Sharp Shooter (12 page)
‘Howdee do,’ I called as I ambled down the driveway towards them. ‘’Sup?’
Bligh continued looking intently in the cage but Bill gave me a big wave. ‘Hi Tara,’ he said. ‘We’ve brought Brains her treat like we promised. No one home at the front, so we found our own way in.’
‘OK.’ I smiled brightly at him, but a little alarm bell went off in my head. Were these two scoping me out? ‘That’s nice of you.’
‘Do they both like treats?’ asked Bligh. She had her finger in between the wires trying to entice Brains with a fruit stick.
‘Sure,’ I said, ‘but be careful of Brains because she likes to –’
‘Aaagh!’
‘– bite,’ I finished, lamely.
Bill burst out laughing.
Fiona tucked her hand under her armpit and glared at me. ‘We wanted to talk to you too. Got somewhere we could go?’
I nodded nervously. Surely Enid, Harvey and Wal had gone? ‘OK This way.’
They followed me out the end of the driveway and across to my flat. I hesitated at the door. ‘Just let me make sure all my undies are put away,’ I said, then rolled my eyes at Bill. ‘Girl on her own, you know.’
Bill grinned but Fiona Bligh wasn’t buying it. ‘You’re not thinking of hiding drugs are you, Tara?’
‘I’ve already told you, that’s not my thing. Just give me a moment to make my bed.’
I slid the door open, stepped in, and slid it shut behind me. To my amazement the place was immaculate. Not immaculate the-way-it-was-before-Enid-rocked-Harvey’s-world, but immaculate like an army of cleaners had been through: not an item of clothing or a cushion out of place. I inhaled a lung full of air-freshener and noted the empty rubbish bin.
WTF?
Dazed, I opened the door for the cops.
Bligh stepped in first, sniffing the air, followed by Bill, whose quick scan of the room lingered on my bed and lacy pillow slip.
I pointed to the couch. ‘Take a seat if you want. Now, what did you want to talk about?’
Bill dropped his butt down but Bligh stayed standing. I liked Fiona, but she had a bit of a stiff attitude. Her turquoise aura got grey streaks through it when she was like this. Bill’s, on the other hand, was permanently fuzzy and soft, like a halo of green fur. I’m not sure he’d picked the right profession.
‘Where do you buy your petrol?’
‘Huh?’ I said. ‘Wherever’s cheap. Why?’
‘What about the servo on Forest and Gugeri?’
‘Sometimes. Not often.’
‘When did you last buy it there?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said, confused. ‘Why do you care?’
‘Sam Barbaro pumps petrol there.’ She said flatly, studying my reaction.
‘Good for him. But what’s that got to do with me?’
‘Had you ever met Sam Barbaro before the night of the attempted burglary?’
I stared at her. ‘I’ve already told you I’d never seen him before in my life. I don’t make a habit of hanging out with burglars.’
‘No need to get smart, Sharp, just answer the question.’
‘No, never before,’ I said solemnly. ‘Why?’
‘He’s been bailed. We don’t know who really put up the money but Peter Delgado is fronting it. He represents Johnny Viaspa, in case you didn’t know. There’s been some talk at the station that you might have been an accomplice, not a hero,’ Bill blurted out.
‘Bill,’ admonished Fiona. ‘Zip it.’
‘You don’t believe that, do you?’ I gasped at Fiona. ‘Cripes, why would I want to be robbing Euccy Grove grannies? And where would I get bail money?’
‘Not just any granny,’ said Bligh. ‘Eireen Tozzi.’
‘
What?
’
‘You didn’t know who it was?’
I shook my head, dumbfounded, not enjoying the curdling feeling in my stomach. ‘No idea. I only saw the picture of me and Whitey. That was enough. Didn’t bother to read the article.’
After a moment though, I grinned. ‘No wonder he ran for it. She’s got a reputation for being a tough old goat.’
‘You chose the wrong time to go to a party at Coke Road and be seen in the company of people like Peter Delgado, Sharp. You need to be careful. I believe you’ve registered a new business recently.’
‘So?’ I should have been less bolshy but this friendly ‘chat’ was starting to get on my nerves.
‘Would you care to describe it?’
I shrugged. ‘Communication analysis.’
Bill snorted with laughter but Fiona remained deadly serious. ‘Garth Wilmot says you’re inclined to be impulsive.’
‘Why have you been talking to Garth?’
‘Just a bit of background checking.’
‘You’re doing background checks
on me
?’
‘On everyone at the Coke Road party,’ groaned Bill.
‘Barnes!’ snapped Bligh.
‘What would an accountant know,’ I said. ‘His idea of impulsive is to take his shoes off after work.’
Remember to
kill him.
Fiona walked around the couch and made a show of looking into every nook and cranny my tiny garage apartment had to offer. ‘Tell me, Sharp. What would a known petty criminal by the name of Wallace Grominsky, and Harvey Tsao, an ASIO researcher, be doing at your place at the same time?’
Tsao.
Was that his name? ‘Having Social Skills Coaching. You know, how to get along with people,’ I said sweetly. ‘There’s room in the class if you want to sign up.’
Bill looked like he might explode from trying not to laugh. But Bligh remained sombre. ‘Listen, Cravich and Blake wanted to make this call. So don’t tick me off or next time I won’t insist on doing it.’
Bill’s expression sobered. ‘She’s right, Tara. She had to take some crap to keep them off your derrière.’
Bligh grunted and turned to leave.
‘Thanks, Bligh.’ I sighed. ‘I appreciate it. And Wal and Harvey both answered my advert in the local paper. Simple as that. I guess there are a lot of lonely people out there.’ I ventured another smile. ‘So I suppose the blue car that was following me today was you guys then?’
Fiona spun on her heel and pinned me with a look. ‘What blue car?’
‘A BMW. Five or six years old?’
‘Did you get the licence plate?’
‘No. I-I wasn’t sure whether it was really following me or if I was imagining it. Why? Isn’t it one of yours?’
She shook her head. ‘No. We’re not tailing you, Tara. But if you think someone is, you’d better be extra careful. Don’t go anywhere alone if you can help it and stick to areas of the city that you know.’
‘You’re kidding me?’
She looked insulted. ‘If you get a numberplate, let us know.’ She fished in her pocket and pulled out a fridge magnet in the shape of policeman’s cap. ‘Here’s the station number. Ask for me or Bill.’
They left then, Bill dutifully following a step behind dour Fiona. He gave me a wave from behind his back and the ‘thumbs-up’.
I liked Bill.
M
Y CHAT WITH THE
local constabulary left me with a severe case of anxiety hunger. So I went up to JoBob’s to raid the fridge. My one stroke of good luck for the day was that they were out at golf – the beauty of Dad being a semi-retired trader – so I wouldn’t have to field difficult questions.
Armed with nuts, brie, water biscuits, a bag of cherries and some microwave popcorn, I headed back to my garage flat, locked the door and shut the curtain. Today was officially over for me until Bok picked me up to go to Club Eighteen.
I popped the corn then scoffed all my borrowed goodies. Feeling a little better, I tried on my new dress, swapping shoes until I got the right pair. Satisfied, I hung it up on a picture hook and lay down on my bed, pondering the mystery of who had cleaned up my room, until sheer puzzlement put me to sleep.
I woke up an hour later, really thirsty from the popcorn. My watch told me I only had an hour until Bok arrived, so I guzzled a couple of glasses of water and scurried across to the shower, donning a black slim-line skirt and a tube top. I pushed my hair into combs and daubed eyeliner and blusher in the appropriate spots. A pair of flats (I was working!) and my beloved quilted fake Marc Jacobs handbag completed the outfit.
I sat on the couch then and sent a couple of texts while I waited for my email to download. One was a rather jerky message to Mr Hara saying that I wouldn’t be working for Peter Delgado anymore and that I hoped Mrs Hara was enjoying snow skiing; another to Smitty saying thanks for cake and for diverting mad female stalkers. I composed a last one to Garth, telling him he was a jerk for blabbing to the cops, and then thought better about sending it. Knowing my current luck, it would be used in evidence against me.
Trying to ignore the faint smell of Wal Grominsky’s body odour on the cushion covers – ugh – I then deleted a bunch of porn spam from my inbox and took time to study the photo Mr Honey had sent me of his girlfriend. She was a handsome brunette with a fierce set of abs showing beneath her midriff top. I couldn’t see auras in photos but I was betting hers was as streamlined and determined as her gym-junkie figure.
That was the thing with auras. It wasn’t just their colour that told you things about the person. They had texture too. Some were fuzzy, or stripy, or ragged at the edges. Some were graded, fading out of their colour, while others had a definite edge. According to Mr Hara, the thin, well-defined auras tended to surround people who liked to be in control and who calculated their life within an inch of itself. I mean to say, abs like hers took grit.
When Bok rang to say he was waiting outside, I squirted myself with Very Valentino and locked the door tight.
As I walked down the driveway I could see Dad in the kitchen window. ‘Do you want me to cover the birds?’ I called out.
Dad waved to me and nodded. He looked tired and a little drained. Living with a vampire lady can do that to you.
I tipped some seed into the birds’ three feed containers and yanked the cover down. It wasn’t dark yet but they were already hunkered down for the evening, heads tucked under their wings.
Cu-ute.
And hard to believe one of them was a crime fighter who’d nearly bitten the top off a policewoman’s finger.
Bok and I took the beach road to enjoy the sun swimming its way down below the horizon. He was dressed in black shirt and pants and his hair was as glossy and smooth as a Pantene commercial.
As I told him about my date with Nick Tozzi, Fiona Bligh’s visit and the blue BMW, his serene expression gradually changed into pursed lips and a frown.
‘I don’t like this, T. This is not like any stupid thing you’ve gotten into before.’
For once I didn’t argue with him. He was right and I was sitting on a belly full of jitters. ‘I’ve told Mr Hara I’m quitting on Peter Delgado.’
‘Might be too late for that. Without being too dramatic, these guys don’t like anyone knowing their
business
.’
My phone rang: a private number. I answered it and listened.
‘I can hear you breathing, Ms Sharp. This is Peter Delgado.’
‘Hello,’ I croaked.
‘I believe the police have just paid you a visit? I want you to come into my office first thing on Monday morning 9 am to further discuss your contract. In the meantime, think carefully about who you talk to.’
I shut my phone and stared out the window: one lone windsurfer on the roughening water in the fading light. He was game.
‘T?’
‘Delgado wants me to come in first thing on Monday morning. He warned me not to talk to anyone.’
Bok slapped the steering wheel. ‘You’d better cancel on Tozzi.’
‘I
can’t
, Marty.’
That was low. I only used
Marty
when I really needed something. And I needed to see Nick Tozzi, not just because he was delicious and my blood got hot every time I thought about him, but because he was a decent bloke and he deserved to know that Johnny Vogue had it in for him.
Bok snagged a park right opposite Club Eighteen and we sat in silence while he negotiated the reverse parking. As I went to unclip my seatbelt though, he grabbed my hand. ‘I’ll help you, T, whatever you want. But you’ve got to promise me you’ll consider things before you act. You overheard Viaspa threatening to plant drugs on Nick Tozzi. This is too heavyweight for you to be impulsive.’
‘I promise.’ I gave him a quick smile and a kiss on the cheek.
I
T TOOK ME A
moment or so to mentally gear up to meet Lloyd Honey’s intended. I hadn’t been inside Club Eighteen for a couple of years. The bar, which doubled as a nightclub after 11 pm, had always been a hangout for school leavers and made me feel like old meat these days. In the early hours of the evening, though, you could grab a meal and a drink there without having to queue up for the loo or the bar. Around dinner time, the clientele tended to be older. Bok gave me a little nod – his silent seal of approval – for my tube top and skirt.
The interior of Club Eighteen was pretty standard club fare: bar, dance floor and booths – the latter all in black with polished chrome trim. The aircon struggled to suck smoke and whatever out of the air, and the industrial-grade red carpet looked like it had been through a holocaust. Clubs always smelled stale before midnight, until the aftershaves and perfumes and drink spills filled them up.