Sharp Shooter (13 page)

Club Eighteen sat right above the Fresh Flesh Gym, which explained why Lloyd Honey’s girlfriend liked to duck in there with her friends after a late Saturday afternoon workout. She was easy enough to pick out among a bunch of six women still in their gym gear, drinking shooters and flirting with the hunky waiters.

Club Eighteen had always been good for hot waiters. I’d forgotten how good! Bok and I took a booth right next to the girls and I tried not to gawk at the guy who arrived to serve us. Six feet tall with curly black hair, a dead straight nose and perfect white teeth, he could have been a model, and probably was.

‘My name is Edouardo. What can I get for you this evening?’

I resisted saying ‘two of you’ because it wouldn’t have been original. Edouardo was the kind of guy who got hit on by everyone – even Bok was giving him a detailed appraisal.

‘Dark and Stormy.’ I came over all husky. I swear I couldn’t help it, my voice does that sometimes. ‘But my friend is driving so he’ll have an OJ.’

‘He must be a good friend,’ said Edouardo, smiling. His aura was ultramarine blue, like the water around Rottnest Island; glorious.

Bok scowled.

‘Yeah,’ I laughed. ‘Can’t you tell?’

After Edouardo took his muscled butt off to get our drinks, Bok and I got to chatting.

‘How’s the mag going?’ I asked.

Bok had been employed by an eastern states media syndicate to launch a new glossy magazine based in Perth. It was a tough job convincing advertisers that a Perth-based magazine might have national appeal. Bok was spending too much time wooing advertisers and not enough finding content. The deadline for the first issue was just weeks away.

‘Torrid,’ he said.

The gym girls were already eyeing Bok off, between grabs at the passing Edouardo. I suppressed a sigh. It was often like that when I went out with Bok – he got way more attention than me.

‘Can I help?’ I offered.

‘Yes, by staying out of trouble. I can’t afford the time to babysit you.’

I poked out my tongue. ‘I didn’t ask you to.’

‘Who’s paying for the drinks?’ he asked.

My phone beeped a message arrival, which saved me from answering him. My heart fluttered when I saw it was Nick Tozzi’s PA sending through the breakfast details. A Place On the River at 7 am.

‘Who is it?’ asked Bok.

‘Tozzi’s PA,’ I said as I sent back a confirmation. ‘He’s taking me to A Place On the River for breakfast.’

‘It’s not open for breakfast on Sunday,’ said Bok, who knew every posh restaurant in Perth by virtue of having to entertain mag people. If he said it wasn’t open for breakfast, then it wasn’t.

‘Dunno,’ I said. ‘Guess I’ll see.’

‘
We’ll
see.’

‘You don’t have to come, hon. Honest, I’ll be fine.’

Bok gave me a superior, knowing look. ‘Let’s see how we get through this evening first.’

On cue, a shriek went up from the gym girls. Lloyd Honey’s fiancée had pulled Edouardo onto her lap and was running probing hands up and down his thighs. Edouardo was politely trying to disengage himself.

Catching my eye, he cast me a desperate look.

‘Back in a tick,’ I told Bok.

I jumped up and marched over to Edouardo.

‘What sort of a boyfriend are you?’ I shouted. ‘You ask me to bring my brother down for a drink, and here you are lap dancing with another woman.’ I slapped a hand on the table, causing the accumulated shooter glasses to jump, then I drew myself up to my full, bicep-worthy height. ‘Explain yourself, Edouardo, before I tear your manhood from you.’

Mrs Honey-to-be dropped Edouardo off her lap like a hot potato.

He collected himself from the floor and gave me an apologetic peck on the cheek. ‘Bella, it’s not what you . . .’

‘A little mish-undershtanding,’ interrupted the three-quarters-pissed Mrs Honey-to-be.

I propped my hands on my hips, ignoring Bok’s despairing body language in my corner sight. ‘
How
is it?’

‘Lishen,’ she said. ‘Bring your brother over here and I’ll buy you both a drink and s’plain.’

I pretended to consider it for a few moments before grabbing my opportunity to check her out. ‘Very well. But hands off my man!’

The girls raised their hands in the air and giggled, and Edouardo scuttled off.

‘Now, what’s your brother’s name?’ Mrs Honey-to-be asked.

I dragged Bok from our booth. ‘You’re nuts,’ he hissed at me. ‘What’s with the Spanish accent?’

‘I’m a jealous Latino woman. Don’t knock opportunity,’ I growled back.

We squeezed in on either side of Honey-to-be, and I introduced us simply as Martin and Tara.

Edouardo brought a fresh round of shooters, and Mrs Honey-to-be threw her credit card at him. He caught it with a deft hand and gave me a heart-melting smile of gratitude.

‘Are you all celebrating?’ I asked them innocently.

The girls raised their shooters at my enquiry and in one accord, downed them.

‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ squealed Mrs Honey-to-be. She nuzzled up to me and I got the distinct impression that she didn’t mind which side of her meat she got gravy.

It’s hard to see a person’s aura when you’re too close to them but sometimes I get a little charge from it, like static electricity. Mrs Honey-to-be’s aura was an annoying prickle, neither pleasurable nor strong enough to be really awful.

Bok slid his shooter along the table in my direction. ‘I’m driving,
remember
?’ The girl on the other side of him was already playing with his hair.

I drank the two small glasses of murky liquid in two gulps. ‘What’s the occasion then?’

‘We-ell,’ she drawled, confidingly. ‘I’ve snagged a rich geeko and I’m getting married.’

‘But do you love him?’ I asked lightly.

She brushed her arm against my breast and gave a little flutter of her eyelashes. ‘As much as I can, as much as I can.’

I mumbled something about the loo and squeezed up onto the back of the seat, climbing over it rather than dislodging the gym girls from their fawning over Bok.

I took my time having a breather in the loo, and then stopped for a glass of water at the bar on the way back. Edouardo was only too happy to get it for me. ‘Let me buy you a drink – to say thank you for rescuing me,’ he said.

I shook my head. ‘Don’t worry about it. I expect you get it all the time. Serve’s you right for being so good-looking. You need a bodyguard or a minder.’

He looked a bit embarrassed. ‘I never know what to say when a woman grabs me. It seems rude to shake her off but I hate being . . .’

‘Pawed,’ I offered.

He nodded. ‘Thanks again. Maybe . . . can I buy you dinner later instead of a drink?’

I stared at him, surprised. He had to be five years younger than me at least. ‘No need to take gratitude too far,’ I said, trying to let him off the hook.

‘No, really, I’d like to. I’ve only been in Perth a few weeks – I’m from down south. Haven’t met many people yet.’

He suddenly looked really young; fresh from his mother’s nest.

‘Sure.’ I fished in my bag for a business card. Bok had printed them up for me on his colour photocopier at work. ‘Here’s my number.’

He gave me a huge, gorgeous grin. ‘Great. I’ll be in touch.’ He squinted at the crumpled card. ‘Tara Sharp.’

‘Bye, Edouardo.’

On the way back to the table my phone rang. ‘Ms Sharp, are you in place?’

‘Lloyd?’ I whispered.

‘Yes. She’s just phoned and I’m coming to pick her up.’

‘I’m all set,’ I said. ‘See you soon.’

I climbed over the back of the seat again and plonked down next to Lloyd’s intended.

What had I learned about her? She had a prickly but not dangerous aura; she was probably bisexual and damn happy to spend his money. Did she love him?
As much as she could.

All those little pieces of information would mean something in a few moments when I saw them together. Building evidence, like Mr Hara had suggested, was helpful, but until you saw the energy flow between people you couldn’t really know.

I talked weights with the gym girls while I waited for Lloyd to arrive, cogitating all the while on how opportunity could be so double-edged. I’d grasped it with Peter Delgado and it had landed me in a ‘situation’, whereas tonight it had landed me an invitation to have dinner with Edouardo. Go figure.

‘Darling? Are you ready?’ said a honeyed voice.

I turned around and saw Lloyd, Porsche key ring in hand, brow furrowed.

What interested me more, though, was the expression on his intended’s face; beneath her solarium tan her skin was aglow. Her aura ceased prickling me and smoothed out.

I felt a huge relief. She actually liked him. He soothed her.

She climbed over Bok to get out of the booth, taking a second to whisper something in my ear before she did.

‘If you, and that delicious man of yours, ever want a threesome, you can find me here on Saturday nights,’ she said.

I nodded, unable to think of a suitable reply.

As the two of them left, Lloyd stopped just short of having to use a fireman’s lift. I could picture them in twenty years.

She’d still be getting pissed and picking up strangers, and he’d be . . . well . . . maybe that would depend on what I said to him when he rang me on Monday morning for my assessment.

And what would I say? Whatever it was, it might affect the rest of Lloyd’s life. I used to malign clairvoyants and palm readers for the same thing: the power of their suggestions influencing a person’s life decisions. And here I was, running the same agenda.

‘Can we please go?’ said Bok. His hair was now in three braids, one of which had been curled up and pinned into a bun.

I giggled and slung my arm around his neck. The D&S and the shooters had started to make me feel a little woozy. ‘Home, Martin!’

Chapter 21

I
SET THE ALARM
for 5.30 am, slept through it, and woke up at 6.30. That left me fifteen minutes to get dressed and fifteen minutes to drive to A Place On the River.

I cribbed five minutes to throw on some makeup, telling myself the roads would be quiet at that time.

Dress. Check.

Sandals. Check.

Handbag. Check.

I ran out the door at 6.55 am, stopped for thirty seconds to rip the cover off the birds, and then belted up the driveway to Mona. And read Bok’s text saying that he couldn’t make it (YAY!), telling myself that the roads would be quiet at that time.

Down the highway – through three suburbs in seven minutes – only to get caught in a road detour at the last set of traffic lights before the river.

I finally arrived breathless and sweating (having run the whole length of the pier to the restaurant) at 7.15.

Bok had been right, the place was closed on Sunday mornings.

I leaned on the railing to catch my breath and stared into the water, feeling kinda stupid and deflated. Was Nick Tozzi having some kind of weird joke with me? Or had his PA made a mistake?

As I turned away to head back to my car, a voice called out. ‘Tara!’

Nick Tozzi was standing on a low jetty along the side of the restaurant that faced out towards the centre of the river.

I should say now that the Swan isn’t a meandering little snippet of a thing, but a deep blue, immensely dignified river of sweeping proportions: ideal for yachting and water-skiing and board-sailing. A Place On the River kinda dangled on the edge of a long pier that floated out on the Swan like a piece of bait on a hook, daring a high tide to come in and swamp its expensive jarrah floors.

With relief I waved and made my way towards him down a set of bleached-wood steps and through an unlocked barbedwire gate.

His caramel aura burned golden bright against the sparkling water, making it almost impossible to look straight at him. I fumbled for my sunglasses and, fortunately, got them on before I reached him.

He smiled and shook my hand formally. On the little table behind him was a thermos, two mugs and a paper bag. ‘Thanks for coming. I hope you like croissants?’

I noticed then he was wearing tracksuit pants and an old windcheater. ‘I hope you don’t mind me being overdressed.’

‘Sorry, I should have explained. I hate overeating at breakfast. I know the owner of this restaurant well and he lets me use this place out of hours, as long as I feed the cat.’ He pointed at the fat moggy watching us from the top of a wide spit post. ‘If I don’t bring my phone, I get to eat in perfect quiet. Sometimes I even bring a fishing rod.’

But do you bring your wife?
The question burned on the tip of my tongue. ‘Sounds like a good arrangement.’

He waved his hand in a gentlemanly gesture. ‘Please have a seat. Do you take sugar in your tea? I forgot to bring some.’

‘Is there honey for the croissants?’ I asked.

He reached for the paper bag and fished out four little sachets.

‘Phew!’ I gasped in mock relief. ‘I think I’ll survive.’