Rubdown (18 page)

I arranged for us all to meet by Curtis’ bedside on Saturday, then Tony left and Chloe raced to St Vincent’s to check on Magnum. I hung around for another half hour by the Coke machine in the foyer until they’d finished giving Sean the third degree about his relationship with me.

When we finally got back, ballistics were just finishing up, having collected shell casings and dug bullets out of the walls. One of the crime scene guys helped us nail a board to the window and we packed a couple of bags, grabbed two bottles of vodka from the freezer and took off to find a motel like the CIU detective had suggested. Before we left Sean spent a quiet moment surveying his ruined music collection. He took a deep breath in, sighed it out.

I just stood there, knowing it was all my fault.

Inside the Saab he popped a cigarette in his mouth and depressed the dash lighter. ‘So, trouble-child. Any ideas about a motel?’

‘Can it be the kind with a broken neon sign, cigarette burns and the sound of a hooker and her john going for it in the next room?’ I asked.

The lighter popped out and he held the glowing tip to his smoke. ‘You’re quite sleazy, aren’t you?’

I just smiled.

We couldn’t find a place with a broken neon sign so we settled for a hotel in Parkville called, no kidding, Vibe. It was once a cheap motel but it had recently been refurbished in a vaguely sixties style and the lobby was all curved wood and groovy light fittings. Our room was out the back near the car park and had a pink door, Foxtel and a mini bar. We christened the bed and ordered room service. Roast pumpkin salad with feta and olives for Sean and chicken Caesar for me. While we waited for the food we christened the bathroom sink. Nothing like a near death experience to get the juices flowing. When dinner arrived Sean answered the door wearing my lacy hot pink undies. Those room service guys must have seen it all. We lay on the bed, eating and watching R-rated porn with the sound turned down.

‘I’m sorry about your flat,’ I said.

‘Insurance will cover most of it.’

Except the irreplaceable vinyl.

‘The main thing is no one was badly hurt,’ Sean said, trying to convince himself.

‘Curtis won’t be sitting down for a while.’

‘True. At least now Homicide will take your claims seriously.’

‘I hope so. I just want all this shit to be over.’

‘And we can keep investigating. Just have to be careful.’ He scooted up to the head of the bed and fiddled with the clock radio, tuning it to a jazz station.

‘What sort of tunes you into?’ he asked.

‘Bits of everything. I don’t mind jazz.’ I nodded at the radio.

‘Dance music when I’m running. Cock rock when I’m lifting weights, The Smiths when I’m depressed and country when I’m drinking whisky in bars.’

‘Country? That why you don’t have a boyfriend?’

I punched him in the arm and poured us both another vodka.

‘What about you? You don’t have a girlfriend.’

‘I did eighteen months ago. We were together three years but my crazy hours broke us up. Funny thing is, six months later she was married with a baby on the way.’

‘That always happens.’

‘Talking from personal experience?’

‘Kind of.’ I drained my glass. Poured another.

‘Let me guess, you had this one big relationship in your mid-twenties and it ended badly. Am I right?’

‘You detectives never stop detecting, do you?’

He propped himself up on one elbow and lit a cigarette.

‘Come on, tell me about it.’

‘Nah.’

‘No more sex until you do.’

‘That’s cruel and unusual punishment.’

He didn’t say a thing. I rolled on my back and stared at the ceiling.

I said, ‘Okay. You’re right. There was this guy when I was living in Sydney.’

‘Name?’

‘Matt.’

‘Occupation?’

‘Medical student.’

‘Smart.’

‘Yeah, a Virgo like you. Got together when I was twenty-one and he was twenty-seven and we had a lot in common, mainly going out, seeing bands, getting wasted. Moved in together, planned to get married one day in Vegas. For three years things were sweet.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘A combination of him starting his internship and the infatuation wearing off. He was tired all the time, but I still wanted to party. So I did. And, yeah, we just kind of drifted apart.’

‘You’re not telling me the full story.’

‘Yes, I am. God, I feel like a suspect. You gonna rough me up a bit, make me talk?’

‘I prefer whacking people over the head with a phone book.

Doesn’t leave a mark. Come here.’

I did.

Camera’s flashed. Photographers yelled. Chloe and I were on our way to the Tamara Wade Foundation Gala Benefit and the red carpet leading into Crown Casino was a sea of diaphanous fabric, smooth tanned skin and gravity defying cleavage. There were more blondes than Bar 20 and I’d seen less flesh at the Men’s Gallery on Grand Final weekend.

Chloe was laced into a red PVC dress. A trashy Venus. I was in a hot pink baby doll mini with a teased blonde wig and my white platform stripping boots, looking like I should be go-go dancing in the lobby at the Vibe hotel. Chloe had been right about Mandy the makeup artist, she’d totally transformed me. Several shades of foundation sculpted my face, my brows arched higher and lips appeared fuller due to a judicious application of pencil and gloss. I had brown contact lenses, false lashes and fake titties stuffed in my bra: silicone inserts the same shape and consistency of raw chicken breast. For once I was loaded upfront.

The photographers jostled for position.

‘Chloe! Chloe! Over here!’

She obliged and struck a pose, all tits and teeth.

‘Who’s your friend, darling?’

Chloe put her arm around me and smiled. ‘This is Tiffany.

She’s a porn star!’

The flashes were blinding.

‘Chloe!’ I hissed.

She giggled, extremely pleased with herself, and steered me through the atrium and up a sweeping staircase. The atrium was doing its automated Las Vegas style thing: an overwrought music and light show with giant chandeliers dropping from the ceiling, fountains spurting water and a hidden dry ice machine cranking out manufactured mist.

We followed a gaggle of anorexic soap stars in Collette Dinnigan frocks up a plush corridor, flashed our invitations and were inside.

The Palladium was a function room the size of a football field full of round tables set with bronze and white napery. Wine glasses sparkled in the golden light and waiters in military style jackets with shoulder pads and epaulettes glided by, trays laden with wine, beer and champagne.

Chloe found our names on a setting at the back of the room and put her hands on her wide hips. ‘This table’s shit!’

I plucked two champagnes off a passing tray. ‘Better get your head back on TV.’

Chloe skolled hers, burped and grabbed another as a waiter cruised past in the opposite direction. I sipped mine and scanned the room. Emery Wade, Billy Chevelle, Blaine, Veronica and some rich dudes who could have been footy club officials or record company execs were front and centre. Mrs. Wade wasn’t there. Faces I recognised from the social pages populated the tables next to them. Television ‘personalities’, pop singers, spokes-models and people who were famous for no particular reason that I could see.

Veronica kicked off the evening with a rendition of the cringe-worthy ‘Tamara’s Song’. It had been all over the radio, played in taxis, piped through shops, and whenever I heard it I got angrier and angrier. Chloe, a girl who’d always maintained that music died when Slash left Guns N’ Roses, stuck her fingers down her throat and mimed puking. Everyone else in the cavernous room applauded rapturously.

Veronica and Blaine welcomed their guests, stressed what a worthy cause the Tamara Wade Foundation was, and made the rich folks feel good about themselves before handing over the floor to a game show host with frighteningly white teeth.

The food came, a tower of vegetables and meat sprouting from a sea of ‘jus’ and topped with crispy wisps of deep fried sweet potato. More a feat of engineering than a meal. We were subjected to a boy band as we ate, then an auction of autographed celebrity underwear, and a dance troupe that might have featured in the previous year’s Rock Eisteddfod. When the plates were cleared a halfway decent salsa band started up and guests began to twirl each other around the dance floor. Everyone was tanked and out of their designated seats. Time to make my move.

‘I’m going to try and talk to Blaine,’ I told Chloe. ‘Think you can distract the old dudes?’

‘No problemo.’ She took my hand and pulled me through the crowd, ducking and weaving, until we stood in front of Emery and Billy. Both wore tuxedos, but Billy had accessorized his with a string tie and cowboy boots. Far as I was concerned, he gave cowboys a bad name.

‘Ohmigod,’ gushed Chloe. ‘You’re Billy Chevelle!’

He stood taller, ran a hand through the shaggy hairstyle he’d been sporting since the late seventies and stuck it out. Chloe went to shake, but he kissed her hand instead. Eeew.

‘Enchanté,’ he said.

Double eeew. I hung back slightly, tracking Veronica and Blaine out of the corner of my eye. They were joined at the hip and surrounded by a crowd of sycophants five feet deep.

An enormous bodyguard stood back slightly, watching over them. He had a square jaw, a blonde buzz cut and wore a black suit and dark sunglasses. A thrill of fear unfurled in my stomach. Ever since I’d been attacked, massive bouncer types totally freaked me out. Not good seeing as I spent a lot of my time in pubs.

‘You sang “Love Tidal Wave”! Chloe jiggled up and down, seriously in danger of a black eye. ‘I love that song! I can’t believe I’m standing right in front of you!’

‘Well the lady’s certainly got excellent taste.’ Billy flashed his whitened teeth. ‘You look familiar, have we met before?’

‘You probably saw the television show I hosted, “Sin City”?

Plus I had a role on “Stingers”. I asked Peter Phelps if he’d like a lap dance.’ Chloe looked down like it was no big deal.

Emery stepped forward, muscling in on Billy’s action like a silverback gorilla in a David Attenborough special. ‘And fine work it was. You’re Chloe, the famous exotic dancer.’

‘That’s right,’ she responded breathily. ‘And you are?’

‘Emery Wade. I’m not a celebrity, I’m afraid, just a criminal lawyer.’

‘My,’ said Chloe, one hand caressing her chest. My rough as guts best friend appeared to be channelling Marilyn Monroe.

‘He’s Blaine Wade’s father,’ Billy said, to make Emery seem old.

‘And your friend?’ Emery looked at me without recognition.

Of course that would be blown out of the water as soon as I opened my mouth.

‘Tiffany—’

‘Hoffschneider.’ I put on a guttural German accent and pumped his hand up and down. My grandparents came from Munich so I did a fair impression, although I tended to sound a little like Nico from Velvet Underground.

‘She’s a porn star,’ Chloe said, suppressing a grin.

Billy raised his eyebrows. ‘German porn?’

‘Ja.’ I was nervous, so I started babbling. ‘People think it is sick, vot vit de dwarves und de fisting but vot ve try to explore is a, a, abstract, expressionist, Brechtian, Wagnerian, Nietzschean pastiche, ja?’

Chloe held her chin and nodded like she knew what I was on about and Emery and Billy studied me with a mixture of horror and fascination.

I looked around, desperately trying to think of something to fill the silence. ‘I like zis casino. Reminds me of Vegas. I voz just there for the Adult Industry Awards.’

‘You were nominated?’ asked Billy.

‘Ja, best performance in a gang bang.’

‘Win?’

‘Nein. Lost to Buffy St Clair. Vot a hund.’

‘What are you doing in Australia?’ Emery.

‘I come to see my good friend Chloe.’ I put an arm around her. ‘Try to ask her to make movie vit me in Deutschland, do some—vot you call them?—double fräulein shows vile I am here.’

‘Lesbian doubles.’ Chloe dipped her chin and batted her eyelashes.

A waiter swooped past and Emery ordered a bottle of Moet.

He pronounced it ‘mower’. ‘What are you girls doing after this?

Want to come to the exclusive after-party upstairs?’

‘Why not?’ Chloe giggled.

‘Ja, for certain,’ I said.

The after-party was in a penthouse suite packed with penguin suits, cleavage and gilded furniture. Veronica’s latest album was mercifully drowned out by drunken conversation and the air was thick with expensive perfume and free booze. From that altitude the sprawling southern suburbs were transformed into a glittering carpet of light that stopped abruptly at the dark curve of the bay.

Chloe and I were squeezed between Billy and Emery on an overstuffed cream and gold couch, sipping French champagne.

Emery’s knee was touching mine and even though I supposed he was quite good looking for an old bloke, a shiver of revulsion danced down my spine.

Billy plucked a small bag of coke from his jacket pocket and a tiny silver spoon. He took a snort, gave one to Chloe, then offered it to me.

I’ll admit I was tempted. It was probably really good shit but I didn’t want to be diverted from my mission by getting out of it and screwing up. ‘Nein danke, did too much in Berlin. I get my septum reconstructed.’

He didn’t offer any to Emery.

‘You not like the cocaine?’ I asked.

He leaned in and put his hand on my thigh. His breath was sticky in my ear. ‘Let’s just say I have other vices.’

The shiver almost turned into a seizure.

Soon as the powder hit, Billy and Chloe started talking an inordinate amount of shit. My friend rabbited on about her one day on the “Stingers” set and Billy wouldn’t shut up about how he was going to make Veronica big in America and rake in gazillions in royalties. Not to be outdone, Emery told me how much money his firm brought in last financial year, and that he could have been a great footballer like Blaine until a knee injury cut short his promising career.

I tried to bring the conversation around to Tammy. ‘The Foundation is a very vorthy cause.’