Sharp Shooter (6 page)
The IT guy stared up at me with fear in his bug-keeper-magnified eyes.
‘Mr Honey?’ I whispered. ‘I’m terribly, terribly sorry to say this, but I’m Tara Sharp.’
He swallowed hard as I sat down opposite him.
‘I don’t normally fall into my clients’ laps. Mostly I just tap-dance on their tables,’ I said with a rush.
My weak attempt at humour just seemed to confuse him more, so I reached into my purse and brought out a small notebook and pen. ‘Now, tell me, how can I help you?’
‘I . . . I . . . I . . .’
‘It’s alright,’ I said soothingly. ‘These things can be difficult to talk about. Take your time.’
He began to fold his napkin as if getting up to leave.
I cast around desperately for a hook. ‘Let
me
tell
you
instead,’ I said, guessing wildly. ‘You’ve just been promoted into a great job and your girlfriend wants to get married. That would be OK, because you love her, but you don’t know if she’s only interested in your money.’
Mr Honey’s jaw dropped and the napkin fluttered from his fingers to shroud the remnants of his chocolate sundae.
‘Oh, and she doesn’t like you eating meat or eating dessert. She thinks you should work out more.’
‘How . . . how . . .’
‘I made a terrible fool of myself a moment ago, Mr Honey. But believe me, I do know people. On the phone I picked you as bald. I got that wrong; you’ve got a great head of hair.’
Mr Honey’s incredulous expression blossomed into a full-blown smile. ‘Y-you think so? Th-thanks.’
Bingo!
‘That is amazing, Ms Sharp,’ he continued. ‘How could you know all that from looking at me?’
I smiled, then tapped the side of my nose. ‘Secrets of the trade. Now tell me more about yourself.’
Mr Honey’s first name was Lloyd, and he wanted me to meet his girlfriend and suss out her true feelings.
My guess had been intuitive. Not just pure luck. He was nerdy, but well dressed enough not to be friendless. He was eating guiltily, like he wasn’t normally allowed to do it. He wore a trendy friendship ring and an expensive Omega watch. Smart + rich geek = hot babe.
Lloyd and I ran a few scenarios as to how I might meet his intended: everything from a double-date to a fabricated work encounter. In the end we devised a plan. I’d go to a bar she drank at on Saturday evenings with her girlfriends. Apparently when she’d had a skinful she would call him and he’d pick her up. I’d be at the next table, he’d pretend I was a long-lost friend, we’d meet, chat for a few minutes, and I would earn my three hundred dollars by making a judgement on how she acted towards him. He’d email her photo to me later on tonight.
Apart from having to keep my thighs clamped to stop my bladder from exploding, I was pretty happy with how things were going in my new profession.
T
HIRTY MINUTES AND THREE
coffees later, I was still busting to go to the loo, but was running late for my appointment with Peter Delgado.
I whipped Mona out of her snug parking spot without losing any paint and sped down the beach road, weaving through the speed chicanes like a slalom skier on speed. Mona wasn’t a brilliant car on corners but made up for it with grunt. I knew I was being an eco-savage owning an eight-cylinder car, but I tried to make up for it with green shopping bags and friendly cleaning fluids.
Ahem . . . by not cleaning, actually!
The car behind me tooted, and I realised I was still stopped at the crosswalk. I accelerated hard for three blocks, causing mobs of beach-goers to give me hot, sandy, indignant stares. I waved at them. Hot, indignant stares didn’t work on me. This was my town and my suburb.
The Klintoff car park was chockers, so I had to park Mona around the corner and up the hill. That gave me time to brush my hair and re-lippy in private. But by the time I’d run down the hill and caught the beachfront gale head-on, my good work was all undone. My plan to enter the foyer looking groomed and pimped had turned into panic-at-the-disco. Crossing my legs, I did a quick directory search.
Positoni & Kizzick – 6th floor.
By the time the lift reached the fifth, my need for a loo became dire. As soon as the door opened, I plunged down the corridor looking for the little lady silhouette.
The loo was sandwiched between two plushly appointed law firms. I skittled into it, found the last cubicle and let flow. Just as Niagara Falls had nearly abated, I heard the door open. Two women made their way into the first two loos.
‘What happened with Pete?’ asked one.
The other giggled. ‘He took me back to his place.’
‘What? Was his wife away?’
‘No. He’s got a flat in the city. Beautiful view of the river. Said if we got regular he might set me up in there.’
‘You’re crazy. What if she finds out?’
‘She won’t. He’s cute and he’s got connections,’ said Giggler.
‘Johnny Vogue?’
‘Don’t knock it. Johnny Vogue takes his people to the Caribbean every year for a holiday. I always wanted to go there.’
I sat as quiet as a mouse, not even daring to pull my pants up.
‘What was he like?’ asked Giggler’s friend.
‘Delgado?’
‘No, the fricking prime minister, idiot.’
Giggler hesitated. ‘He’s . . . active. You know. Staying power.’
‘Must be those olives.’
‘Or the little blue pills.’
‘
Pete Delgado uses Viagra?
’
I held my breath waiting for her to answer. This was too damn delicious for words.
‘Well who doesn’t?’
My phone began to ring. I fumbled in my jeans pocket to stop it and it fell out on the floor.
Bugger.
‘Shit,’ whispered Giggler to her friend, followed by two quick flushes and clanging doors. I yanked my knickers and pants up together, and tried to zip them with one hand. The knickers got caught in the zip but by the time I’d disentangled and opened the door, Giggler and her friend had bolted.
And my damn phone had started ringing again.
‘Yes,’ I snapped into it.
‘Tara Sharp, how the hell are you?’ said a vaguely familiar male voice.
I washed my free hand and dried it on the luxury-thick towels. ‘Who is this?’
‘Don’t you know me?’
I fished the brush out of my bag and raked it through my hair, pulling faces at myself in the mirror. ‘No. And I don’t have time –’
‘It’s Whitey.’
‘Whitey? Greg Whitehead?’ I swung the bathroom door open and stepped out into the corridor.
‘The one and only,’ said the cocky voice.
‘What do you want? And how did you get my phone number?’
‘Fat boy gave it to me.’
‘Garth?’ My voice raised an octave.
‘He said you’d asked after me and that you were in some type of escort business these days. I thought we might hook up. I can pay.’
‘E-escort. H-hook up?’ I could barely say the words. Garth would be lucky to ever add another column of figures when I got through with him.
‘So do you still want to sleep with me?’ asked Whitey.
‘What?’ I was dumbfounded. ‘You’re married. You only got married last year.’
‘So?’
I’d worked up a real head of steam now. I planted my feet and squared my shoulders. ‘
So?
Listen to me you slimy dirtbag,’ I spat into the phone. ‘Let’s get something very clear. If you were doused in petrol, I’d be the one to light the match. If you were starving, I’d steal your last scrap of food. I wouldn’t sleep with you if we were trapped in a Viagra factory together.’ I slammed the phone shut and stamped my foot in fury.
A man in his late thirties with jet-black hair and sly good looks encapsulated in a Zegna pinstripe, stood in the open doorway of Positoni & Kizzick. Fearing he might have heard the end of my call, a flush of embarrassment started somewhere around my bra line and radiated out to every extremity, until I was glowing hotter than Kimmy Koo’s pizza oven. I wanted to run back into the toilet and dampen my burning cheeks but faint heart never won a lady a business contract, and I wasn’t going to let another two-timing bastard bung the superior act on me.
I held out my hand without hesitation. ‘Peter Delgado, I’m guessing from what the girls in the ladies’ loo were just saying. I’m Tara Sharp, here to represent Mr Hara.’
He hesitated, then met my handshake. His hand was firm enough but ice-cube cold, and his aura was murky brown and slippery. He stood back and held the door open.
I waltzed into Positoni & Kizzick, past the receptionist, who buried her streaked extensions in a filing cabinet. Was she the Giggler?
I didn’t get time to test my theory as Delgado shepherded me into a corner office with a great view over Satin Beach. Not bad for someone who didn’t even have his name on the brass plate at the door.
I perched on a Queen Anne-style Chesterfield without waiting to be asked, and crossed my legs in my best private girls’ school manner. The studs were cool against my back and I suppressed a little shiver of pleasure. Sitting on fine furniture was nearly as good as sex.
Delgado stepped past the matching Queen Anne and stood near the desk. ‘I have a job that requires discretion, Ms Sharp.’
Listen for pitch quality
, said the Mr-Hara-in-my-head.
Voice
qualifiers. Over-loud means lotsa intensity.
‘May I ask what the nature of your job might be?’
There was a pause.
I filled it with, ‘You understand that I also need to screen for the appropriate kind of business.’
‘I work in the corporate world, Ms Sharp, and I need a person to gain the confidence of a high-profile individual and acquire certain information about them. Who, when and what, are details that I will divulge when
I
have screened
you
.’
I should have said no right then. It sounded dodgy, and he was intense and arrogant in one sentence. But curiosity, a powerful need to prove myself to Mr Hara and a competitive nature were stronger hooks.
Of course I was suitable.
He moved behind his desk. The slight flush on his olive skin and his need to put distance between us told me that he was off balance still. But as soon as he sat down and steepled his fingers I knew he was moving back into control mode.
‘I am what I need to be at any given time, Mr Delgado,’ I countered. ‘When discretion is needed you won’t even notice I’m there.’ I smiled and kept my posture deliberately relaxed but not too open. A man like Delgado might misinterpret that as a come-on.
He placed one hand over his mouth and rubbed his chin. Not a good sign.
My foot started to jiggle before I could stop it. I was blowing it.
His eyes were drawn to the movement but continued up past my ankle and along the length of my leg to my thigh. ‘Do you wear high heels, Ms Sharp?’
‘Not when I’m running,’ I quipped.
‘You run?’ His eyebrows rose into a surprised peak.
‘I used to,’ I said. ‘Until I switched codes.’
‘To?’
‘Basketball. State player until I was nineteen. I couldn’t choose between it and athletics.’ I sighed. I wasn’t above bragging if I needed to. And I needed to do
something
.
Delgado’s face relaxed and he smiled – if you could call it that. ‘Well, Ms Sharp, Mr Hara recommended you, and you do have certain attributes that lend themselves to the nature of this job.’ He rose and walked to the door. ‘You’ll be given a retainer once I’ve run a background check on you. I’ll be in touch.’
A background check? Why the –
He handed me a card. ‘This has my private number. Do not share it with anyone. Terms are as per Mr Hara’s usual rates with a thousand-dollar bonus if the job is exemplary,’ he finished.
A thousand-dollar bonus. Yikes!
Maybe Mr Hara would let me keep the bonus. After all, that hadn’t been mentioned. ‘Fabulous,’ said I.
Then I left in my most serene, lady-like manner.
Out in reception Giggler was talking to an attractive but sullen-looking woman wearing dangerously high stilettos. Giggler whispered something to her as I walked past, but I didn’t catch it over the blood still pounding in my ears.
O
NCE OUTSIDE THE
K
LINTOFF
House foyer, I sprinted up the hill to my car, whooping. A thousand smackeroonies! On the way home I stopped at Perky’s Pies and the newsagents for two caramel tarts and a copy of
Sports Today
, to celebrate.
By the time I got home it was dark, I had twenty cents left, and I was on more than just a sugar high.
As I walked down JoBob’s empty, darkened driveway I heard a mass of screeching and fluttering.
Crap!
I’d forgotten to walk the birds and they were killing each other.
JoBob’s birds were native Australian pink and grey cockatoos with the mischievous cunning of bored three-year-olds. They beaked everything, including each other, to bits, and they loved their ‘out’ time. Normally JoBob walked the birds up and down the driveway and onto their perfectly manicured lawn, first thing in the morning and around drinkies time in the late afternoon; unless of course they went out and then it was left to me.