Peepshow (15 page)

‘Fuck no. She wouldn’t have anyway but he rings her mobile while I’m bleedin’ out in the back lane and fires her. Wouldn’t let her get her stuff from her locker and owed her two hundred bucks.’ He flicked his second cigarette butt in the same trajectory as the first. ‘Ha. But he’s dead now, isn’t he? Instant karma, ay?’

‘What happened to the knife?’ I asked.

‘No idea. Must have lost it when I first got hit.’

I heard the tap-tap of high heels behind me and turned around. Honey stood there in stage makeup and a feathered robe. Cars beeped at her from Sydney Road.

‘What’s going on?’ She’d taken her hair out of pigtails and boofed it into an elaborate, Dynasty-style do that was too big for her small head.

‘She’s a private detective,’ said Shane, ‘trying to find out who offed Frank.’

‘Can I talk to you about him?’ I asked her.

‘I don’t wanna talk about that prick, it’s over and done with. Come on,’ she told Shane, ‘the final parade’s about to start, then they announce the winners.’

He pushed off the bonnet and walked towards Honey.

‘I hope you find the killer,’ he said. ‘When you do I’ll buy him a beer.’ He put his arm around his girlfriend and they headed for the club.

‘Shane!’ I called out, and he stopped and turned.

‘How’d you find out about Frank and Honey?’

She was staring daggers at me. I didn’t blame her.

‘I got a call. Some guy I didn’t know told me over the phone.’

‘Vivien.’ Wesley had pulled up beside the car park.

He was Kelvin’s driver and one of his three thousand cousins.

‘Hi.’ I waved. ‘I’ll just grab my bag.’

He put it in the boot of the Celica and opened the door for me. Wesley was dark and thin and very polite around all the girls. Apparently he knew karate but no one had ever seen him use it.

‘Have you had dinner?’ he asked. ‘We could stop at McDonald’s on the way.’

‘Maybe after. I don’t want to be bloated for the show.

But we need a bottle shop.’

We stopped at a pub on Nicholson Street and I had a pee and bought two half bottles of Omni. It was a vibrator show tonight so I had to be a little drunk.

It was mostly vibe shows these days. I had a theory that because everyone was nuding up, pop stars, actors, lifestyle show presenters, a naked female wasn’t the slightest bit risqué anymore. Bucks’ parties had to up the ante, and strippers worked ‘hot’—vibe shows and lesbian doubles.

We drove down Hoddle Street past the housing commission flats, then onto Citylink and the Monash Freeway.

I drank champagne through a straw and fiddled with the radio, feeling pretty positive, considering. There was a week left to find the murderer and I was leaning very strongly towards pinning it on Dick Farquhar even though I wasn’t sure he’d done it. It seemed strange that a cop would use a knife instead of a gun, but it wasn’t my problem. I just had to find enough proof to convince Sal.

And I was meeting Mick after the show. I squeezed my thighs together in anticipation. Everything was going to work out OK.

We pulled up outside an unremarkable brick veneer on a quarter acre block. Wesley got my bag and a portable tape player out of the boot and we walked up the path to the house and knocked on the door. A middle-aged man in jeans and a T-shirt answered.

‘Entertainment’s here,’ said Wesley.

‘Come on in.’ The man shook his hand.

‘Is there somewhere Vivien can get changed?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, sure, down here.’

He led us along the hallway and opened the door to a small bathroom. It was an unrenovated seventies job, cream and brown tiles and orange moulded fittings. The mirror above the sink was speckled and old. Oh well, I’d had worse.

Wesley went off to collect the money and set up the boom box and my fluffy rug and I got changed.

I was going for a NYC hooker look this evening with suspenders and fishnets, black lace G-string and bra, satin micro-mini and a long sleeved black mesh top. I slipped a black dildo, moulded, ‘realistic’ looking, into a satin purse with a small bottle of baby oil, put on extra makeup and teased my hair at the roots. Wesley knocked on the door and stuck his head in.

‘Got the money?’ I asked.

‘Yep, show’s in the lounge room.’ He looked back down the hall. ‘You’re not going to like it though.’

‘Why not?’

‘There’s only about eight guys there.’

‘You’re kidding.’ You couldn’t feed off such a tiny audience.

‘I’ll try and get them going, get ’em to make some noise.’

Jesus, this was going to be painful.

‘OK,’ I drained my second half bottle. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

I waited at the doorway until I heard the thudding intro of Madonna’s ‘Erotica’ and slinked up the hall.

I sidled up to the doorframe and ran my hands over my body while I checked out the room. There were actually seven guys, not counting Wesley, a couple sitting on an old couch, three on chairs and two standing. All were dressed casually and aged between thirty and fifty. They were drinking Tooheys out of cans and the atmosphere was sombre. Some party. I dropped to my knees and crawled into the room like a cat.

I rolled around on the rug and Wesley clapped and shouted ‘Yeah,’ but no one else got into it. I crawled over to the couch, put my hands on one of the guys’ knees and hoisted myself up, then bent over in front of them.

No reaction. I smiled lasciviously at the two standing by the mantelpiece and they didn’t meet my eyes. Time dragged, a minute seemed like an hour. This was worse than the time I’d danced for a bucks’ party off their brains on E, everyone peaking so badly their eyes were rolling back.

I had everything off bar the stockings by my second last song and I gave Wesley a look which said fade this one out early, and he nodded. Prince was singing ‘Nikki’ and I took the baby oil out of my purse and drizzled it over myself, then removed the dildo.

Wesley whooped and said, ‘Come on, fellas, let’s make some noise,’ but to no avail. I sucked on the vibe, rubbed it on my breasts and then spread my legs and slid it in and out a few times. Men think you’re totally getting off when you do this but while concentrating on a show it’s about as arousing as inserting a tampon. You can enjoy a vibe show if you have a good crowd, but it’s not physical, more of a naughty thrill from doing something really sleazy.

Alas, there was no thrill for me tonight. Wesley, god bless him, faded out my music and I stood up and took a bow. He started up a round of lacklustre applause that was over before it began and I gathered my rug around me and made for the bathroom. Thank god that was over.

I washed baby oil from my hands and wiped the excess off my body with a towel. I was just about to unclip the suspenders when the door burst open.

‘Wes—’ I started but it wasn’t him, it was the two men who’d been standing up.

‘Excuse me.’ I held the towel against myself. Wesley was hovering behind them and I wondered why he hadn’t beat the shit out of them, Jackie Chan style.

‘I tried to stop them but they’re . . .’

It was then I noticed they held identification in their hands. Police identification. What the fuck?

‘I’m Detective Sorenson.’ He wore a white T-shirt and his thinning blond strands were slicked back. ‘And this is Detective MacIntyre.’ MacIntyre had thick dark hair and looked around nervously.

‘What’s all this about?’ I asked as Wesley threw my clothes through a gap in between the burly detectives.

He was hovering around, looking panicked.

‘You’ve just violated the Victorian Prostitution Control Act,’ said Sorenson. ‘You’re under arrest.’

‘What?’ I tried to wiggle into lace knickers while holding the towel but it wasn’t working so I dropped the towel and pulled my undies on in front of them. ‘You can’t be serious. This is some kind of set-up.’ I clasped the bra and hoisted up my satin mini.

Sorenson gave his partner a look and MacIntyre pulled my hands behind my back and cuffed me before I realised what was going on.

‘I don’t believe this,’ I protested.

Wesley flitted about in the hallway looking more like a distressed hummingbird than a crouching tiger, his mobile phone pressed to his ear. ‘I can’t get on to Kelvin, it’s just going through to voicemail . . .’

‘You’ll have to come with us, miss.’ Sorenson steered me into the hall by my elbow.

‘What about my stuff?’

‘Detective MacIntyre will take care of that.’ Sorenson marched me outside to a blue, unmarked Commodore.

I noticed everyone else from the ‘party’ had already left.

Wesley ran behind us and draped his black jacket over my shoulders.

‘Don’t worry, Vivien,’ he said. ‘I’ll get in touch with Kelvin, he’ll know what to do.’ And then to Sorenson:

‘Where are you taking her?’

Sorenson didn’t reply, just opened the back door and put his hand on top of my head as he guided me into the back seat. The door shut with a dull thud. MacIntyre came out with my bag and handed Wesley the cassette player. He locked the front door of the house and put my things in the car boot. Wesley watched us drive away.

A few minutes later we pulled up in front of a small suburban cop shop.

‘Where are we?’ I asked.

‘Dingley,’ said Sorenson.

The southwest was Farquhar’s stomping ground.

A cold dread washed over me. But how? I was sure he hadn’t seen me follow him. Had Alex dobbed me in?

‘What have you got?’ The female desk sergeant raised an eyebrow when she saw how I was dressed.

‘Prostitution,’ Sorenson replied.

She sniggered, ‘No, really?’

They took me out the back, took off the cuffs and photographed and fingerprinted me. No one else was around.

‘Are you sure this is the correct procedure?’ I asked, dubious. ‘Aren’t you supposed to interview me first? And what about my phone call?’

Neither replied. MacIntyre went through my stuff and bagged the vibrator for evidence.

‘Can I get changed?’ I pointed at my street clothes.

‘No.’ Sorenson took me to a small interview room with a melamine-topped table and three chairs, trimmed in blue cloth. A camera was mounted on the wall above a sealed video recording unit and two flat-bed microphones were attached to the table.

He cuffed my hands behind my back again, making Wesley’s jacket gape open.

‘Is that completely necessary?’ I asked but he didn’t reply, just left and locked the door.

I sat down and tried not to cry. Tony Torcasio wouldn’t. What would he do? Not get busted for illegal prostitution, for a start. Try to see the funny side of it, I told myself. It’ll make a great dinner party conversation in years to come.

Christ, who was I kidding? I felt humiliated and ashamed. And scared shitless. Tears pricked my eyes and I blinked rapidly to get rid of them.

After what seemed like an hour I lay my head down on the table in front of me. My wrists, arms and shoulders sparked with pain and the panic had been replaced with exhaustion. I’d tried kicking the door and yelling but no one had answered. None of the recording devices were switched on and I was sure this was illegal.

Then the door opened and I sat up ready to protest my treatment but the words caught in my throat.

Farquhar. The panic came flooding back.

He was older and fatter than the photo I had, dressed all in grey—slacks, shoes and a shirt with sweat-stained armpits. Above his navy tie with football club motif he had no neck, just a face that seemed to be melting. Even his light brown moustache drooped towards the floor.

Dick Farquhar smiled. There wasn’t much that scared me, apart from evil clowns and singing karaoke, but now I felt the sort of elemental fear Neanderthals must have experienced in the face of a slavering sabre-tooth. My heart raced and sweat dripped down my back.

I forced myself to sit up straight and look him in the eye. Don’t show fear. Or was that just for dogs?

He sat opposite, plonked down a plastic bag of Kentucky Fried and removed a box of chicken, large fries and container of gravy, filling the room with a damp salty scent. He peeled the lid off the gravy and dunked three fries at once, gelatinous globs dripping onto the table as he lifted them to his mouth. Wiping his fingers on his pants he reached into his back pocket for my charge sheet and smoothed it out.

‘Simone “Vivien” Kirsch,’ he said, ‘haven’t we been a naughty girl?’

I just stared at him. He picked up a stringy leg of chicken, poked it in the gravy, and popped it in his mouth, sucking off the liquid before chewing the meat.

I had been very hungry but not anymore.

Farquhar read the charge sheet and made a clicking sound with his tongue.

‘An unlicensed prostitution service provider can cop five years.’ He threw the chicken bone back in the box.

‘Got anything to say for yourself?’

‘I’m not a prostitute.’

‘According to the amendments to the Prostitution Control Act you are. Prostitution means the provision by one person to or for another person of sexual services in return for payment or reward. The definition of sexual services under section three includes permitting one or more persons to view a person introducing, to any extent, an object or part of their body into their own vagina or anus.’

The bastard had memorised the Act.

‘It was a strip show and this is a stitch-up.’

Farquhar chuckled slowly, dunked some more fries and hadn’t quite finished chewing when he said, ‘Now why would anyone want to stitch you up? You’re a fairly unremarkable suburban stripper and the law’s the law.’

He plucked out more chicken. It wasn’t a leg. It wasn’t a wing. I couldn’t tell what part of the bird it had come from. He crunched slowly, savouring every bite.

‘I hope you realise you’re in a lot of trouble here. It’s a serious offence. Not just in this country but all over the world. A conviction for prostitution can follow you around for a long time. The amount of jobs that require police checks these days . . . could ruin a girl’s career.’

‘You’ll never get a conviction.’ My voice came out gravelly and I cleared my throat.