Thrill City (5 page)
‘You’re kidding,’ Nick said, but he sounded sympathetic, not mad. ‘So, what—it’s just me up there?’
‘Oh no.’ She was still gasping, sucking in air. ‘We’ve been really lucky and got a couple of fantastic authors on short notice. Rod Thurlow you’d have to know, he’s the best-selling action writer, and we also have Isabella Bishop.’
The indulgent smile slipped right off Nick’s face and the plastic cup of beer he was holding indented with a sharp crack. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’
She frowned, confused. ‘Uh, no. Is something the matter?’
I glanced around the table. Desiree arched her brows and exchanged a look with Curtis, and Liz frowned and put her hand on Nick’s shoulder. ‘You don’t have to do the panel. You agreed on the proviso it was with Temple and Maloney, not—’
‘I have to do it. If I don’t I look like I’m chucking a tantrum.’ Nick stormed out of the tent, chucking what looked very much like a tantrum. He stopped next to a large gum tree by the river, took out a cigarette and smoked furiously.
‘What is it? What did I say?’ The hapless volunteer was literally wringing her hands.
Liz crossed her arms and shook her head. ‘It’s not your fault. You weren’t to know.’
‘Know what?’
Desiree sipped her red wine and piped up. ‘Isabella is Nick’s ex-wife. They had a rather rough break-up. She left him for Rod Thurlow nine months ago.’
A
hundred or so people were crammed into the large marquee, sitting in rows on white plastic chairs. It was hot, and the stif ling air inside the tent smelled of river water, mown grass, canvas and takeaway lattes.
Four armchairs had been arranged in a shallow semicircle on the low stage at the rear, each with its own microphone, angled on a stand. Nick sat at the far right, and a guy in his sixties with a beard and a tweed jacket with elbow patches sat on the left of the stage, chatting to a sound technician. The two seats in between were empty. Water bottles stood on side tables between the chairs, but Nick clutched a tall glass of clear liquid and his small grimacing sips suggested it was straight vodka or gin rather than H
2
0.
Chloe and I were sitting in the middle of the tent, Liz was in the front row and Curtis and Desiree somewhere up the back, getting smoochy. The session had been due to start five minutes earlier, so Chloe’d had plenty of time to bitch furiously to me under her breath.
‘Can you believe what she said about my hair?’
‘Come on, babe.’ I sighed. ‘You started it. And anyway, what’s it got to do with her? He’s a single guy. Why shouldn’t she be rubbing his leg? All’s fair and all that . . .’
Chloe huffed. ‘You’re supposed to be my friend.’
‘I am. Did you know Desiree’s the famous sexpert? Must be a real wildcat in the sack. Maybe we should buy her book, pick up a few tips.’
Chloe got so frustrated that she actually pinched me, so I slapped at her hand then turned away and studied the crowd. Apart from a small contingent of high school kids they were mostly female, middle-aged and middle class, some with husbands in tow. A few uni student types sat close to the front, probably wannabe writers judging from the way they clutched notepads and stared at Nick as though the secret to getting published hovered about him like a hippy aura.
People were getting restless, checking the time and looking around and murmuring, when the growl of an engine reached the spectators. Everyone twisted in their seats in time to see a Hummer, one of those boxy half-car, half-tank things that all the Hollywood celebs were fond of, bouncing across the field. It barrelled straight for the tent and skidded side-on at the last moment, churning up clods of dirt and grass. The vehicle had been painted with a camouf lage pattern, and the cover image from Rod Thurlow’s latest book—
Lethal Force
:
A
Chase Macallister Adventure
—had been airbrushed onto the side of the truck; it depicted a soldier with an assault rif le slung over his shoulder, standing on a sand dune, silhouetted by an enormous orange setting sun. The tag-line read, nonsensically:
How far would a man go to save his country and rescue the woman
he loves? The only way he knows how. With Force. Lethal Force.
The driver’s side door opened and out leapt a fit-looking guy in army fatigues, his ginger hair shorn into a buzz cut. He wasn’t much taller than me, maybe five eight, but he was built like a brick shithouse. His tight sleeveless tee showed off an inf lated chest, and his bi’s and tri’s were so pumped his arms appeared to have contracted until they were a little too short for his body. He slammed the door, jogged around to the passenger side and gallantly lifted a woman to the ground.
After action man I was expecting a latter-day GI Jane, but Isabella Bishop was tiny, delicate and pale, and with her jet-black bob, flowing silk dress and cloche hat, she looked like she’d come straight from the bohemian quarter of Paris in the nineteen thirties. Rod linked his arm in hers and they walked down the aisle towards the stage, him strutting like a bantam rooster, her gliding on vintage Mary-Janes. As they passed I saw she was beautiful, with exquisite doll-like features. Chloe noticed too, let out a low whistle and leaned towards me, the Desiree situation temporarily forgotten.
‘What the hell’s a gorgeous chick like her doing with him? She’s so hot she’d make me turn.’
‘Don’t you already swing both ways?’
‘Yeah, but I’m talking about switching teams.’
‘If you’re so bisexual, how come you’ve never tried to root me?’
‘Mate, you’re my best friend,’ Chloe scoffed. ‘You don’t shit in your own nest.’
I turned my attention back to Nick. He didn’t take his eyes off Isabella as she walked onto the stage. She nodded and sat down next to him. Rod offered his hand but Nick ignored him. The guy in the tweed looked slightly panicked, and as soon as Rod had sat down he leaned forward and spoke rapidly into the mike.
‘Welcome, everybody, to our “Scene of the Crime” session. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Phillip Cummings, host of
Sunday Afternoon Book Talk
on the ABC, and despite some last-minute program changes we have three truly fabulous crime writers with us this afternoon. At my far left we have the author Nick Austin, whose first Zack Houston book has recently been made into a very successful telemovie.
‘We also have the lovely Isabella Bishop. Isabella is probably best known for her exquisite poetic novella
The Liquidity of
Desire
, and she’s just made her first foray into the mystery genre with her new book,
Thrill City
, described as a literary crime novel. And right next to me is Rod Thurlow, a man who needs no introduction. Rod is one of Australia’s best-loved and best-selling authors. He’s an ex-SAS soldier whose thrilling tales of adventure have been translated into fifteen languages and optioned by a major Hollywood studio. His latest Chase Macallister book,
Lethal Force
, sold four hundred thousand copies in Australia alone. Please put your hands together to welcome all our guests.’
As the applause died down Rod leaned in to talk into the microphone. He had a deep voice and sounded a little like Russell Crowe. ‘Actually, Phillip, it’s
eighteen
different languages, including Swahili, and according to the latest Nielsen Bookscan figures I’ve sold four hundred and fifty thousand in Australia.’
He leaned back, elbows splayed, legs wide apart, and flicked Nick a look. Nick ignored him, staring straight ahead and sipping his ‘special’ water. Although his expression was relatively relaxed and neutral, his eyes were like slivers of stone. Isabella sat between them, hands folded in her lap, head tilted and ankles elegantly crossed.
‘Thanks for that, Rod,’ Cummings said. ‘Well, I guess the first question I want to ask our panellists is: why crime fiction? Nick?’
Nick lost the flinty look and turned on the charm, recounting the difficult-second-novel story with just enough self-deprecation to get a few sympathetic laughs. ‘My theory about the genre is that it’s cathartic,’ he said. ‘It forces you to confront your fears, and finally resolves anxieties when the baddies get their just deserts. It’s also a terrific way for a writer to explore personal and even social issues. I think it was Ian Rankin who said, “If you want to know what’s going on in a society, read its crime fiction.”’
A few people in front of me nodded, and one or two took notes. Nick went on to tell the audience he’d been inspired by the pulp fiction of the forties and fifties and by the greats: Chandler, Hammett, Jim Thompson, James M. Cain.
‘My protagonist, Zack, is definitely part of that anti-hero tradition. I think it’s important to have a flawed character rather than a superman who can take on a bar-room full of henchmen with one hand tied behind his back.’ The crowd tittered and Nick finally looked over at Rod. ‘And by flawed I mean morally, as well as physically and psychologically. I can’t stand goody-two-shoes characters, the kind who always do the right thing and never hit the bottle or get led astray.’
‘Led astray by one of those pesky femmes fatales?’ asked Phillip, and everyone laughed.
‘You know, I’d have to disagree with Nick,’ said Rod.
‘How so?’ Phillip crossed his legs and leaned forward again, holding his chin.
‘People don’t want a flawed character, they want a hero— someone larger than life who can act as a role model, show them the difference between right and wrong, and inspire them to be the best they can be. I don’t want to read about a weak man. And I doubt the general public do either.’
As Rod talked Nick shook his head and threw back the last of the liquid in his glass, spilling a little down the front of his shirt.
‘Bullshit.’ He wiped his face with the back of his hand.
An old duck tutted somewhere behind me.
‘I think Rod’s sales speak for themselves, Nick,’ Isabella said.
‘Then the general public are idiots.’
There were more tuts and even a hiss from the back of the tent.
‘Awww, not you guys, of course.’ Nick rustled up a charming smile, but he was just a little too pissed to get the measure of the crowd, and I could sense them starting to turn.
Cummings leapt in before Nick dug himself further into the shit. ‘So, Isabella. Why did you choose crime? Why did you change midstream, so to speak?’
‘I’m glad you asked me that, Phillip.’ Her voice was soft, cultured. ‘I was really intrigued with the possibility of playing around with such a rigid and, let’s face it, clichéd genre. I wanted to ignore the conventions and experiment with the—’
‘Crime fiction
is
the conventions,’ Nick said. ‘You can twist them but you can’t ignore them. And since when did you decide to write a bloody crime book? Last I knew you were trying your hand at erotica.’ He pulled a silver hip flask out of his briefcase-style bag and started refilling his glass. The tuts grew louder. No hiding what was in there now.
Isabella smiled in a humble, friendly way that put the crowd on her side and made Nick look bad. ‘I actually worked on my book,
Thrill City
, for a year as part of my master’s thesis. The title itself suggests a trashy, hard-boiled pulp novel, but that’s intentionally misleading. There are no anxieties resolved in my work because I challenged the detective hermeneutic and broke the rules. I mean, why do you need an investigative figure? Why must the crime be solved? I’m very proud of
Thrill
City
and feel I’ve really experimented with the form.’
Nick gulped his drink and rolled his eyes. ‘Experimented yourself into the remainder bin, most likely.’
More tuts, a couple of gasps, and one ‘well I never’ emanated from the crowd, and Cummings dabbed sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. Rod gave Nick a squinty look and flexed the tendons in his fingers like he was about to spring up out of his chair, but Isabella put one dainty hand on his forearm and shook her head sweetly. Her nail polish was a deep red-wine with a hint of brown, a shade that I’d been trying to get hold of for ages. I glanced over to the front row and saw Liz pinch the bridge of her nose.
Rod’s jaw worked, but he stayed put and defended his lady’s honour with praise. ‘I’ve read
Thrill City
, and although it was a bit deep for a regular guy like me, I can tell you this: it’s a masterpiece. I like to think of myself as a wordsmith, but Bella . . . Who would imagine that such a beautiful princess could also write like an angel?’
Nick snorted and gave Isabella a look that seemed to say, ‘Where did you find this chump?’
Cummings jumped in. ‘Well, certainly some heated debate and a lot of food for thought. I’d like to finish off the panel with a short reading from each of the panellists, then open up the floor for questions. Nick, if you’d like to start?’
Nick fumbled in his bag for his latest novel and read out a scene in which his hero got drunk, ended up in bed with one of the aforementioned femmes fatales, then got knocked unconscious by some bad guys right in the middle of the act. After meeting Nick, I couldn’t help but imagine Zack Houston as looking exactly like him.
When Nick was finished, Rod recited a tale of incredible derring-do that involved Chase Macallister jumping from a helicopter onto a skyscraper to save his girlfriend—a perky part-time model and full-time astrophysicist—from a group of Muslim separatists.
Nick didn’t try to hide his contempt, shaking his head, swigging from his glass, and occasionally snorting. When Thurlow finished, Nick mimed a yawn, laying it on so thick that Isabella couldn’t pretend to ignore him any longer.
‘He’s just jealous,’ she told Rod and the rest of the crowd. ‘I think the passage has a wonderful, exuberant energy.’
‘Thank you, darling. Some critics have called my plots a bit far-fetched, but I don’t think so if you look at what’s happening in the world today. The terrorist threat we all face is terrifyingly real. I have to say that I draw a lot on my experiences as a soldier—although I can’t tell you the precise details. That’s classified information.’
Cummings opened his mouth to say something, but Nick butted in: ‘You know, I wasn’t actually surprised that you slept around on me.’ He slouched sideways to face Isabella. ‘But I can’t believe you’d let Mr Axis of Evil here stick his shrivelled, right-wing dick inside you.’