Monkey Business (13 page)

Bruce drove slowly, around and around, probably sensing there was no point trying to talk to me as I stared out the window, not really seeing anything, and also probably knowing he was going to get away with ripping me off again. I was oscillating between the need to stay and do something, and the knowledge that I was completely unqualified to do what was needed – whatever that might be. But if Jack was dead, there'd be no reason for someone to trash my room. Would there?

I felt suddenly angry. Angry with this bloody hole of a country where people could just walk around with guns and trash people's hotel rooms. And the anger was good, because it made me feel brave. I told Bruce to take me to Kitty's.

Kitty's ‘back in five minutes' sign in English and presumably Portuguese was on the door of the shop, and she wasn't answering her phone or her door upstairs, so I squatted with my back to the wall and waited. I pulled my cap down low over my face.

Who had searched my room and why? Who had I met since arriving in Seni? Bruce Willis, Phil Collins, staff at the Koala Bear Hotel, Kitty, the woman at the supermarket, the reception guy at the Hotel Sebastian. And there was Dwayne from the plane. Whoever I'd told about Jack knew I knew nothing. Maybe it was just a coincidence? Maybe they had trashed the wrong room? Maybe I'd go back later and find out that someone else's room had also been trashed – the right room. Maybe I'd find out that everyone's room gets trashed sooner or later; that's just what happens in Saint Sebastian. I didn't want to go back there.

Kitty finally turned up, skipping along the street, whistling, singing, laughing. ‘Hello, Erica Jewell!' She waved madly and broke into a run, giving me a hug like she was greeting a long-lost sister. ‘Back again so soon?'

I told Kitty what happened at the Koala Bear Hotel. She blinked at me. ‘Yes, well, these things will happen in this country. You should definitely go home.'

‘Home? I can't go home. I need to find Jack.'

‘Even though he is probably dead? Definitely dead.'

I burst into tears.

She put her arms around me. ‘There, there. And now I have an idea. I think you will stay with me.'

‘Really, Kitty?'

‘Oh, yes.'

‘That's so nice of you.'

She guided me up the stairs with her arm around my shoulder. I stopped in the doorway, letting my eyes adjust to the green light. Kitty's flat looked like a Peruvian jungle. Not that I'd been to Peru, but it's what I imagined it would look like. The fake trees and vines and subdued lighting cast scary shadows on the walls. And to complete the picture, there was a fake snake curled up on her bed. Kitty rushed to her bedside table, fiddled with something, saying, ‘You will have to sleep with Cecil and me, but I'm sure we can all fit.'

‘Cecil?'

‘Yes, my beloved pet.' Kitty picked up the front section of the fake snake, which was about five metres long and as thick as Jack's biceps. The snake uncoiled itself and raised its head, inspecting me. For the second time today, I was stunned into immobility and silence, my mouth hanging open.

‘Here is Cecil. Say hello to Aunty Erica,' she purred, giving Cecil a kiss on the top of his head. ‘He is very gentle. He can usually contain himself.'

‘Contain himself?'

‘Yes. He almost never tries to strangle me. You will see how gentle he is.'

‘You know what, Kitty?' I stammered. ‘I think I probably need to stay at the hotel after all.'

She gave me a surprised look. ‘Really? Aren't you afraid to stay there? There might be murderers.' She stroked Cecil's head and he swung himself over her shoulder. Around her neck. She pulled him away.

‘Um . . . um . . . I just think I'll have better luck finding Jack if I'm in the thick of it, you know?' I tried to smile.

‘Oh, well, we are disappointed, are we not, Cecil?' She gave him a squeeze. Not something I would have done, in case he got ideas. ‘You are always welcome here, Erica Jewell.'

‘Thanks, Kitty. I'll keep that in mind.' Way, way at the back of it.

Back at the Koala Bear, I jammed a chair under the doorknob, had my second shower for the day, and sprayed myself with insect repellent. I was tired and wired at the same time; not sure what to do. Too scared to stay in my room just yet. It'd been a long day, and now it was happy hour. I went to the bar. Phil Collins was there, and I remembered seeing him talking to Rupert Berringer. I wondered what Phil had to do with anything. And I wondered what Dwayne from the plane had to do with Mr Berringer and if, when I saw Dwayne in the bar last night, he'd been talking to Phil Collins.

I sat next to Phil and gave him a suspicious look. I don't think he noticed though. Or cared, probably. He raised his beer up and down, up and down.

‘Hi, Phil.'

‘G'day.'

I ordered the Greek salad from the menu. Nice and safe. The barman retrieved it from the beer fridge and put it in front of me. I poked at the cubes of cheese. Picked one up, sniffed and tasted it. I think it was Coon Extra Tasty. There was lettuce. And that was it, my Greek salad.

‘How was work today?' I said to Phil, sucking on the limp lettuce.

He glanced at me. Did he see me in the back of the taxi? Did Rupert Berringer see me?

‘So, Phil, this barge of yours . . .'

Phil sucked hard on his beer.

‘. . . what do you transport on it?'

‘Stuff.'

‘From Australia?'

‘Yip.'

I leaned in and whispered, ‘Do you bring stolen stuff?'

Phil didn't change his rhythm.

‘I won't tell,' I said.

He shrugged. ‘Maybe.'

I lowered my voice even more. ‘What kind of stuff?'

No response.

I said, ‘Hey, Phil, do you know Rupert Berringer?'

He tipped his beer until no more could possibly drip out of the bottle. He got off his stool and went to the men's room. When he emerged he walked straight out of the pub without a glance in my direction. Through the window I watched him get into an old ute and drive away. I rushed out to the hotel reception and greeted the ladies with a big smile.

They looked up at me from their low chairs.

I said, ‘Do you know Phil Collins?'

‘Yes, ma'am.'

‘Do you know where he lives?'

They glanced at each other.

I said, my voice low, ‘I have to meet him to pick up some . . . stuff. You know.' I gave them a wink.

‘At the airfield, ma'am.'

‘He lives at the airport?'

‘No, ma'am. Not airport. Air
field
. That is where he has business.'

I nodded. ‘Well, thank you, ladies. Could you please call me a taxi and ask them to hurry?'

‘Yes, ma'am.'

The taxi pulled up outside and Bruce Willis rushed to open the door for me.

‘Are you the only taxi driver in Seni?'

‘No, lady!' He looked shocked at the very idea.

I sat in his stinky cab.

‘Where, lady?' He fiddled with the meter. This was the first time he'd used it. It already had twenty dollars on it.

‘The airfield.'

‘Airfield?'

‘Yes. I want to buy some Tupperware.'

‘Yes, lady!' And off we went.

So, I thought, what's my plan this time? Knock on Phil's door and demand answers? Answers to what? What I'd figured so far was that Phil was probably involved in criminal activities, which didn't seem like such a big deal here in Saint Sebastian, and that he knew Rupert Berringer, and Dwayne seemed to know them all. The answer was gurgling around in my head, but I didn't like it.

Typical of the tropics, one minute you're admiring a sunset and next minute you're fumbling around in pitch black. Bruce hit his high beam and as we approached the airfield, driving along the narrow road next to a cyclone-wire fence, I watched a small plane cruising in, guided by a few dim runway lights. They were more like garden lights actually. And the runway was more like a paddock. I told Bruce to stop the taxi and cut his lights. There was a building by the runway – an aircraft hangar. By the side of the road we watched the plane land and roll to a stop. The pilot and one other man got out. Then Rupert Berringer emerged from the hangar and approached the plane, waving his arm, giving instructions as crates were unloaded.

Bruce's saucer eyes were watching me in the rear-view mirror. And I realised I had partly solved the riddle of why Jack had been sent to Saint Sebastian and why he was now imprisoned or dead somewhere. He'd tried to bust open a ring of Tupperware thieves.

I told Bruce to wait and hitched my bag onto my back, creeping low along the road to a gate in the cyclone-wire fence. There were no padlocks or security men with guns or anything like that. I pushed open the gate and it squeaked loudly. I hesitated, waiting for the SWAT team, but there was no sound except crickets and the distant muted noises coming from inside the hangar. I tiptoed through long grass towards the building, and froze when I became aware of sounds around my feet. Cecil came instantly to mind. I stopped breathing and my heart stopped beating. All my blood pooled in my feet. I listened. No, not slithering; more definite movements than that. I needed to know. I fumbled for my mobile phone and turned on the torch app, pointing it at the ground. I couldn't see anything at first because the grass was so long, but then something flashed past on my right and disappeared again. I hit that spot with the light. There it was – a cane toad! Suddenly there was hopping all around me. Hundreds of bloody cane toads bouncing, banging into my legs, trying to
climb
my legs to get to the light. I clamped my hand over my mouth to stop the threatening scream. My body shuddered, kick-starting the adrenaline again and sending me flying over the grass, barely touching it, until I reached the hangar. I thumped into the side of it and froze again, holding my breath, waiting for some reaction from within. But there was none. In the distance I could see the glow of Bruce Willis's cigarette. I wondered if the meter was running. Of course it was.

The hangar door was open, way down the far end. Someone came out of it and I ducked back around the corner. I waited a minute and poked my head out again. All clear. Just a couple of metres from me was a narrow wooden door into the building with a window at the top. I crept low to the door, keeping an eye out for whatever horror might be lurking, then I slowly rose until I was on tiptoes. I peeked in the window. And there, grinning at me on the other side, was Dwayne from the plane.

He snatched open the door. ‘Hey, hey! If it ain't my Aussie friend. What are you doing sneaking around out there?'

I gawped at him. I was too scared to look around, see what attention we'd attracted.

He was smiling – he really did have nice teeth – waiting for me to say something. There were a couple of blokes moving about and opening boxes, but they weren't taking any notice of me. I couldn't see Phil Collins or Rupert Berringer. Maybe they were having a stolen-Tupperware party?

‘Well?' said Dwayne, putting his arm around my shoulders and pulling me into the room.

‘I, ah . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘Came here to . . .

‘Uh-huh?'

‘. . . buy some Tupperware for my mother.'

‘Yeah? Doesn't your mom have it all?'

‘Oh, no, not everything. It's Mother's Day soon and she wants something special.'

‘Alrighty then.' Dwayne whistled to a bloke who was pulling stuff out of a box. We walked over to him, and I inspected the scattered items. The Tupperware was all second-hand. Stolen, presumably. I wondered if anything had come from Chadstone. ‘A customer for you,' Dwayne said to the man.

I picked up a beetroot container. That would do nicely and then I could get the hell out of there. ‘My mother always wanted one of these,' I said, even though she already had one. Well,
I
didn't. I took the lid off and peered inside. ‘The thing's missing.' I looked at the man and he looked blankly back at me.

I asked Dwayne, ‘Does he understand English?'

‘Nah, just show him what you want and he'll write down the price.'

‘Well, I want this beetroot container but the thing inside is missing.'

‘What thing?' said Dwayne, checking it out.

‘There's a thing to lift the beetroot so you can get it easily, but most people think it's a handle and they end up with beetroot all over the table.'

‘Well, sounds like you're better off without the thing.'

‘How much?' I said to the man.

He held up two fingers.

‘Two dollars? Sounds good.' I opened my bag to get my wallet.

Dwayne laughed. ‘Honey, that's two hundred. US.'

I dropped my wallet. ‘Two
hundred
!'

‘This is a rare find. You should take it while you can.'

I picked up my wallet, huffing. Yeah, rare because it was an old, used piece of plastic with bits missing that no one in their right mind would pay two hundred bucks for. I looked around, wondering if I could get out of buying it. Or at least get something useful instead. I scratched my head. I'd forgotten for a minute why I was really here. Why was I really here?

Just then, a door at the back of the warehouse opened and Phil Collins walked in. He looked at me with a very surprised expression – I gave him a little wave – then he took a beer from a small fridge and glanced at me again before retreating. He made a groaning sound as the door closed.

‘Where's Rupert?' I found myself asking.

‘Berringer?' Dwayne looked over his shoulder towards a high partition at the far end of the hangar. He shrugged. ‘Dealing with his shipment, I'd say.' His eyes narrowed. ‘So you
do
know him?'

‘No. Um, no. He's, ah, a friend of a friend.' I stepped back. ‘I really should go.'

‘Alrighty. So, how you gonna pay?'

‘Oh, right.' I opened my wallet. ‘Will he take American Express?'

‘Sure will. Ten per cent surcharge.'

‘Bloody hell,' I grumbled as I handed over my card.

Dwayne gave it to the other guy, who reached behind a box and produced a wireless credit card thingy. He swiped my card, I punched in my PIN and I was the proud owner of an old, used, Tupperware beetroot container with the thing inside missing.

‘And now,' Dwayne said, ‘I'm buyin' you dinner.'