Monkey Business (15 page)

I stood on the street. Now what? I looked up and down. The Hummer came again. And while my brain was telling me to press myself into the wall, disappear, be invisible, instead I stepped forward, staring at the great beast as it rumbled by. I tried to penetrate the black glass, see who was inside, wondering if they were looking at me, wondering if they knew where Jack was.

I'd been holding my breath. I blew it out, shakily. Walked to Kitty's. She was in her shop, arranging the stock on the shelves. All the pink toys together. All the green ones. Blue, purple, yellow. Nice.

Her face was already lit by the glowing toys but it lit up more when she saw me. ‘Ah, Erica Jewell, you have changed your mind, yes? You will come and stay with me?' She hugged me.

‘Thanks, Kitty, but I'm okay. I was wondering . . .' Wondering what? Am I really going to say this? ‘. . . if you could tell me where Samson lives?'

She took a step back, stared at me. ‘Why?'

‘Because I want to ask him about Jack.'

She took a moment to respond. ‘No, I do not know his address in the town.'

‘But I thought —'

She took a step closer, as though telling me a secret even though there was no one around to hear.

‘Listen to me. You remember I told you about a party today?'

‘What about it?'

‘It is at Samson's house in the mountains. You can come. He does not need to know who you are. Maybe you can ask someone if they have seen your Jack.' She stepped back. ‘Even though he is dead. Probably dead.'

‘I wish you'd stop saying that, Kitty.'

She shrugged.

A party at Samson's. Maybe I could go to that. Ask around or at least check things out. It couldn't hurt, could it? Better than getting food poisoning at the Bum Crack Bar. But then, what if I got to the party and there was nothing to see? No one to ask about Jack? I couldn't march up to Samson and give myself away. He'd probably recognise me anyway. And he'd be angry with Kitty. What would he do to her if he knew she was helping me? But if I didn't go to the party, what would I do instead?

I decided. ‘Okay. I'll come. Just for a look-see.' She clapped her hands, jumped up and down. ‘But I don't have anything to wear,' I said.

‘Never mind about that, Erica Jewell. I have something for you.' She checked her watch. ‘But now, you must be off. I have a client due any minute.'

When I stepped outside Kitty's shop, a man was getting out of Bruce Willis's taxi. I waited for him to finish arguing about the cost so I could take his place. As he moved away from the car we did one of those embarrassing dances when you go to pass each other but keep stepping to the same side. He was the grimiest, sleaziest looking man I'd ever seen. He put his hands on my arms, grinned a broken-toothed grin at me, and swung me to his left so he could pass. He walked into Kitty's shop. Poor Kitty. How could she do this work? Close her eyes and think of England? France? Yuk.

In the taxi I said to Bruce's reflection, ‘Do you know where Samson lives?'

He turned his whole body and stared at me. ‘Who, lady?'

‘Samson, the gang guy. Do you know where he lives?'

‘Yes, lady.'

‘Oh, well, can you take me there, please?'

He shook his head. ‘No, lady.'

‘Why not?'

Another vigorous head shake. ‘No, lady.'

‘Well . . . where does he live?'

Bruce hesitated then pointed.

‘Just there?' I said, nodding at the street ahead. How could Kitty not know? It was right near her place.

‘Yes, lady.'

‘What number?'

‘Four two.'

‘Forty-two?'

‘Yes, lady.'

‘Thanks, Bruce.' I got out of the cab and walked. I didn't look back, but heard the screech of Bruce Willis's fast U-turn before he sped away.

Samson's street was in what I supposed was the better part of Seni – the sizeable townhouses showing some semblance of quality, although graffiti artists didn't seem to care about that, having decorated most of the fences along the road. Number four two was as expected. A very high white wall faced onto the street – the only one ungraffitied, unsurprisingly – with intercom and cameras. An arched timber gate was built into the wall. I watched as my finger reached up and pushed the buzzer. It was an automatic action – not something I was controlling. How could
I
be responsible for doing such a thing? Visiting a gang leader at his house?

A young girl's voice came over the speaker. I had no idea what she was saying.

I looked at the camera, said, ‘I was wondering . . . is Samson home?'

More speaking, some shuffling, silence, two people speaking.

‘Erica?'

I froze. A woman.

The voice was familiar. She said, ‘What are you doing here?'

I still couldn't think of anything to say. I looked at the number on the wall. Forty-two. Whose house was I at?

I heard a door being opened and the sound of quick footsteps approaching the other side of the gate. It swung open. There stood Emeline, looking as surprised to see me as I was her.

‘Are you looking for me?' she said.

Why was she here? At Samson's house? Did Bruce Willis give me the wrong number? Unless . . .

‘Oh,' was all I could manage. Our cafe conversation was replaying in my head. Her abrupt departure. I am
such
an idiot.

She stared at me. I needed to speak. Something.

‘I'm sorry.'

‘What for?'

‘For what I said at the cafe.'

‘About my husband's philandering?' She waved a hand. ‘I am used to it, but it does annoy me that everyone seems to know.' She tsked, just like my mother would under the same circumstances. ‘You haven't told me why you are here. Oh . . . no, you're not one of my husband's mistresses, surely?'

‘Oh my God,
no
! No, of course not. I've never even met him!' Oh, geez. ‘I'm just . . . you see, I thought he might know . . . where my boyfriend is.'

‘Ah. Erica, come inside. I'll make you some tea.'

Back at the Bum Crack Bar, I sat next to Phil with my head resting sideways on my folded arms. I hadn't had a drink. Yet. I wasn't sure if I wanted one. I wasn't sure if I wanted to suffer in my alertness or chicken out and go to oblivion. It wasn't quite lunchtime but I was hungry.

‘I think a gang has Jack,' I told Phil.

He nodded. ‘I reckon.'

‘I told a gang leader's wife that her husband's cheating on her.'

Phil sucked on his beer.

‘But she already knew so it wasn't so bad.'

When I'd confessed to Emeline about Jack's real reason for being in Saint Sebastian – well, what I thought was his real reason: that he'd been sent on a mission and now he was missing in action, and I thought Samson might know where he was because he seems such an important and knowledgeable fellow – she'd nodded her head and said she understood, and that she agreed that Jack had most likely been taken by a gang, because that's the kind of thing they did, but she doubted Samson would tell me, even if he did know. ‘In fact,' she'd said, ‘it would not be good for you to ask him such questions. Not good at all.' She'd also said, ‘Besides, he is not here for the next couple of days. He is on his way to our home in the mountains.' And that was that. We'd had tea, I'd thanked her, apologised again for my idiocy, and left.

Lifting my head, I said to Phil, ‘How many gangs do you think there are in Seni?'

Phil shrugged and I wondered out loud if the gangs all beat each other up or killed each other or whatever. And if that's what happens, surely one day there'll only be one gang left.

‘Different types of gangs 'ere,' said Phil. ‘Rich 'uns 'n' poor 'uns. Rich 'un's gotcha bloke, I reckon.'

‘I reckon.'

I ordered the ‘soup du jour' from the menu and thought about Samson. Kitty might ask him about Jack, I thought, or I could ask him later at the party. Imagine if Emeline had come into the cafe when Kitty was there!

I peered at the sea of green VB cans and stubbies in front of me, and realised it was not yet midday, and while Jack was still M.I.A., I was sitting in a bar considering an alcoholic drink.

I said to Phil, ‘How come you're not at work?'

‘Day orf.'

‘Ah.'

My soup arrived and I swished it around with my spoon. Suspicious looking things floated to the top and disappeared again. It looked like something from a David Attenborough documentary. I pushed the bowl away. ‘Um, Phil, you wouldn't happen to know where Jack is, would you?'

He gave me a look – one that suggested he thought I might be a lunatic. ‘Nah.'

‘No harm in asking.'

Phil's eyes grew very wide then, staring at the fridge door. In its reflection I watched Catwoman approach. Mask and all. She stood behind me. ‘Hello, Erica Jewell.'

I spun around. ‘Kitty?'

‘Yes, it is I! And I am here to collect you for the party.'

‘Now?'

‘Oui
,
'
she said, speaking French for some reason.
‘J'y vais maintenant.'

‘Did you just say you're going now?'

‘Oui.'
She nodded. ‘Guess who is going to be there?'

‘Jack?'

‘No, silly, the British man, Rupert Berringer.'

‘He's British?'

‘
Oui
.'

‘And he's going to the party?'

‘Yes! Come along. You can ask him about your Jack. Even though —'

‘Don't say it!'

‘Sorry.'

‘But, Kitty, aren't you worried about me talking to Samson about it? He might be angry with you.'

She picked at some fluff on her sleeve. ‘Oh. No, it is fine. I am sure.'

So, should I go to the party and ask Rupert Berringer about Jack? I admit, I was having second thoughts about it. But if I didn't go, what would I do instead? Sit here and get pissed with Phil Collins? There might be nice food at Samson's.

Phil went to the men's.

I said to Kitty, ‘All right, I'll come.' I looked at the backpack she was carrying. ‘Did you bring me something to wear?'

She patted the bag. ‘I have something for you in here. Let us go to your room.'

‘I'm not sure I'll fit into your clothes. You're a bit smaller than me.'

‘Never fear when Kitty is near.'

‘It's a fancy dress party?' I said as we climbed the stairs. Kitty jogged up them. I trudged.

‘No, I am dressing like this for Samson. He likes it.'

Kitty followed me into my room.

I said, ‘How do you know his wife won't be there?' Although, after our earlier conversation, I was pretty confident Emeline wouldn't be.

‘She never goes to the mountains.'

‘Okay. Well, what have you got for me to wear?'

‘I will show you. But first, I have a gift for you!'

‘Really? Thanks, Kitty.'

She drew a shiny bag out into the light. ‘It is a superseded model, but still a favourite of my clients.' She slid the black satin down the length of the puce- and lime-coloured vibrator. and held it up proudly. ‘No more lonely nights for you, Erica Jewell!'

My mouth dropped open. ‘Ah, er, Kitty, I don't think —'

‘No need to thank me! And see? It is very tropical. Typical of this region.'

A gift for Mum, maybe? I gave myself a mental face-slap and leaned in to inspect it. Yes. Tropical it was. A long, pink palm tree with a green head of unopened fronds and a brown monkey attached to the side of it. The monkey presumably had its own agenda.

‘I would show you how it works, but you will need batteries.'

‘Of course.' Batteries. I could hardly wait.

Kitty had brought me a clingy, revealing leopard-print dress that sat just under my bum and gave me a lot of cleavage. I tried to pull the dress further down my legs but that just revealed more cleavage. I was glad I'd waxed everything last week, including my bikini line, which was almost on show as well.

‘Hmmm,' said Kitty, standing back and inspecting me. ‘You have a visible panty line.'

I looked over my shoulder at the mirror. ‘Yeah, visible
below
the dress. Kitty, I think this is a bit much.'

‘No, it is not. You will blend in in this, Erica Jewell. Believe me. But,' she added, ‘you need to wear a G-string.'

‘Great,' I muttered, inspecting my reflection. ‘Jack would love this outfit.'
Not
.

Kitty was handing me some strappy black heels but stopped, stepped back and looked me up and down. ‘Yes, I think Jack would certainly love this outfit.'

I scoffed and she gave me the shoes. I put them on. She might have a tiny frame, but Kitty had huge hoofs. The shoes were way too big. I felt like a little kid in Mum's high heels.

‘I don't think I can wear these.'

‘Do not worry. When we get there, you can find somewhere to sit, or take them off. Let us go.'

I picked up my bag and we made our way downstairs, me shuffling to keep the shoes from slipping off. I eyed Kitty's snug, knee-high stiletto boots, thinking they looked much more comfortable. On the stairs, she said, ‘We will have to find someone to take us to the party.'

I stopped. ‘You mean, you don't have a car?'

‘Oh, no. I do not drive. We will hitchhike, probably.' She continued on down the stairs but I stayed where I was.

‘I don't think hitchhiking's a good idea, Kitty. Isn't it dangerous?'

She waved her hand in the air. ‘No, it is not. Unfortunately.'

‘Bloody hell.' I stumbled after her. ‘Hold on. Let me just ask in the bar.'

In the Bum Crack Bar every head swivelled to stare at us. Phil Collins was back on his stool. I sat next to him. His right eye regarded me with fear and suspicion. Poor Phil.

‘Um, Phil, do you have a car?'

He grunted. ‘Got me ute.'

‘Could you drive us to Samson's party? I'm going to see if I can find out anything about Jack.' Imagine if I arrived and Jack was there with Rupert Berringer and some blonde, laughing and having a good time.

Phil shook his head briefly but firmly.

‘Okay. Well, see you later.' I stood, taking in the other staring locals. ‘Anyone driving to the mountains?' In unison they all looked away.

On the street, Kitty pulled her Catwoman mask into place and stood with one foot on the kerb, the other on the road. Just like a hooker. She smiled and waved at the passing cars. They honked their horns. I hid in the shadows. For the first time since I'd arrived, I wished Bruce Willis would show up. Eventually a truck stopped. There were two men inside. It was a single-cab unit, no back seat. Kitty had a conversation with them in Portuguese.

She turned to me. ‘Okay, these nice boys will drive us to the party.'

I rushed forward, as fast as the stilettos would carry me. The door of the truck opened and a very stinky-looking man grinned out at me. He climbed down, indicating for us to take the middle. I was about to climb up, hanging on to the hem of my dress with one hand, when Kitty said, ‘We might have to have sex with them, but I'll see if we can get around it.'

I fell back and landed on my bum on the sidewalk. ‘Have
sex
with them?' I shouted up at her.

Kitty frowned. ‘Erica, please do not make a fuss. I have condoms.'

I gawped at Kitty from my seated position, knees squeezed together so the ‘nice boys' couldn't see up my dress. As we all stared at each other, three of us looking impatient and one of us looking like she was shitting herself, the sound of screeching tyres made us all turn our heads. A horn blared.

It was Phil! Phil Collins in his ute!

I stood, plucked off my shoes and ran to the passenger side of Phil's car, peering in the window. ‘Phil! Can you drive us?'

He gave one short nod.

I waved to Kitty. ‘Come on!'

She wandered over, seemingly disappointed. I climbed in and sat in the middle; Kitty flopped in next to me with a big sigh.