostitution, yada yada yada. Although they’re a relatively new, small club they have a vicious reputation. Their leader, Craig Murdoch, is in prison for serious assault.’
‘Which prison?’
‘Hang on a sec. Uh, Port Phillip.’
Port Phillip kept coming up. It was where Rod Thurlow had done his writing workshop, where Emery Wade was locked up, and now Craig Murdoch. I wondered about Watto/Elvis Mask. He had jail tatts.
‘And what was Lachlan Elliot’s connection to them?’
‘Known associate, suspected of dealing, low level stuff. The sort of guy who liked to slum it, take a walk on the wild side. Pampered private-school kid who wanted to feel like a tough guy? I don’t know.’
‘Why would the bikers deal with someone like him?’
‘He had money and from what I hear Craig Murdoch is a bit of a social climber himself. Likes to think he can mix in all circles. Before he went to jail he was in negotiations with a major film company to produce a documentary about his life, if you can believe it. Maybe Elliot gave him an entrée into high society.’
‘And there was a contract on Lachlan Elliot?’
‘That’s the word on the street. Rumour has it he disappeared with a lot of money and a lot more drugs. Worth around a million, all up. The police think the Red Devils found and whacked him, but they can’t prove it. What I want to know is why you’re asking. What’s all this got to do with Nick Austin?’
‘I don’t know yet.’ But I was getting an idea.
‘When you do will you give me an exclusive?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Jeez, thanks, Simone.’
A voice over the intercom said it was final call for the plane to Broken Hill.
‘I gotta go.’
‘I’m sure you do. Hey—give Sean a call, okay?’
Why? He’d broken up with me. I hung up, hoping Andi hadn’t heard the airport announcement.
All the other passengers were making their way across the tarmac to the small, twin-engine Regional Express plane. The sun was a golden splotch inching towards the horizon, and a heat haze shimmered just above the runway. I handed my boarding pass to an air steward in a fluorescent vest, but before I could make my way through the glass doors I heard a commotion. Somebody was screeching behind me.
‘Hold the plane! I’m here! Hold the plane!’
The steward was looking over my shoulder with a shocked expression. I turned to follow his gaze, but I already had a sinking feeling and a good idea of what I was going to see.
Loping down the terminal in high-heeled mules and a pink denim mini, blonde hair flying, holding her belly in one hand, a couple of women’s magazines, her handbag and a boarding pass in the other, was Chloe.
C
hloe had to look twice before she finally figured out it was me standing there with the blonde hair and the pissed-off expression.
‘Vivien! Just flew in from Melbourne, sure I was going to miss the plane.’ She draped her arms around my neck and got her head in close.
‘Go home,’ I hissed.
‘Shut up or I’ll tell ’em this is a bomb, not a baby,’ she whispered. ‘Airport cops’ll be here so fast your head’ll spin.’
‘Should she be flying?’ I asked the guy. He frowned.
Chloe waved a crumpled piece of paper. ‘Doctor’s certificate. I’m two days under thirty-six weeks. Read it and weep!’
She let me go and grinned broadly at the steward. ‘This is my sister! We’ve been planning this girls’ weekend for ages!’
‘In Broken Hill?’ he drawled disdainfully as he scanned Chloe’s pass.
‘Miners, hon. They’re fit and frustrated. You should come, might get lucky yourself!’
From the moment we strapped ourselves in I tried to persuade her to take the next plane back, but she wouldn’t listen.
‘You never should have ditched me at the hotel.’
‘You might have been killed by a chainsaw-wielding ice-fiend.’
‘I could have helped. We could have overpowered him together. You seem to have forgotten I’m your sidekick.’
‘You’re not a sidekick, you’re my best friend. There’s no such thing as a sidekick. It’s a concept, a cliché from one of Nick’s books.’
‘I don’t care. I’m sick of being left out of everything! I’m pregnant, not dead!’
The air hostess came along with her trolley.
‘Water,’ I told her.
‘Just a Coke, love, ta,’ Chloe said.
‘When are you due?’ The hostie smiled.
‘A month, give or take.’
‘Your first?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘How lovely. Girl or boy?’
‘A boy, I hope. I work with heaps of chicks. I’m over them.’
Below us an endless expanse of sand burned ochre in the setting sun. Scrubby bush peppered the desert like stubble. I stared out the window and seethed.
An hour later we started our descent, and in the orange light of the setting sun I made out a grid of streets: a large town plonked neatly in the middle of the desert.
Soon as we disembarked the heat smacked me like a fist.
‘Jesus,’ Chloe said.
The airport was a small, carpeted shed with a tiny cafeteria and walls painted with desert scenes. Having no luggage to collect we walked straight out and into a taxi waiting outside. Music was playing on the radio. ‘It’s the End of the World as We Know It’. R.E.M.
‘Where to?’ asked the driver.
‘There’s a poetry slam at a pub.’ I dug around in my bag, looking for the address.
‘Ah, that’d be the Silver City hotel.’
‘Can I drop you at a motel?’ I asked Chloe.
She crossed her arms and shook her head like a little kid.
‘Poetry slam!’ She pouted.
‘Do you even know what a poetry slam is?’
‘No.’
‘It’s a competition,’ the cab driver piped up. ‘You get up on stage and you’ve got two minutes to recite before the whistle blows. Five judges from the audience hold up cards giving you a mark out of ten. The middle three are tallied and that’s your score.’
He caught my eye in the mirror and shrugged. ‘The wife’s entering.’
‘What the hell is that?’ Chloe pointed out the window at a rocky mountain bisecting the town and nearly blocking out the sky. ‘Looks like a giant slag pile!’
‘We call it a mullock heap. It’s what’s left over from mining. Sits right above the line of lode.’
‘And what’s that building on top of it?’
‘That’s a restaurant.’
‘A restaurant, built on top of a slag—mullock heap? This place is bent.’
She sat back, pleased with the fact.
The song on the radio finished and local ads started playing. The first was a plug for Outback Whips and Leather.
‘They even have a sex shop.’ She nudged me, impressed.
The cab driver pulled up on what I assumed was the main drag. It was a wide street with more of those grand old buildings from the late eighteen hundreds. Sandstone courthouse, pub on every corner with the big veranda, lacy ironwork and Greek-style pillars fortying up your horse. I was all for historical shit but in the past two days I’d seen enough heritage listed structures to last me a lifetime. All I wanted was a narrow inner city lane with a modernist hotel on it. Something like the Adelphi: stark, minimalist, stainless steel edges so sharp you could sever an artery.
I paid the driver and asked if he knew of a bikie clubhouse in the area. The Red Devils. He scratched his beard.
‘You don’t want to be hanging around there.’
‘But if I did, do you know where it is?’
He nodded.
‘Give me your number?’
He wrote it on a card and I tipped him ten bucks. We stepped out and slammed the doors. The heat felt like walking face first into a wall.
The Silver City hotel was one of those huge corner pubs and it was packed. We walked up to the door and paid the five-dollar entry fee to a big woman with dyed red hair, a voluminous skirt, a leather vest and cowboy boots.
‘Are you registering for the slam?’ she asked. ‘We’ve already started.’
‘Shit, no!’ Chloe declared.
A big island bar sat in the centre of the pub and we pushed through the crowd to get to it. Interesting mix of people. Cockies in moleskin pants, striped shirts and hats mixed with arty types in berets. There were young men and women who probably worked in the mines, labourers in boots and blue singlets and even a couple of hippies, which surprised me. Their natural habitat was the temperate coastal region of the eastern seaboard and it was rare to find them west of the Great Dividing Range. None of the subcultures minded a drink, though. Everyone was knocking back beer, wine and premixed rum and coke with gusto and the noise level was high—conversation mixing with the jazz playing over the PA. The crowd made me relax a bit. Safety in numbers. Watto always waited until you were alone.
