Sharp Turn (9 page)

Crap. That’s how I felt. And now I had to make sandwiches all day.

‘Urrrr!’ I sat up and scrubbed my face.

Cass opened a make-up-smudged eye. She looked disoriented.

‘You’re on my floor because you got kicked out of home,’ I said.

A little nod. She licked her lips. ‘Why are you up?

It’s still night-time.’

‘No,’ I corrected, ‘it’s morning and I have to go to work.’

With that, I gritted my teeth and planted my feet on the floor. Grabbing my towel, I headed for the shower. When I got back, awake but still cranky, Cass was up and rooting through the kitchenette cupboards.

‘You’ve got no food here,’ she said.

‘I eat out a lot,’ I said, thumbing the clothes rack. ‘There’s bread in the freezer.’

What did you wear to work in a sandwich van? Jeans and a white tee-shirt seemed right. I assembled what I needed and pulled the screen across between me and Wal to dress. Not that I should have worried – his face was buried deep in the couch, a cushion resting on the back of his head.

‘Where ya working?’ Cass asked.

I stood on my tiptoes and peered over the screen. She had the kettle on, and was spreading jam onto toast and cutting it into unbelievably neat triangles.

‘Hey, can you make sandwiches?’ I asked.

She stared at me in surprise. ‘Who can’t?’

I pulled a face, grabbed a spare towel off my rack and hurled it at her. ‘Shower’s outside in the pool house. You got any clothes?’

She shook her head. ‘Mum wouldn’t let me take anything.’

I rifled through the drawer at the bottom of the rack and found a tee-shirt. ‘Wear this over your dress,’ I said, passing it out from behind the screen. ‘And here . . .’ I threw her a hair band. ‘Tie your hair back.’

Her expression turned stubborn, like she might argue or tell me to piss off, but I wasn’t going to have any of it.

‘Look, I’m working on a case, which means I have to disguise myself as a sandwich-seller. I need help with the food while I get around and ask some questions. Think you can do that?’

Her mouth snapped shut, cutting off whatever she’d been thinking of saying, and she nodded.

‘Good. I’ll give you forty per day.’

Her scowl disappeared altogether. ‘Dollars?’

I stepped out from behind the screen. ‘Yeah. If you pull your weight. Now hurry up.’

We drove through Perky’s Pies for a second breakfast: two custard tarts, one vanilla milkshake and one chocolate.

Cass didn’t have much to say until she’d finished her custard tart. She gave her mouth a refined dab with a paper napkin. JoBob would approve. Then she burped long and loud.

Maybe not.

‘What’s the job?’ she asked.

‘My client’s a guy called Bolo Ignatius who owns a bike-racing team. Someone’s been sabotaging his bike gear. Probably one of the other teams. He’s got an important event coming up on Sunday that he can’t afford to lose. So keep your eyes and ears open for anything.’

I got a nod. Without her Goth make-up on and with her hair scraped back, Cass looked younger than her sixteen years – and sweeter. Her eyes were a soft green and her aura was like a cinnamon sprinkle. But that was all a bit misleading. Cass’s idea of a good time was throwing beer bottles at the railway tracks. ‘Sweet’ didn’t work as a description for her; try ‘tough and resourceful with attitude’. She’d helped me out a couple of times when I was chasing a lead in the Bunkas and I hadn’t forgotten.

Nor had she.

Whatever happened at home must have been bad. I’d bet anything that Cass had a high tolerance for dysfunction.

I took the coast road up towards Karinyup. White-topped ocean waves and glancing sun; air clean and cool. Perth was the most beautiful city in the world and the best-kept secret.

The food-van owner lived in a salmon-brick duplex not far from Observation City in Scarborough. The rest of the street was full of mansions. He was tinkering under the hood of the van when we pulled up, and straightened up with difficulty, hands pressing into his lower back.

‘I’m Tara Sharp. Bolo Ignatius asked me to run your van while you’re recuperating this week. This is my . . . err . . . assistant, Cass.’

‘Jim,’ said the sandwich man. ‘Thanks fer doin’ this. Bolo says you’ve bin in caterin’.’

‘Ahh. Yeah. Sure.’

‘Jus’ bring her back here when you’ve finished. I’ll restock each day and the missus will clean her down.’

That sounded like a good deal.

He opened the van door and beckoned us in. ‘She’s got everything you need. Grill runs on gas, so don’t forget to turn the valve off when you’ve finished. Menu and price list here.’

I stared at the well-scrubbed hot plate and deep fryer alongside. How did that work, I wondered.

Jim’s forehead creased with doubt as he saw my expression. ‘There’re two five-kilo bags of chips in the freezer, above the meat patties and the dooper dogs.’

My stomach heaved at the thought of battered sausages.

No such problem for Cass. ‘Cool,’ she said. ‘Milkshakes?’

Jim pointed to an appliance with a silver swizzle. ‘Three flavours. Choc, vanilla and strawberry. Ice-cream’s an extra fifty cents.’

Cass nodded, casting a critical eye over everything. ‘Looks simple enough. Sandwich filling in the fridge?’

‘Yep.’ Jim seemed happier then. ‘The security guard at the gate’ll show you where to park and hook up to the mains power. There’s a list of instructions in the drawer under the cutlery. Call me if you need to know anything else.’

He handed me a bright yellow card with a tiny image of a BLT in one corner and his name and number in the middle.

‘Thanks.’

He dangled the keys in front of me. ‘Look after my girl.’ He clearly didn’t mean his wife.

I summoned some assurance in my smile. ‘Of course.

What time do you normally close?’

‘Around 2 pm. Unless a late order comes in.’

‘Then we’ll see you about 2.45. Mind if I leave my car parked here?’

Jim stared at Mona. ‘I guess so. What’s the story with the paintwork?’

Damn flames! I’d got a cheap paint job from a majorly dodgy spray painter named Bog in the Bunkas. The colour had been bad enough – orange – but he’d gotten creative and thrown in some black flame transfers for free. I now officially drove the she-beast from hell. ‘Friend did it.’

‘Okay, well pull her into the driveway when you drive the van out.’

‘Cheers.’

I did the car manoeuvring, then jumped back into the van. With only a minor gear-crunch we were off and headed up the coast road again.

Wanneroo Raceway was nestled amongst the coastal dunes fifty clicks north of the city. In the late seventies it was renamed Barbagallo Raceway but most people still called it Wanneroo Raceway or Wanneroo Park. I’d been there a few times before on V8 race day, but never for the bikes. Despite the thought of frying chips and buttering bread rolls all morning, I felt excited. The smell of two-stroke fuel had the same effect on me as the leather seats in the Reventon.

We pulled into the visitors car park thirty minutes later without a speeding ticket, and I left Cass unpacking Styrofoam containers while I went for a reccy.

The place was pretty much how I remembered it, apart from the new clubhouse at the back. The track was on the east side of the pits, and on the west side was Bron’s Service Centre, a workshop that ran all year round servicing cars and bikes and no doubt supplying suddenly-needed parts. I did a walk around the entire pit area and hung over the railing at the finish line, drinking in the smell of burnt fuel as several bikes buzzed past. Then I wandered up to the information booth and asked where I’d find the security guard.

The girl in the booth tucked the gum in one side of her mouth and said, ‘He should be at the gate. He must have gone to the office. You in Jim’s van?’ She pointed to the visitors’ car park.

‘Yeah. Just covering for him until his back is better.’

‘Lemme give you my order now then. Jim knows I can’t leave the booth for too long so he always has it ready for me.’

‘Sure. You been working here a while?’ I asked casually.

‘Five years. Best job I’ve ever had. Booth’s air-conditioned and I’m allowed to read magazines when it’s quiet.’ She scribbled something on a post-it note and slid it across the counter.

‘Chicken and lettuce on a white poppy-seed roll, no butter. Can of Diet Coke. Strawberry muffin. For Sharee,’ I read aloud.

‘That’s me.’ She gave me a white-toothed smile and jangled her earrings, which were two cute black and white sheep with goggly eyes.

‘I’m Tara,’ I said. ‘What time do you want your order?’

‘Eleven forty-five, please. I like to get in before the wrenches. You won’t have to worry about Team Chesley though. They bring their own caterer.’ She flicked the tip of her nose and lifted it in the air.

‘Guess you know everybody here?’

‘Yeah,’ she said brightly. ‘That’s part of my job.’

‘Great.’ I smiled back just as brightly. ‘See you soon.’

I made a mental note to tell Cass to put extra chicken in Sharee’s roll. She’d likely be a great source of information.

Cass!
I hurried back to the van, where I found my homeless teenager in a heated discussion with the security guard.

‘You have to move now,’ the guard was saying.

Cass’s face was set in obstinate mode and her aura was turning a dense brown.

‘What’s the problem?’ I asked, turning my smile wattage up a notch.

The security guard and his milky red aura shrank a bit at the sight of me. Some people reacted like that to my size and my direct manner.

‘I was just looking for you to find out where I should park,’ I added apologetically.

‘Refreshments have a designated area and a dedicated power outlet,’ he said.

‘Thanks . . . errr . . . ?’

‘Jase.’ He proffered his hand in a friendlier manner. ‘Your spot’s right over there, alongside the toilet block.’

Next to the loo? Choice! ‘Okay.’

‘I’ll follow you up there to make sure you settle in,’ he said.

I transcribed this as
to keep an eye on you
. ‘Great.’

‘So where’s Jim?’ he asked.

‘He’s got a bad back,’ I answered, climbing into the driver’s seat. ‘Cass!’

But she’d walked off and was talking to a young guy in overalls.

With Jase leading the van as if it were a hearse and he was a funeral director, I drove to my allocated spot. By the time I’d parked and plugged into the power to Jase’s arm-pointing satisfaction, and written down his special order, most of the people in the pits area had come out to watch and smirk. When Cass caught up with me, my cheeks were flaming hot with annoyance.

She gave me a hooded-eyed look. ‘I’ve been investigating like you said to. The guy I was talking to told me who’s racing and a bit about them.’

My temper cooled a little. ‘He did?’

‘Yeah. Then he asked me out.’ She seemed surprised.

‘What did you learn?’

‘He works for the track owner. ’Parently there’re four local teams up here practising today – Riley, Moto-Sane, Bennett and Chesley. Like you said, there’s some big race coming up on Sunday that they all want to win.’

‘That’s right. The qualifier for the National Championships. Anything else?’

‘Moto-Sane should win – they’ve got the best bike and rider – but the guy says they won’t get it together on the day. Riley’s his favourite to win. He reckons there’s a thing going on between those two teams.’

Funny Bolo hadn’t mentioned that. ‘He say why?’

She shook her head. ‘I didn’t ask. Didn’t want to seem too nosy straight up.’

‘Fair enough.’ I reached into my bag and brought out a pen and notepad. ‘We’d better get to work. Do you want to write all that down so we don’t forget it?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ll remember.’

‘But you might not,’ I insisted.

She put her hands behind her back like a little kid. ‘Yes, I will.’ The freckly spots in her cinnamon aura became pronounced.

I was about to push the issue when I remembered her reaction when I’d given her my card after she’d helped me out with some surveillance at Burnside Station. I’d thought then that she couldn’t read, but I’d forgotten it until now. And if she couldn’t read, maybe she couldn’t write either.

‘Make sure you do,’ I grumped to cover my realisation.

Cass got to work buttering rolls, chopping lettuce and filling the bain-marie. She seemed right at home preparing food. Meanwhile, I made an awful mess practising how to use the milkshake maker.

‘Don’t put so much milk in it,’ she suggested.

I bit back a retort because she was right. ‘You worked in a restaurant before?’ I asked.

She shrugged. ‘Maccas for a while. I did the cooking at home too. Mum doesn’t like it.’

I eyed her with growing respect. ‘You wanna make up Jase’s and Sharee’s orders?’