Rubdown (20 page)

‘What’s this?’

‘Research. I went through all my old mags and cut out every article I could find about Veronica and Blaine. There are about twenty.’

‘Thanks.’ I hugged her. It was a sweet thing to do. Totally useless, but sweet all the same.

‘Oh yeah,’ she said. ‘Mandy called. She wants her tits back.’

Sean and I drove to his place so I could pick up my car. The Beast tends to seize up if she’s not driven regularly. I was about to hop in and drive her back to the hotel when he stopped me.

‘Let’s just check something first.’ He lay on his back and dragged himself under the chassis.

‘Reckon Wade’s gonna blow me up?’ I joked, suddenly nervous.

‘Look at this.’

I scrambled under the car, rocks and gravel scraping my back.

He pointed to the rear mudguard. Attached was a black box the size of a cigarette packet. A wire aerial ran between the box and the rear bumper bar.

‘Remote tracking device.’ He said. ‘Transmits to a laptop and your car shows up as a dot on a Melways map.’

‘Get it off!’

He reached for the disk and stopped. ‘I think we should leave it. Doesn’t tip our hand and it could be useful down the track.’

Sean stood at the bar trying to get us a drink. I was behind him, hanging on to his belt loop. I’d never seen the back room of the Greyhound so packed, but then I’d never been there on drag night. Men in tight tshirts cruised around checking each other out, and drag queens swanned about regally, towering over everyone with heels and hairpieces. Their makeup was thick and elaborate, huge painted-on lips, long false lashes and lots of glitter.

Sort of like stripper to the power of ten.

It was dark except for the mirror ball and the stage but that was just as well. I’d had the misfortune to be in the back room once when the lights came up. I shuddered at the memory of a carpet that looked like it had been burned in a fire, swamped with water, and partly decomposed before developing a scab-like crust.

Worse than the carpet had been the realisation that the guy I’d flirted with for an hour was not so much a young Peter Fonda as a current Peter Costello.

On stage a seven foot Dusty Springfield mimed ‘Son of a Preacher Man’ in front of a glittering tinsel curtain. Buff young things with oiled chests and gold hotpants pranced on either side of her.

Sean handed me a mini bottle of Great Western and shouted in my ear: ‘I think we should split up. You look for Lulu and I’ll get a line on Geisha.’

‘Can’t I be your fag-hag?’ I yelled back.

He detached my fingers from the waist of his jeans. ‘Girlfriend, you are already cramping my style.’

I poked my tongue out and took off into the crowd, determined to find Lulu if she was there to be found. I squeezed through the crush of bodies, smelling sweat, cologne, hair products and lust. Not for me, though. I’d never been around so many men and been so comprehensively ignored.

I was up the front when Dusty left the stage and the compere introduced Geisha. She was petite, with a China-girl bob, and wore black mesh and satin shorts as she mimed and danced to ‘All That Jazz’. When she left the stage a muscular Kylie Minogue got up and performed ‘Better the Devil You Know’.

The crowd, all taller than me, were singing and dancing and I was getting jostled around and finding it hard to breathe. Feeling faint, I retreated to the bar, ordered another cheap champagne and surveyed the darkness for Lulu until my eyeballs got sore. When I turned to pay for my drink I saw Geisha right there, buying a gin and tonic. I knew she was supposed to be Sean’s responsibility, but it wouldn’t hurt for me to have a crack.

‘Loved your show,’ I spoke loudly over the music.

‘You’re too kind.’ She paid for her drink, turned and waved to someone across the room. Opium perfume wafted through the air.

‘Seen Lulu lately?’ I asked.

Her head snapped back and she looked me up and down while she sipped her G&T through a straw. Liquid liner swept cat-like from the outer corners of her eyes and her mouth was a glossy red bow. ‘And who the fuck are you?’

‘A friend. I work with her at Good Times. She hasn’t shown up for work and everyone’s worried.’

‘Probably met some guy, took off for a while.’ She dismissed me, turning her gaze toward the stage.

I made my voice hard. ‘Her best friend was murdered, her place was turned over and now she’s missing. If you have any idea—’

She started to walk off so I grabbed her by the shoulder and turned her around. ‘Lulu called me,’ I said, ‘told me Emery Wade was trying to kill her.’

Geisha’s feline eyes flashed. ‘Hands off the merchandise, girlfriend.’ She put two fingers in her mouth and whistled loudly.

A no neck bouncer ambled over. God, not again.

‘I didn’t do anything,’ I protested.

‘She called me a freak!’ Geisha said.

‘Shame on you,’ another queen tutted.

‘I didn’t, I—’ The bouncer grabbed my upper arm, frog-marched me to the door and pushed me out onto the street.

I turned around, considered making a comment about steroids and shrivelled genitalia, thought better of it and gave him a stern look instead. That’d show him.

I crossed Brighton Road and when I got to Sean’s car remembered it was locked. I settled down on the kerb to wait, shivering in my snakeskin skirt and low cut top, watching traffic stream up from the southern suburbs to the city—mostly plated cars packed with young guys ready for a night cruising Chapel Street and doing blockies in St Kilda, shouting at all the street workers.

‘What happened to you?’ he asked.

‘Geisha lied to me, then got me kicked out. I swear she knows where Lulu is. We have to follow her, find where she lives.’

‘No need.’ He flashed a beer coaster. ‘I’ve got her home number. Only take a phone call to find out her address.’

‘How’d you get that?’ I asked.

‘Simone, darling, you are not the only one who can wiggle your tush and make men do your evil bidding.’

It was then I noticed a red lipstick mark on his cheek.

‘You fucking tart,’ I said, impressed.

‘Takes one to know one, honey.’

It was eight am and I was in the back seat of Tony’s dark blue Pajero, parked outside Wicked. The day club was a converted red brick factory in a semi industrial area in Prahran. The weather had gone cold again and the sky was low and grey. Sean and Tony were in front, looking like detectives in sober navy suits. I, on the other hand, looked like a world class skank in silver lamé hotpants with matching halter top, strappy white heels and a white fake fur jacket. It was too early for this shit and I was too damn sober.

I handed the mug shot of Damien Trentham back to Sean.

‘He’s not going to go for it.’

‘Sure he will,’ he said.

‘He’s a bloke, isn’t he?’ Tony added.

Sean swivelled around in his seat and rubbed my bare knee.

‘Just get him out to his car. We’ll do the rest.’

Tony looked at his watch. ‘I’m taking my daughter to netball at ten.’

‘Alright.’ I unwrapped a Chupa-chup and stuck it between my teeth, synthetic strawberry flavour flooding my mouth. ‘I’m going.’

I slid out of the seat, slammed the door and wobbled across the uneven road in my tacky heels. The lamé shorts rode up my arse crack and I resisted the urge to dig them out, knowing Tony and Sean were watching.

The bouncer waved me through the front entrance and I paid a snooty blonde ten bucks, passed through another door and day turned into night.

The club was cavernous and dark with laser lights piercing the smoky fug. Rapid fire techno set my teeth on edge and I headed straight for the bar on the left side of the room. Clubbers danced in the middle, hands held up as if worshipping the laser lights.

Topless guys with oiled chests and ecstatic, haggard faces thrust their groins on podiums and the couches were a tangle of arms and legs, drug-fucked people rubbing each other’s shoulders, talking close.

I decided a champagne breakfast was in order. Three quick drinks later I was sufficiently lubricated to embark on my mission.

I’d had my eye on Damien for half an hour. He’d been bouncing around the club in his oversized jeans and white singlet, baseball cap sideways, palming people drugs, pocketing money and disappearing into the toilets on a regular basis. He was quite a good looking boy, with an arrogant pout and brown hair that flopped over his forehead, but his looks were completely ruined by his atrocious attempt at ghetto cool, the white-grey pallor of his skin, and the skinny arms and concave chest that were testament to a diet of amphetamines and Red Bull.

I drained my glass and attempted to groove casually to the middle of the dance floor where my target was doing business.

Easier said than done. The music I usually listened to was the kind that made your hips sway from side to side. The shit they were playing seemed more suited to hopping up and down like a demented bunny rabbit. Luckily everyone was too wasted to notice my awkward jerking and before too long I was beside Damien, and lurched into him, stringing one arm around his neck and pressing my breasts into his chest.

‘Hi, gorgeous. Know where I can score?’ I pretended to stagger and he caught me round the waist. Up close he smelled like spear-mint chewy and that Lynx deodorant the ads tell you is irresistible to chicks but just gets up your nose.

‘What you after, baby?’ Was it just me or was he affecting an American accent?

‘An E. I’m coming down and I really don’t wanna come down. You know?’ His hand moved down to my butt cheek and squeezed. I ground my teeth, but he probably thought it was because of the drugs.

‘I can sort you out. Got some really good ones, Mitsubishis.

Fifty bucks.’ He chewed rapidly, mouth open.

‘Slight problem. I spent all my money.’

‘Can’t help you then, sweetheart. Maybe you better go home to bed.’

He started to move away, but I pushed against him some more and talked in his ear. ‘Can’t I pay you some other way?’

He turned back and grinned and chewed at the same time.

‘What’d ya have in mind?’

I couldn’t bring myself to say it so I slipped the lollipop out of my mouth, swirled my tongue around the top and gobbed it a couple of times. Damien got the message.

‘Alright.’ He started leading me to the men’s toilets. Oh no.

Not good.

‘Don’t you have a car?’ I whined.

‘Baby, I have a fucking beemer.’

Now I hated him even more, but I said, ‘BMWs get me so hot.’

It worked. He slipped on a pair of Black Fly sunglasses and then I was following him out the club and down a cobbled laneway. His glossy black sedan was parked behind a rubbish skip and had a ticket, which he ignored. As I shivered in the cold, waiting for him to open the passenger door, I resisted the urge to take my keys and give the paintwork a little scratch.

Inside the car smelled like new upholstery and old cigarettes.

He reclined his seat and slid a CD into the player. It was a charming rap number about bitches and ho’s.

He unzipped his loose denims. ‘Blow job first, then you get the pill, yeah?’

‘Sure.’

‘I gotta tell you, it can take me a while to come when I’m on the gear.’

He dug around in his boxer shorts and eventually produced a shrivelled pink thing that put me in mind of a rat fetus. ‘What are you waiting for babe?’

The door nearly flew off its hinges as Tony and Sean wrenched it open. ‘Police!’ They dragged him out of the car and slammed him into a brick wall so hard his sunnies flew off and clattered to the ground. Sean shoved his ID in Damien’s face and Tony patted him down while he desperately tried to shove his dick back in his jeans.

I got out of the car, sat on the bonnet and crossed my arms.

Tony pulled a plastic ziplock bag full of tablets out of Damien’s back pocket. ‘What’s this, then?’

‘Dunno.’ Once zipped he recovered his composure. ‘Never seen it before in my life.’

Sean shoved him back against the wall and got in his face. ‘Cut the crap, arsehole. This bag’s got your filthy prints all over it.’

I stifled a laugh. I’d done a fairly convincing drug whore but Sean had a direct line to DeNiro. I tried to recall every cop drama I’d ever seen and piped up: ‘The suspect indicated he would provide me with an ecstasy tablet on the condition I performed an act of oral copulation on his person.’

Damien’s eyes bugged out. ‘You’re a cop?’

‘Damn right. Think I’d really want to suck your disgusting little dick?’

‘Why not?’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve had heaps better looking chicks than you. I’ve had
models
.’

Sean pushed him and his head cracked against the wall.

‘Owww. Police brutality.’

‘Shut the fuck up. We’ve got you on tape offering Detective Tennyson drugs.’

Tennyson? I sure hoped Damien was too young for the ‘Prime Suspect’ series.

‘We’ve got seven tabs of MDMA,’ Sean continued.

‘Personal use.’

‘Must be planning a big weekend,’ Tony said.

‘Something like that.’ Damien smirked.

Sean bunched the front of Damien’s singlet in his fist and lifted the skinny little dealer onto the balls of his feet. Sean was definitely in the wrong profession. He should have auditioned for NIDA.

‘Hold off, Rebus.’ Tony touched Sean’s shoulder.

Rebus? He had to be joking.

Sean released his grip, stalked over to the BMW and leaned his palms on the bonnet like he was trying to contain his rage.

With his back to Damien he winked at me, then crossed his eyes and poked out his tongue. I covered my mouth with my hand and turned the laugh into a cough.

Tony was saying, ‘We just need some information on Tamara Wade.’

‘Who?’ said Damien.

Sean slapped the bonnet and whirled around. ‘Fuck this! We’re taking him in. Wexford, read him his rights.’

Wexford? That was taking it too far. I studied Damien’s face but there was no recognition. Obviously he didn’t read much, or stay at home on Friday nights with a cuppa, watching the ABC.

Tony said, ‘Son, trafficking drugs means a prison term. And this isn’t exactly your first offence, Daddy can’t bail you out this time.’