Grand Slam (26 page)

‘What?'

‘Just like you said, she wants him.'

‘How can you tell?'

‘Hon, you know as well as I do what men want.'

I blinked at her, confused.

She continued, realising I was in fact as stupid as she suspected, ‘Men want to be loved and fed. That's all. Love them and feed them. God, did your mother teach you anything?'

‘No.'

‘Well, I don't think there's anything going on, but let me tell you, all Jack has to do is open his bedroom door and Shaz'll dish out as much loving as he wants.'

Steve called me at seven on Monday morning to say he needed to see me briefly, and asked if I could call in at my house on the way to work. My night-shift bodyguard changed with Andrew on the way there. When I sat next to Andrew in his car, he said a quiet, ‘Good morning,' and that was all.

‘I'm really sorry, Andrew.'

He didn't respond.

‘I didn't mean for you to get in trouble. It's the last thing I wanted. I hope you know that.'

He nodded slightly, and we carried on. We arrived at my house just after eight and I asked Andrew to wait in his car so Steve wouldn't worry about why I needed a bodyguard. I couldn't say Andrew was my ‘driver' because then Steve would think I was a wanker.

Steve and some other blokes were working on and among the criss-cross of beams that now sat on the stumps. I waved from the back gate, and Steve introduced me to Ian the electrician, who asked where I wanted power points (how the hell would I know? one in the bathroom for the hairdryer?) and Phil the plumber, who told me loudly that I had a serious problem caused by a ‘surfboard' someone had stuck down the ‘shitter' and which was now tangled in tree roots and with that and all the ‘brown growlers' and ‘white mice' the whole thing had caused a ‘shitload of mess'. He laughed raucously. ‘Shitload! Get it? Was probably okay for a while,' he shouted, 'till someone took a dump the size of a footy and that was like the icing on the cake, ya know?' He gave me a nudge with his elbow, almost knocking me over. ‘Ya'll never have chocolate icing on ya cake again, will ya?'

‘How could a surfboard fit down there?'

‘Ya know. Pussy hammock.'

My face remained blank.

‘Ya know. Sanitary pad.'

‘Why don't you just say sanitary pad?'

‘Gotta get kitten on the job.'

‘Kitten?'

‘Yeah.' He pointed to a machine on the ground that looked like it had metal jaws and sharp teeth. ‘Gonna cost a bit extra.'

Thankfully, Steve stepped in and explained what extra work Phil needed to do to fix the problem. Steve didn't say pussy hammock. I said I didn't care what it cost just as long as no-one ever mentioned pussy hammocks again. Steve headed for the house, striding across the joists.

I followed, tottering in my heels. ‘I can get the appliance info to you —'

‘Got it.'

‘What?'

‘Got it this morning. Jack emailed me the specs and I've sent them to Stan.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I assume Jack's buying your appliances?' He said it slowly, like I might have forgotten how to speak English.

‘Well, yes —'

Steve jumped to the ground and turned, holding out his hand to help me. ‘He sent the info this morning.'

‘Already?'

‘You should be nice to Jack. The induction cooktop would've cost six grand.'

‘Six thousand! Just for the cooktop?'

‘Yep.'

Bloody hell. I supposed I'd have to cook him a meal or two. ‘He's just chesting up to Emilio.'

I asked Ian the electrician about ceiling fans.

‘You don't want ceiling fans.' He walked away, back across the joists, and stood at a spot where power points would presumably go.

‘Do I have to come over there?' The joists weren't easy to navigate. I pointed instead. ‘That's where the telly will go.'

‘You don't want the TV there. You want it here so you can watch while you're cooking for the man.'

Oh, how nice to be allowed to watch television while cooking for a man. But perhaps I should be banished to an underground room or somewhere with the ironing so I don't disturb him. I went back to Steve, found him in the spare bedroom. He put the kettle on.

‘Cuppa?'

‘Nah.' I checked my watch. ‘I'll sort the power points then I gotta go.'

‘You got shot at on Saturday.' Steve was busy adding a tea bag and sugar to his mug.

‘Yeah.' I watched him jiggle the bag. ‘You seem so worried.'

He looked at me, not with his usual smiley face, but with concern and . . . was that annoyance? ‘Not much point trying to get you to be safe. You ignore anyone who suggests it.'

That stung. But it was probably fair enough. I didn't know what to do but give him a shrug.

‘What's going on with Emilio?'

I went to explain, but it was all too hard. And then, thinking about Emilio and appliances and good guys like Steve and Jack – who deserved delicious meals cooked for them and served in front of the telly – and the shooting on Saturday morning at The Good Guys, I remembered I still hadn't moved my gun.

‘I need to get something from my room.' I headed through the dusty piles of crap in the passageway.

I rifled through the dirty laundry in the hamper, thinking I really needed to take it to Mum's and wash it. I felt around for my gun in the purple sock, seeking its hardness, but could feel nothing but soft things. I peered into the hamper and rifled some more. Nothing. I upended the hamper on my bed. Purple socks – two of them. No gun. Had I moved it and not remembered because I'd been so stressed? Probably. I found the secret drawer key and lay on my back under the bed and unlocked the drawer, which was empty – its usual state of affairs. But where was the gun? Had I taken it to Mum's and not remembered? If I'd taken it to Mum's, where would I have put it? In her laundry hamper? I shuddered at the thought of it and stood, scratching my head.

Steve knocked at the door. ‘Ian still needs the power point info. Can you come?'

I opened the door. ‘Have you been in here?'

‘No. Why?'

‘Has anyone been in here?'

‘Not a chance. The guys don't need to come in this part of the house.'

‘But someone
might
have come in here when you weren't looking.'

Steve frowned. ‘I know these guys. They wouldn't. What's wrong?'

I sat on the bed. ‘Jesus.'

‘What's wrong, buddy?'

‘I keep a gun in here.'

‘
What?
'

‘And it's gone.'

Andrew drove me to work, or rather, we sat in unmoving traffic for half an hour and I tried to think of a simple, harmless answer to the missing-gun problem. Where had it gone? The answer that I avoided was of course the most obvious one. Someone had come into my house, gone to my laundry hamper, and taken my gun. I thought again about the footprints I'd seen.

I wasn't sure what to do about Sharon Stone. Would she really feel so threatened by me to want me dead? I mean, she'd probably killed people before. Not good ones, like me, but bad, enemy-type people. Maybe good ones too. I suppose once you've killed a couple of people, you get a taste for it and even become a bit blasé about it. I shot a man once. I didn't kill him, but he didn't seem very happy about it.

Yesterday, I'd called Joe and asked, ‘What sort of car has Sharon got?'

‘BMW. Why?'

‘Black one?'

‘White, and I know what you're thinking. Stop it.'

‘Geez, I was just wondering what kind of car a girl like her would drive.' (A wanky car, that's what kind.)

And now, with my own gun missing, and knowing that Sharon would know where I lived and had a car to get there and, I supposed, could easily break into a house, I was more sure than ever it had been her.

We pulled up at the intersection of Swan Street and Punt Road.

I glanced at Andrew, sussing his mood. ‘Sorry again about yesterday.'

‘Makes my life hard.' But he was almost smiling. ‘Actually, I was impressed. Didn't think you were that sneaky.'

‘It's Lucy's bad influence.'

He nodded, smiling.

‘Did Jack tell you the details of the shooting on Saturday?' I asked.

‘You mean, like, that one of Jack's bullets was used?'

‘Yeah. There's something else but I don't know how much I'm allowed to tell you.'

‘Spill it. Jack won't care.'

‘My gun's missing from my house.'

He whistled long and low but didn't look at me. He shook his head slowly, said nothing.

‘I need to tell Jack.'

‘I don't envy you.'

I dialled Jack's number, hung up, shut my eyes and turned my face to the ceiling of the car, asking it privately if it could guide me through this mess. Then I dialled again.

He answered. ‘Hey.'

‘Hi. Where are you?'

‘Home. Where are you?'

‘On my way to work. You're having a late start.'

‘Just back from a run.'

I took a huge breath because I didn't want to tell him what I knew I had to tell him. It would be completely irresponsible of me
not
to tell him my gun was missing, even though not telling him was my preference.

‘Are you with Andrew?'

‘Yeah. He's driving me.'

‘Good.'

‘Are you sitting or standing?'

‘Sitting in front of poached eggs.' Hint, hint. Hurry up, Erica.

‘Maybe I should call you later.'

‘No, go ahead.'

I could hear him take a mouthful.

‘Something's happened.' I hesitated before adding, ‘Something bad.'

Slight pause. ‘What?'

‘You remember I left my gun at my house?' Silence. Everything was silent. Andrew held his breath. There was even a weird pause in the traffic noise between light changes, like the whole of Melbourne was holding its breath, waiting for me to continue. ‘And I told you it was in the secret drawer?'

‘Go on.'

‘It was never in the drawer. It was at the bottom of my laundry hamper.'

Long pause. ‘And?'

‘It's gone.'

‘Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, Erica!'

He was up now. I heard the loud scrape of his chair as he pushed back from the table. I cringed, picturing him pacing the room, looking for a wall to punch. Next thing I heard was a loud crash – loud enough to cause me to jump – and the line went dead.

Andrew looked at me with sympathy. And like he wouldn't want to be me, not for all the guns in America.

So there was now not only a murderer who owned a bullet with my name on it, but Jack Jones also wanted to kill me. I'd have to avoid him for a while. There wasn't much I could do about it – the missing gun – and he was so scary when he was angry. So when I got a call at my desk to say that Mr Jones was downstairs and wanted to see me urgently, of course I hesitated.

As the lift doors opened I saw him across the lobby, his back to me, hands in pockets as he gazed through the window at whatever. I wondered what he was thinking. He must have heard me sneaking up on him because he turned, and I had a pretty good idea what he was thinking.

‘Let's go for a drive.' He headed for the exit.

‘No way!'

He stared at me, incredulous.

‘I'm scared of you when you're angry.'

He took a breath, glanced heavenward, looked around. ‘We'll walk.'

So we left my office building and he strode toward the river. I had to trot to keep up. When he reached the river, he stuck his hands in his pockets and continued at a stroll, away from the bulk of the crowds. The stroll was for appearance's sake rather than mine, so we wouldn't attract unwanted attention; Jack's standard modus operandi, even though he always attracts attention because he's so hot. And I always attract attention because I do stupid things.

I fell in step beside him, looking around, hoping no-one would recognise me as the evil lost-lucky-charm lady. I shaded my face from the sun, but really it was a weak attempt at disguise.

Jack said, looking at the ground, ‘I can't tell you how offended I am that you think I could hurt you.'

What to say? I'd never really been sure the job didn't come first. That I wasn't expendable if it mattered enough. Or if I messed up enough to create a big problem for the Team. ‘The Team comes first.'

‘Not always.'

I said nothing more.

‘Tell me what you know.'

I mentioned again the footprints in my house.

‘Anything else?'

‘Yes.' I hesitated. ‘There was someone outside my bedroom window. The night of the storm.'

Jack stopped walking. ‘What did you see?'

‘A human shape through the blind. By the time I checked, they'd gone. I reckon it was a homeless person or something. Someone looking for shelter.'

‘Why didn't you tell me?'

I shrugged. I hadn't wanted to be forced out of my home before absolutely necessary. That seemed so stupid now. ‘And I nearly got run over last week.'

‘Where? What happened?'

I told him, without mentioning the fact that it was him being in WA with Sharon Stone that distracted me. ‘But it might have been an accident. I wasn't looking where I was going.'

He turned and kept walking, shaking his head. ‘When did you last see it?'

I walked beside him. ‘The gun? I don't really remember. I hadn't checked it for months.'

‘So it could have been missing for months.'

‘I – I suppose.'

‘What about Steve?'

‘I asked him. He said no-one's been in my room and I believe him.'

Jack stopped again. ‘This is disastrous but I don't blame you. You didn't ask for any of this.' He looked at his feet. ‘This is my fault. I should —'

‘Oh, no, you don't.' I waved a finger in his face when I really wanted to grip his shoulders and shake him. We'd been here before, last year, when Jack tried to end our friendship for the sake of my safety. ‘Don't you go giving me that “you'd be better off without me in your life” crap!'

‘I wasn't.'

I sniffed. ‘You weren't?'

‘I was just going to say I shouldn't have forced you to keep a weapon in your house. I did it to make myself feel better, thinking you'd be safer. That's all.'

‘Oh.'

‘I'm tempted to ask why it was in your laundry hamper, but I know better.'

‘I was scared to touch it.' And then, as if it might make it seem somehow more secure, ‘It was in a sock.'

He went to say something, drew in a deep breath and blew it out. ‘I'll walk you back to work.'

‘What will happen now?'

‘I'll report it to the police. There could be some kid running around Melbourne with a handgun.' He shuddered slightly. ‘I'll tell Bill. He might be able to keep it quiet for the time being.'

‘You'll be in trouble?'

He hesitated before saying, ‘Yes.'

‘I'm sorry, Jack. You trusted me and I let you down.'

He gave my elbow a quick squeeze.