Peepshow (14 page)

So what if I was the slut from hell? So what if he was a fuck-’em and leave-’em guitar player? I flashed to the incriminating noticeboard in my room but that was OK, we probably wouldn’t make it further than the floor inside the front door.

I was fumbling for my keys with one hand and his belt buckle with the other when he suddenly pulled away and cupped my chin in his hands. He stared at me, almost as if he was puzzled, and said, ‘Where did you come from?’ Then kissed me on the forehead, turned on his Cuban heels and walked down the stairs.

I waited by the door like a stunned mullet. What had just happened? Hopefully he was nicking to the car for some condoms and—

The Ute started up. Shit. I unlocked the door, raced through my flat to the balcony, and got there just in time to see him speed off down Broadway.

Motherfucker. That was my trick.

The taxi crawled along Sydney Road, Brunswick, past two-dollar shops, Lebanese restaurants and pool halls.

It was eight at night and I was on my way to the Miss Striptease competition. I had two hours to try and talk to Honey and Shane, as Kelvin’s driver was picking me up at ten. A last minute booking for a show at Noble Park—apparently they had asked for me by name.

Mick had called at midday from a building site, the staccato tap of hammering in the background and the whine of a circular saw.

‘ “Okie from Muskogee.” ’

‘That’s so easy I’m not even going to answer,’ I’d replied.

‘What are you doing tonight?’ he asked. ‘Wanna go see a band?’

‘I’m working from eight till midnight.’

‘What about after work?’

‘I don’t know. What if you run out on me again?’

He laughed. ‘Now you know what it feels like.’

‘Evil bastard,’ I said. ‘Was that revenge?’

‘An eye for an eye, lady.’

I had told him I’d call when I’d finished my show.

The neon Crystal T’s sign stuck out from the building at a crazy angle, surrounded by flashing lights. I paid the cab driver and zigzagged through traffic to the other side of the street. I nodded to the bouncer out front, paid ten bucks to get in and left my backpack with the girl behind the front counter.

Crystal T’s had been around for years, catering for bucks’ parties and hens’ nights. The interior was eighties ‘nite spot’ and the furnishings RSL bistro. The stage to my left had glittery curtains and tables full of guys crammed in front and on my right the floor tiered upward and there were more tables and a sound and lighting booth. The bar was at the back and I headed there first for cheap champagne before settling at a table in the raised section with a good view of the club.

I was right on time. The Miss Striptease theme blasted out and a mirror ball sparked points of light across the walls and ceiling. A smoke machine cranked up and a cloud drifted across the stage. Exciting stuff.

The DJ’s voice boomed over the PA: ‘Good evening and welcome to the Victorian finals of the tenth annual Miss Striptease competition!’

The music and lighting became more frantic and the contestants began to appear. Men down the front clapped and yelled. The dancers all wore variations on the same bondage theme and got ten seconds to do a little dance before moving to the rear and striking a pose.

A young-looking blonde shimmied down to a squat at the front of the stage and the DJ introduced her as

‘Honey, sponsored by Dominique’s Elite.’ A guy stood up, punched a fist in the air and yelled, ‘Yeah!’ I guessed that was Shane.

When all eight contestants had created a tableau an explosion sounded and glitter rained down from the ceiling. It was just like Miss Teen USA, but with open leg work.

The girls exited and the DJ introduced: ‘Your hostess this evening, Dominique Dubois!’

A forty-something woman with waist-length black hair walked to the centre of the stage and welcomed the audience. She wore a leopard-print sheath with huge fake boobs popping out. Dominique was famous. She’d been an award-winning stripper in the eighties and now ran Melbourne’s most successful agency, due to her knack for publicity. Her latest trick had been running for parliament on a law and order platform, campaigning with four busty strippers in skimpy cop outfits. It guaranteed her a spot on the news every night: ‘And now the lighter side of the election race.’

‘Are you ready to see the crème de la crème of Melbourne’s striptease artistes get down and dirrrty for you?’ Dominique said.

‘Yeah,’ yelled the crowd.

‘Tonight the girls are competing for over a thousand dollars in cash and prizes, the cover of
Picture
magazine, and the chance to represent Victoria in the national finals. Now you gentlemen have an important role to play. The judges will take into account appearance, personality and the quality of the show but also audience reaction. So when you see your favourite dancer we want you to make plenty of noise, all right?’

‘Yeah.’

Dominique cupped a hand around her ear. ‘I can’t hear you.’

‘Yeaaahhh!’

‘Show us your tits,’ someone shouted. Dominique didn’t miss a beat.

‘What, these old things?’ She jiggled her boobs with her hands. ‘When you’re about to see the best breasts and butts in the business? Gentlemen, the first part of our competition: Body Bitz!’

Dominique left the stage and the dancers began parading past a screen with the mid-section cut out. You couldn’t see their heads or legs, just tits and bums. I was glad my mum wasn’t there. I’d never win the argument about stripping objectifying women and reducing them to parts. Not tonight.

There was an interval after Body Bitz and I bought another drink and took it back to my seat. I couldn’t see the guy I thought was Shane. A man at the table next to me was smoking Peter Jacksons and I was considering bludging one when he noticed me looking and scooted over. He was mid-thirties, dishevelled, and smelled very strongly of beer.

‘How you doing? Curtis Malone,
Picture
magazine.’

He held out a hand and I introduced myself. His palm was slightly sweaty.

‘Is that the judges’ table?’ I nodded to where he’d been sitting.

‘Yeah, I’m one of them. That dude in the middle? He won a reader’s comp to be guest judge.’

I glanced over. The guy was deep in thought, looking down at his scoresheet and scratching his head with a stunted pencil. His light beer was hardly touched. I raised my eyebrows.

‘Yeah,’ Curtis conceded, ‘he’s taking it a bit seriously.’

He offered me a cigarette, lit it and I drew back gratefully.

‘So he doesn’t know the competition’s rigged then?’

I blew out smoke.

Curtis opened his mouth in mock shock. ‘Blasphemy!’

Then he leaned in: ‘Ever done any glamour modelling?’

‘Nope.’

‘How’d you like to be in
Picture
?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Come on, every girl wants to be in
Picture
magazine.’

‘I am a fan of your publication.’

‘Really?’

‘I love the words you guys come up with. Tockley, Smoo. And Cuntox, that’s my favourite.’

‘No shit, Cuntox was one of mine.’

‘It’s a heck of a word, congratulations.’

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I worked on the
Sydney Tribune
a couple of years ago, court reporting, sports pages. But I never got to make up a word, you know.’

‘It’s a beautiful thing,’ I agreed. The lights dimmed and Dominique announced the individual dance event.

‘Anyway,’ Curtis got off his chair, ‘here’s my card, we’re always looking for new girls and it’s worth a couple of grand if you make the cover.’

The performances began with a cheerleader, followed by a devil with glittering red horns and a girl who started in a fat suit and emerged thin and naked.

I tried to note good moves for my own shows. Then Honey skipped onto the stage in a St Trinian’s style school uniform: blazer, straw hat, ripped stockings. She was tiny even in stripper heels, with no hips and small perky breasts. The guys at Shane’s table went wild as she jumped around like Mighty Mouse on speed, concluding the show by covering herself with whipped cream and a sprinkle of hundreds and thousands.

The next girl was a high-kicking blonde with big tits and then it was interval time again. The clock on my mobile said twenty-one thirty so I marched down to the table by the stage. A few guys sat around.

‘Is Shane here?’ I asked.

‘He’s at the bar,’ said a chunky blond guy. ‘After Honey I thought your show was the best.’

‘I’m not in the competition,’ I said.

‘You should be,’ piped up a skinny young guy with bad skin. ‘You’re hot enough.’

‘You’re sweet.’ I resisted the urge to ruffle his hair.

‘She did a great show.’

‘Yeah,’ said Blondie, ‘Honey’s grouse for a stripper, not stuck up or nothing.’

A guy approached the table with a cluster of VB stubbies in his arms.

‘Hey, Shane,’ the skinny one said, ‘this chick’s here to see you.’

Shane looked me over warily. At first glance he was quite good looking with straight blond hair that flopped over his face and a body like a kick-boxer, wiry and muscular. When I studied him a bit longer I noticed his chin was too pointy, his lips dry and thin and his eyes too close together.

He put the beers down. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’d like to talk to you about something, in private.’

A few of the guys sniggered.

‘Why can’t we talk here?’ He picked up a beer and had a swig.

‘It’s about Frank Parisi’s murder.’

Shane rolled his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘You another fucking cop?’

‘I’m an inquiry agent.’

‘Fuck off,’ he laughed.

‘I am.’ I hoped I didn’t sound too whiny and got my license out again. Maybe I would be more convincing in a hat and trenchcoat. Shane took it and passed it around for his mates to see before handing it back.

‘What do you want from me?’ Shane jutted his chin out defiantly. ‘I didn’t fucking do it. I’ve been over this a million times with the cops. I’m sick of this shit and I know I don’t have to talk to you.’ He swigged his beer again and ripped the label off the bottle.

‘Do the cops believe you?’

‘Nuh, it’s harassment. What happened to innocent before proven guilty?’

‘Hear hear.’ His mates clinked their stubbies in support.

‘I’ve got a fucking alibi,’ he said, ‘and there’s no murder weapon, no DNA evidence.’

‘But you’ve got a motive.’

‘Who didn’t?’

‘What is your alibi?’

‘Why should I tell you?’

Shane’s mates were looking back and forth from him to me like spectators at the tennis. ‘Are you happy with the way the police are conducting the investigation?’

‘What do you think?’ He took a pack of Horizon 50s out of his shirt pocket and lit one with a Crystal T’s lighter. ‘They’re fucking useless.’

‘I don’t think you did it,’ I said. ‘I’ve got information on a few suspects and if you talk to me I might get a line on the real murderer and get those dumb cops off your back.’

He shrugged.

‘I’m trying to help you, Shane,’ I said.

He ripped some more label off his beer bottle and pushed hair off his forehead again. ‘OK,’ he said finally.

‘Let’s go out to my car.’

I heard the competition start up as I followed him to the car park. Shane made a beeline for a late model Ute in midnight blue, leaned against the curved bonnet and crossed his arms. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Your alibi, to start.’

‘I was home all night with Mel. That’s Honey’s real name.’

Not the most convincing alibi in the world.

‘Tell me about the fight with Frank,’ I said.

Shane sighed. ‘When I found out about him and Mel I was ropeable, mate, mad as a cut snake. I knew he musta forced her into it ’cause she wouldn’t cheat on me, specially not with that sleazy fucker. I had a few bourbons, more like half a bottle, and drove into town.

We live at Werribee.’

Half an hour out, semi-rural.

‘What date was this?’ I asked.

‘The second of November, Sunday. I remember

’cause I had to do a statement for the cops.’

‘Was Honey working?’

‘Nuh, at her mum’s. She only did Friday and Saturdays.’

‘What time did you get to the club?’

‘’Bout ten. Don’t know exactly.’

‘And what happened?’

He flicked his cigarette butt away in a glowing arc and did the thing with his hair. If I’d had a pair of scissors I would have cut that forelock off.

‘I went up to the bar and told the girl to get Frank for me. When he came out the office I shoved him against the wall. Had a knife on his throat, boning knife from work. I said something like, what do you think you’re doing fucking with Mel, prick? And he said, who? And I said Honey, and pressed the knife so a little bit of blood came out and then someone king-hit me on the side of the head.’

‘Were you knocked out?’

‘Nah, I hit the ground but wasn’t out cold. Frank’s two security goons were there, as well as a short blond bloke. Frank told ’em to take me out the back and they dragged me out this doorway and down these concrete steps so my head was banging on each one. I got a few punches in but each time I did they laid in worse. Down the bottom of the stairs the others stood back and let Frank have a go. He was kickin’ me in the guts, the kidneys, the head.’

Shane took out another Horizon and lit it.

‘Woke up the next afternoon in hospital, pissing blood. I was there for three days, lost a couple of teeth.’

He put his hand to his mouth and pulled out a bridge with false teeth attached, then put it back in. ‘It’s only temporary, I’m gonna get those fake teeth they put in your jaw with titanium screws. They match them exactly to your real teeth. I’m saving up.’

‘You must’ve wanted to kill him,’ I said. ‘I would have.’

‘I did,’ he laughed bitterly, ‘and we were going to get him, me and the boys. We were working on a plan but someone beat us to it and now I’m the prime fucking suspect ’cause I was telling anyone who’d listen.’

‘Honey didn’t keep working at the club?’