Peepshow (12 page)

Mick laughed. ‘Poor baby.’ He toked on the burned-down joint and offered it to me. I shook my head and he pinched it out and flicked it into a large glass ashtray on the floor. ‘You work with Aurora, right? Must get plenty of attention at the Red. Don’t need any from me.’

‘That’s true,’ I said. ‘If you’ll excuse me I have to go home now.’

He turned side on to let me through the door and I handed him the CD on my way out. When I was halfway up the hall he called, ‘Simone.’

He’d found out my name. I turned as I reached the kitchen door. He was in the doorway holding the CD.

‘I’m putting it on if you want to have a listen.’

I grabbed a fresh bottle from the fridge and fiddled with the foil, deciding what to do. I desperately wanted to accept his invitation but I didn’t want to give the cocky bastard the satisfaction.

‘Vivien-Simone!’ Aurora was pissed and in high spirits. ‘I wondered where you’d got to. Come and dance.’ She pulled me towards the lounge room where the music was booming.

‘Actually—’

‘Where are you going with that bottle of champagne?’

I looked toward Mick’s room and Aurora giggled.

‘You and Mick, I knew it.’

The blonde with the roses shot me a filthy look.

‘We’re just listening to Lucinda Williams,’ I said.

‘Who? Well, sweetie, I won’t wait up for you.’

‘It’s not—’ but Aurora had skipped off to the lounge. The blonde gave me the death stare and I stared back until she looked away. I had to go to his room now, just to piss her off.

Mick lay on the mattress with one arm behind his head, smoking a rollie and looking at the ceiling. He’d turned off the bare light bulb and lit a candle in a beer bottle. He was hopeful. Lucinda Williams sang ‘Drunken Angel’.

‘What do you think?’ he asked.

‘I like it. All my favourite country songs involve drinking hard liquor and being on the run from the law.’

He laughed, a slow, stoned chuckle. ‘Mine too.’ He propped himself up on one elbow and I sat cross-legged on the floor and drank out of the champagne bottle. We looked at each other and didn’t say anything. Lucinda finished the song and started another.

‘You don’t say much,’ I said.

‘Most people talk just for the sake of talking.’ He flicked the cigarette into the ashtray and swigged his beer. ‘Come here,’ he said.

‘Nuh-uh.’ I shook my head.

‘Are you scared?’

‘No, I’m not scared.’

‘I think you are,’ he smirked.

‘Fuck you.’ I took a huge gulp of champagne and crawled onto the mattress and straddled him. Big mistake. Wherever my body touched his I felt heat and tingling, zapping me right through two layers of denim.

I tried to slide off but he grabbed my hips and pushed me down onto him. Oh my god. He was hard and I felt my pussy start to throb. Mick placed his hands on my face and pulled me down to kiss him. His mouth was soft and he used just the right amount of tongue and gently bit my bottom lip. Despite the beer and tobacco he tasted sweet and up close smelled like sweat and clean washing. He put his hand inside my shirt and when he brushed my nipples I pushed harder against him. His cock strained at his jeans. He rolled on top of me and unzipped my hipsters while we kissed, and when he slid his hand into my knickers I almost came on the spot.

It was like there was some kind of energy between us, electric, otherworldly. Or maybe I’d inadvertently inhaled some of that dope smoke.

I could have kissed him forever but there was something else I wanted in my mouth. I whispered in his ear, ‘I have to suck your cock.’

Not surprisingly there was no protest from Mick and I went down, undid his brass belt buckle and unzipped his fly. He wasn’t wearing any underwear and his hard-on sprang free. I licked the head and the shaft then took the whole thing in my mouth and heard him moan. After a few minutes he pulled me up and kissed me again and began to tug off my jeans.

‘Wait,’ I said.

‘Don’t you want to do it?’ He drew feathery circles on my clitoris with his fingertip and made me really
really
want to do it.

‘Yes.’ I pulled away from him, breathing hard, all messed up. His shirt was off and the tattoos on his arms and chest writhed in the candlelight. ‘That’s why I’ve got to go.’

I escaped via the back gate, stopped in a cobbled laneway and leaned against a wall, breathing deeply to slow my heart rate. Jasmine curled over the fence opposite, filling the warm, thick air with its scent.

There weren’t many stars but the moon was almost full and traffic hummed on nearby Chapel Street. I could still feel him, still taste him, and I stayed by the wall , hugging myself until I was composed enough to go look for a cab.

I had it bad.

‘You’re late.’

‘I’m sooo sorry.’ I looked around Sexpo. The exhibition centre was huge and blow-up dolls dangled from the ceiling.

‘That’s all right, mate, don’t stress.’ Kelvin patted me on the shoulder. ‘I’m just surprised.’

‘News flash,’ I said, ‘world’s most reliable stripper late for Sexpo.’

‘Big night?’

‘You could say that.’ I willed the pain tablets to kick in. I was getting too old for this shit.

‘We’ll have to go out some time for a kick-arse curry.

It’s been ages.’ He swigged from a water bottle. ‘It’s just hard with the new baby.’

‘How is she?’ I asked. ‘And the wife?’

‘They’re fine.’ Kelvin’s dark round face beamed.

‘Amara’s beautiful, sleeps a lot. What about you? When are you going to pop out a couple?’

I laughed so hard I thought I might throw up.

Kelvin handed me a T-shirt and I went to the toilets to get changed. Exhibitors were still setting up their stands full of videos, sex toys and lingerie and the ladies’ was packed with women squeezing into wigs and latex gear.

I changed into hotpants, boots and a padded bra and put on the tight black T-shirt Kelvin had given me with extreme promotions emblazoned in white lightning letters. The padded bra was great. Cost me five bucks at a seconds shop in Richmond and was an instant tit-job, no mess, no fuss, no scarring. I painted on slutty red lipstick to match my bloodshot eyes, slid my inquiry agent ID

into my back pocket, and headed to the cafeteria to get a coffee.

I tried not to think about Mick. Each time I did I got shivers and went into a dreamy swoon followed by angry recrimination. I should be ashamed of myself. Almost fucking a musician two seconds after meeting him. We’d hardly said a word to each other. And I knew the type of guy he was, the kind that as soon as he’s had you he doesn’t want you anymore. I’d learned about that shit the hard way.

I paid for the long black and dumped my bag under Kelvin’s stand. Promotional posters of the girls hung on the booth walls and a large television screen showed a video of one of the tamer shows. Sexpo was strictly R rated. The strippers on the main stage weren’t even allowed to take off their G-strings.

Sipping my coffee I looked around. The booth next to us was Swingers Scene, manned by a couple from the suburbs. The husband wore neat casual and the wife looked like a soccer-mum. They smiled and I gave them a little wave. In the distance a beige dinosaur thing ambled along, spurting water out of its head.

‘What the fuck is that?’ I asked.

‘Penisaurus.’ Kelvin straightened the cards and flyers on the table. ‘He’s the official Sexpo mascot.’

‘Good god.’ I shuddered, ‘This place is turning me off sex already. So what do I have to do?’

He handed me a bunch of flyers. ‘Just walk around and give these out. We’re also promoting topless shots with the girls. Ten bucks a pop.’

‘Can I pass on that?’ I yawned.

‘Sure.’

I walked around giving people flyers and cards, checking out the exhibitors. One of the top brothels had a bed and spa on their stand and a raffle to win a Harley Davidson. Next to them a small booth promoted ‘Uberglide’, a revolutionary German designed lubricant.

I passed the velvet-draped Marquis stand but couldn’t see anyone fitting Ebony’s description and when I got to the far end of the room I found the ‘lifestyle’ booths: beauty, chiropractic, natural therapies. You could tell your friends you just went to Sexpo to get your spine realigned. Yeah right. I signed an anti-censorship petition at the Eros stand and went into the draw at another to win fifty porn videos. That would be sure to impress any potential suitors.

All the exhibitors were really friendly. In fact the whole place had a family atmosphere that made whatever kink you were into seem acceptable, wholesome and healthy. I was appalled. Sex was supposed to be dirty and bad. What if my erotic life never recovered? That got me thinking of Mick again and I just wanted to lie down on the cheap grey carpet and roll about. Sexpo was probably the place to do it. Everyone would just stand around watching politely then ask for a brochure. I blushed when I remembered sucking his dick. I’d really jumped the guy. Chloe would be so impressed. Shit, Chloe. The thought of her snapped me out of my dreamy reverie.

I had to find Ebony.

Back at Kelvin’s stand a girl with curly blond hair extensions and an Extreme Promotions T-shirt handed out leaflets.

‘Hi, I’m Vivien,’ I said.

‘Sabrina,’ she yawned. ‘Gawd, early enough for ya?’

It was two o’clock.

‘You girls should do a double show.’ Kelvin sat on a folding chair at the back of the booth reading an adult contact journal he’d picked up from the swingers next door. ‘Fair go, Kel,’ said Sabrina. ‘I’m not growling out some chick I’ve never even met—no offence.’

‘None taken,’ I smiled politely. ‘Can I go on a break, Kelvin?’

‘Yeah, sure, whatever.’ He was engrossed in his magazine.

I bought a bottle of water to combat the dry horrors and went to the Marquis’ booth to see if Ebony was there yet. On the way through the maze of stall s I saw the Red Room stand. Little blond Dakota was gyrating sullenly on a makeshift table. I didn’t blame her—god-awful lighting, tinny music from a faraway PA, everyone staring but nobody putting money in your garter. I went over.

‘Hi,’ I said, and when it looked like she couldn’t quite place me, ‘Vivien, from the club.’

‘Oh, hi Vivien.’ She kneeled down to talk to me. She had a breathy, girly voice.

‘Tough gig.’

‘Fucken tell me about it. Jim owes me big time. This is the pits. You working tonight?’

‘No, just Fridays and Saturdays. You know, they sell alcohol at the cafeteria.’

‘Really?’ Dakota’s face brightened.

‘Yeah. Say hi to Aurora and Betty for me.’

‘Sure.’

A man in black latex underpants and a gimp mask was tied to an A-frame rack at the Marquis’ stand.

Probably a Supreme Court judge. A bored-looking dominatrix, way too white to be Ebony, whipped him from time to time and a barrel-chested man in his forties stood beside the rack, handing out cards. He was balding and had done that thing where they shave off all the remaining hair.

Studded armbands ringed his biceps and his leather pants had the arse cut out, exposing hairy white buttocks. He should have looked ridiculous but carried himself with the natural authority of a man who beat the shit out of people for a living.

‘I’m the Brigadier.’ His phony English accent reminded me of Vincent Price.

I shook his hand. ‘Nice to meet you. How’s the legs?’

The floor was concrete under the thin carpet.

‘Killing me.’ He rolled his eyes then slapped a cat-o’-nine-tails against his palm. ‘Complimentary whipping?’

‘No thanks, just had one. Couldn’t take another lash.

I was wondering if Ebony was around.’

‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Here she comes now.’ He nodded at the Hustler stand and I saw a statuesque black woman stride towards us. A red rubber corset pushed her breasts skyward and impossibly high black boots were laced to the tops of her thighs. She wore a white, Louis XVI wig with a mini top hat and veil, rouged cheeks, a heart-shaped beauty spot and a stern expression. The leashes in her hand led to dog collars around the throats of two flabby middle-aged men dressed like the guy on the rack. A Liberal Party MP, I guessed, and possibly a Catholic priest.

‘Ebony.’ The Brigadier clapped his hands together.

‘This delightful young lady would like to speak with you.’

Ebony looked me up and down and I felt very short, very white and very skanky in my hotpants and cheap T-shirt.

‘How can I help you?’ She had an American accent.

‘I’d like to talk to you about getting into some bondage work,’ I said.

She looked down at me and arched an eyebrow. ‘Talk to Felicia.’ She looked at the other mistress. ‘Or the Brig. I’m busy.’ She snapped the leads like an arctic explorer ‘mushing’ the huskies and began to walk off.

‘Wait,’ I said sharply. I was over all this bullshit, hungover and running out of time. ‘I’m not after a job.

I want to talk to you about Frank Parisi’s murder.’

Ebony’s eyes opened wide and she put her hands on her hips. ‘And who the fuck are you exactly?’

‘I’m a private detective.’ I took my license out and handed it over. The Brigadier, who was pretending not to listen, did a double take and nudged Felicia. Ebony studied my ID and laughed.

‘A private dick.’ She chuckled. ‘Always wondered what you guys wore under those trenchcoats.’

‘I strip as well. It’s the new millennium—multi-skilling and all that.’

‘Tell me about it, sister, but I don’t know if I can help you.’ She handed back my license. ‘I already talked to the police.’

‘Anything you can tell me about Frank would help.’

‘I’m going out for a cigarette,’ she said. ‘You can join me if you want.’ She handed the leashes to the Brigadier and the men sat on their heels like begging dogs and whined. One crawled over and licked Ebony’s boot.

‘Fuck off.’ She kicked him away.

We left Sexpo and walked through the glass-walled foyer that overlooked the Yarra, then out a side door to some concrete steps. About twenty exhibitors in various states of undress hung around, eagerly sucking in smoke.

We sat down and Ebony stretched her legs out, took a packet of Cartier cigarettes from a small velvet bag and offered me one. I shook my head and she lit it for herself with a small gold lighter. Her fingernails were long and gleamed with dark red varnish.