Rubdown (15 page)

‘His fourth wife, Cindy, ran a hairdressing salon to support him and their two kids in the nineties. According to my sources Billy didn’t do much in that decade except lie on the couch watching TV and eating fistfuls of antidepressants. Veronica’s mother was a client of Cindy’s and she and Cindy persuaded Billy to go see Veronica perform at a school concert. He became her manager, used the few contacts he had left to get her a gig on “Sassafras Street” and started writing her songs. The whole process took a couple of years but now her first album’s a hit and the royalties are finally flowing in. He’s back on top. Reinvented himself as, like, a Svengali type dude.’

Chloe’s G-string fell a metre short of us, and Curtis ran over and played tug of war with a pimply faced youth. You couldn’t let the crowd souvenir your costumes, they were too damn expensive.

‘So how did Billy and Emery hook up? How’d the Veronica/

Blaine thing come about?’

‘Annerley College reunion. Billy and Emery got talking apparently. Billy, ever aware of cross-promotional possibilities, suggested the two kids meet and the rest is history.’ Curtis plucked a toiletries bag from a backpack next to the boom box and threw it to Chloe. She extracted a black vibrator with so many complicated attachments it could probably mix, whisk and puree and all the guys oohed and aahed and moved in for a closer look. All except the buck who was tied to the chair with his jocks around his ankles.

‘What a heart warming and romantic story,’ I said. ‘Find out anything about Emery Wade?’

‘Not really. He took over the family law firm when his father died in a car crash at the Grampians back in eighty-four. Married Susan and adopted her daughter Tammy the same year. He’s got a lot of high profile clients from Melbourne’s underworld.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Uh-huh. People like Rocco Barravecchio, Malcom McInnes, Felix Longman—you know, the one they reckon was a serial killer…’

I wasn’t really listening, I was watching Chloe put away her vibe and pull out a can of hair mousse and a lighter. She squirted foam all over the buck’s pubic hair as he wriggled and strained against the ropes.

‘He also represents a few of the Comanchero bikies, Big Al Boukos and that brothel owner, Neville Annis.’

Chloe flicked the bic and the buck’s pubes burst into flame.

Chloe, Curtis and I had barricaded ourselves in a large storage closet that doubled as a dressing room. Plastic tubs of pink and blue cleaning fluid lined the shelves, yellow mop buckets clustered in the corner and a vacuum cleaner with a back harness hung on the wall.

The buck’s party was yelling and banging on the door. ‘More!’

Wearing nothing but black thigh boots and a heart shaped bikini wax, Chloe swigged from a bottle of cheap champagne.

‘Man, that was fun. Great crowd. Want to do a show? They’re all revved up, I could get you one easy.’

The red latex shorts and zip-up top I’d donated to Chloe when I retired peeked out of her suitcase along with my old feather boa. I imagined strutting into the function room to the first bars of George Michael’s ‘Too Funky’, everybody cheering, suddenly a sex goddess instead of a dumped teenager. My mouth dried up like a junkie anticipating a fix.

The guys chanted: ‘What do we want? More tits. When do we want ’em? Now.’

‘Nah. I’m not stripping anymore. I made my choice.

Chloe handed me the bottle. ‘Why do you even have to choose? There’s no law says you can’t do both.’

I swigged. Bubbles chased each other down my throat. ‘Can’t do a show now anyway. How would I ever top the amazing flaming groin?’

‘We could do a lesbian double.’

Curtis’ eyes grew wide. ‘Now that I’d like to see.’

‘Oh, please,’ Chloe scoffed. ‘You can’t even get it up.’

‘Chloe!’ I said. That was rude, even for her.

Curtis studied a bulk pack of toilet tissue and his voice got small. ‘My shrink says the desire will come back eventually.’

‘No way, buddy boy. It’s gone.’ She set the champagne bottle on a round table scarred with cigarette burns, squatted down and rummaged in her suitcase for Winfield Blues. She straightened up, lit one and blew smoke towards the ceiling, then put a hand on her hip and tossed her hair. ‘When Curtis hadn’t cracked onto me by the third night’s driving, I did an experiment. Sat him down in my unit, put on Prince, “Erotic City”, and gave him the raunchiest fucking lap dance I’d ever done.’

The raunchiest? Knowing Chloe it would have been an incredibly X-rated piece of work.

‘I got on his lap and started, like, grinding, totally naked.’ She pulled over a chair with a ripped vinyl seat and demonstrated, thrusting her hips and thrashing her hair around like Elizabeth Berkley in Showgirls . ‘And you know what I felt?’

I shrugged. Curtis scuffed the carpet with his shiny new shoes.

‘Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Limp like cooked spaghetti.’ She cocked her pinkie then gulped some more champagne.

Curtis rallied, lifting his chin. ‘Maybe I just don’t fancy you.’

Chloe laughed so much that champagne came out of her nose. She took a final drag, coughed and stubbed out her ciggie in a black plastic ashtray. ‘Yeah right.’

She wasn’t being egotistical. It was just that every man she met wanted to fuck her. So did most women and a number of domestic animals.

Out in the function room AC/DC started playing and the chanting quieted down except for the occasional knock and plaintive plea for ‘more tits’.

‘Sure you don’t wanna do a show?’ Chloe asked.

‘I’ll pass.’

She turned to Curtis. ‘Go see what they want. I can do pearls, or a banana split with cream for two hundred.’

Curtis nodded and closed the door behind him.

‘You’re so mean to him,’ I said.

She laughed and offered me a cigarette. ‘He loves it. So how’s the straight world?’

‘Fucking dangerous.’ I lit the cancer stick and gave her a rundown, finishing with the Sean/Alex/Suzy debacle. Forget about love triangle, this was a goddamn quadrangle. I finished the ciggie and asked Chloe if she’d ever come between two best friends.

‘Yeah, I had this great threesome one time with—’

‘Pearls.’ Curtis poked his head through the door.

‘Cool.’ She picked up a three metre strand. Let’s just say they weren’t going around her neck. I hugged her goodbye, we promised to catch up and I left her to it.

Curtis stood outside the storeroom with his arms folded across his chest, trying to look tough.

‘Can you find out more about Wade’s association with Neville Annis?’ I asked.

He stared ahead, rock-like, but his mouth lifted a fraction at the corner. ‘Thought you’d dropped the case.’

‘I have, but that Wade bastard’s got it in for me. Might need some ammunition.’

‘Knowledge is power,’ he nodded. ‘I’ll have it for you tomorrow.’

I slept in and woke at ten to find Sean long gone, which was good.

After I left the Tankerville I’d wandered down Johnston Street, had a champagne on my own at the Provincial Hotel, then dinner for one at the Nova café. Steak, salad and a couple of glasses of wine.

During dinner I kept thinking about Emery being Neville’s lawyer.

And when I stopped thinking about that I thought about a sweet smelling red-haired detective. After my solitary dinner I anaesthetized myself with two double whiskies at the Labour in Vain, careful to avoid eye contact with any likely local lads, and toddled back to Sean’s. The purpose of the exercise had been to avoid seeing him and my plan had worked brilliantly. He was in bed by the time I got back.

I drank black coffee, ate boiled eggs and packed up my stuff in anticipation of going home. Just as I picked up my mobile to call Vincent and tell him I was quitting, it rang in my hand.

Curtis. He had the info on Wade and Neville so I gave him Sean’s address and told him to bring it around. He was buzzing the intercom five minutes later.

I let him in. ‘That was quick.’

‘I’m staying around the corner. Backpackers on Nicholson while I look for a flat.’ He surveyed the room. ‘This is the sort of place I want. What’s that cop pay?’

‘No idea. Let me see what you’ve got.’

‘First you spill the beans on the case you just quit.’ He whipped his notebook out of his pants pocket.

I sighed and told him most of the story, but left out Vincent and Hannah’s names and implored him not to mention mine. ‘You won’t be able to print any of this,’ I said.

‘Maybe not now.’ He tapped his pen on his pad. ‘Okay if I smoke in here?’

I nodded and he pulled out a pack of Peter Stuyvesant. I was sure it used to be Peter Jackson.

Curtis kept up his end of the bargain and handed over a sheaf of typed paper with all the information he’d gathered. Wade had represented Neville three times since nineteen eighty-three. Drug trafficking, receiving stolen property and assault. In each case he’d been found not guilty.

‘Funny how Tamara ends up working for one of her dad’s clients,’ Curtis said.

‘Small town.’

‘I’ll say.’

My mobile rang again. Hannah this time.

‘What’s up?’ I asked.

‘Just had the strangest visit from Vincent. We chatted for a bit, he gave me some of his wife’s disgusting gold jewellery, said I’d been very kind to him over the last couple of years and said goodbye.’

‘So?’

‘It was a really final goodbye. I don’t know if you know, but he was diagnosed with terminal cancer last week. They told him he had six months to live. Personally, I think that’s bullshit and I gave him some books with positive affirmations and a raw food eating plan. I guess I’m just worried he’ll top himself. Have you seen him lately? Did he seem okay?’

‘Day before yesterday. I told him what I’d found out so far.’

About Neville. About the bust. ‘Did he say where he was going when he left you?’

‘That’s the weirdest part. He asked me to call him a cab to Tullamarine, but he didn’t have any bags.’

The airport. Holy shit.

I looked at Curtis. ‘We’ve got to get to the airport. Now.’

‘How come?’

‘My client’s just found out that he’s got inoperable cancer and he’s about to confront Neville Annis as he waits for a planeload of Asian sex slaves, completely screwing up a police operation.’

I grabbed my handbag, baseball cap and sunnies and we were out the door. Curtis’ car was a beige eighties model Toyota Camry filled with newspapers, notepads and Subway wrappers. I swept a pile of
Herald Suns off the passenger seat and hopped in.

‘Why?’ Curtis started the car.

‘Jeez, let’s see. Vincent thinks Annis killed his son and his favourite massage girl. He’s got six months to live. I wonder.’

‘No need to get snitchy.’

We squealed right on Nicholson, then shot through Parkville rubdown past the Melbourne General Cemetery and Zoo, onto the Citylink ramp at Flemington Road. Freeway signs in little orange lights told us it was fifteen minutes to the airport. Fifteen minutes too long.

I stared out the window, chewing on the dead skin by my thumbnail as I watched the city turn into the suburbs and eventually khaki pad-docks full of stunted trees. How could I have been so stupid as to tell Vincent about Sean’s operation? I bit too hard and tasted blood.

Finally we turned left onto Airport Drive. ‘International arrivals is ground floor, end of the terminal,’ I told Curtis.

‘I know where it is.’

We pulled up behind an orange Skybus and before I slammed the door I said, ‘Park somewhere and stay in the car.’

‘As if.’

I tucked my hair into the cap, jammed it low on my forehead and slid on the sunnies, not the greatest of disguises, but it would have to do. Inside I stopped in front of a travellers information booth and checked things out. Asian and Caucasian people crowded around a metal barrier, waiting for loved ones to emerge through the wooden Customs doors. Ugly tapestries in primary colours hung from the grey cinderblock walls and big square pillars dotted the room, draped in banners advertising the Art Gallery.

I strolled up to the café, crouched down pretending to do up my shoelace and glanced behind me. Neville, Craig and Wu had been hidden from sight between one of the pillars and the Customs doors. Neville wore his usual red polo shirt and Craig had dressed up in knife-creased jeans and a black jacket that stretched tight across his enormous shoulders. I shivered at the sight of him. Wu looked like a sixties air hostess in a light blue suit and heels. She held a cardboard sign written in Chinese characters, just like the peak-capped chauffeurs who hung back from the crowds.

I walked to the far end of the terminal, turned and wandered back. No sign of Vincent or Sean. A row of plastic chairs upholstered in cheap red fabric were bolted to the floor and I sat and pretended to read an abandoned newspaper. Neville and his cronies were in front of me, to the left. On my right the glass walled Customs office displayed forbidden imports, and dead ahead escalators led to and from the first floor. A sign above them pointed to international departures, shops and food. Red lettering on the doors just beyond the escalators warned Department of Immigration. Restricted Area . Where the hell was Vincent? Maybe his cab had broken down, or he’d chickened out or…

Two cops wearing blue jumpsuits tucked into army boots swaggered in from outside, past me and right in front of Neville.

Craig stiffened and slid his hand inside his jacket. The cops didn’t notice and took the escalator to the first floor.

A wooden door opened. People leaned forward. Travellers dribbled out pushing trolleys laden with suitcases. Wu walked right up to the barrier and held her sign high. A group of Asian couples exited the doors and a woman pointed to the sign.

Wu nodded and waved. Families smiled and shouted. Lovers embraced.

Then I heard a hoarse cry.

‘Neville Annis! Vaffanculo!’

I looked up and saw Vincent gliding down the escalator, arm held straight out, stiff.

In his hand he had a gun.

Everything happened in slow motion, like a car crash.