Peepshow (8 page)

‘No way,’ I said. ‘What happened?’

‘Brad, Vince and Frank beat the shit out of him. Left him in hospital.’

‘Do the cops know?’

‘Oh yeah,’ said Emma. ‘Told ’em about that one.’

‘Maybe it was Ebony,’ said Dakota. ‘This black chick into voodoo.’

‘Now you’re thinking of
Angel Heart
,’ Aurora said, ‘with Mickey Rourke and Lisa Bonet? There was voodoo and penis severing in that.’

‘Can we stop talking about Frank?’ said Betty. ‘The guy was a prick, someone killed him, world’s a better place, end of story.’

I went to the toilet and grabbed a coaster on the way.

I must have been drunk because walking a straight line was beyond me. After I’d pissed I took a lipliner out of my back pocket and wrote on the coaster. Shane, Honey, abattoir, Jim, Ebony and Dick Farquhar. I circled his name—where had I heard it before? As I washed my hands I saw myself in the mirror. Not good. Mascara had migrated downward creating a fetching panda effect, and my foundation had soaked so far into my skin I could feel it enter my bloodstream. Go home, girl.

Back at the couches Dakota had passed out on Anais’s lap. I said goodbye and walked down the stairs, gripping the handrail all the way. Outside the air was cool and the sky was getting light. I slumped into the back seat of a cab and watched telegraph poles slide by. I saw the top of Crown Casino, a concrete overpass and even a tree. I thought of Chloe and felt useless and stupid.

My eyes pricked with tears. Drunk and maudlin. I didn’t remember getting into bed.

I woke up one o’clock Sunday afternoon feeling slightly hazy but not totally hungover. It was a miracle. I got up and drank a plunger full of strong coffee and headed to the gym before the buzz wore off.

The gym was up Glenhuntly Road, across the Nepean Highway where Elwood turned into Elsternwick. It was nothing fancy, a huge space with peeling lemon yellow paint and shabby grey carpet divided into two barn-like rooms, one with weights and cardio equipment and the other aerobics.

I went into the weights room and jumped on the treadmill. There’s nothing like working naked with a bunch of skinny chicks for motivation, and I ran for twenty minutes, visualising the fat just melting off my stomach. The gym was empty except for a nuggety guy with black hair and an overweight woman in leggings and a floppy T-shirt. None of those no-pore rich bitches here.

My legs still ached from dancing so I worked my upper body and abs. I grabbed a bench in front of the mirror and did free-weights—shoulder press, side lifts, biceps, triceps—then lay down and did chest presses and flies. I got on the floor and managed fifteen push-ups, real ones not the girly ones, then found a fit ball to do crunches. I did four lots of fifty and my abs screamed in pain. Somewhere under this layer of fat there’s a killer six-pack.

I was red faced, sweating and pumped up on exercise-induced endorphins. Doing weights always made me feel powerful and strong, ready to take on the world. I left the gym and popped into the solarium. It was Chloe who told me brown fat looks less fat than white fat.

As soon as I got home I cooked scrambled eggs and wrote down a plan. I was going about this thing all wrong.

Torcasio had told us in class that the most important thing in a murder or missing person investigation is the victim. I had to find out about Frank. And maybe Sal while I was at it. Then I had to systematical y go through the list of suspects. I took out my coaster from the night before. Jim, Shane and Honey, Ebony, Dick Farquhar.

Farquhar. Suddenly it hit me, Jim talking about Alex:

‘What’s Farquhar doing sending one of his boys around here?’ Did Alex work with Farquhar? Did I still have his card? I raced into the bedroom, grabbed my black boots, held them upside down and shook. Two cards fluttered out. One said Tim Purcell, Junior Accounts Manager, and the other had the name Alexander Christakos and a mobile phone number. Bingo. Before I called him I rang Tony Torcasio. He was at his daughter’s under-eight netball game.

‘Sorry to bother you,’ I said, ‘but I need information on a cop named Dick Farquhar.’

There was silence on the line and I heard cheering in the background.

‘Detective Senior Sergeant Richard Farquhar of the southwest CIB?’

‘I guess so.’

‘Why do you need to know about him?’

‘It’s kind of a long story.’

‘I don’t know what you’re up to, Simone, but we need to have a little talk. Can you meet me at my office tomorrow?’ Tony sounded serious. He gave me an address in North Melbourne and we arranged to meet at midday.

‘Farquhar is not someone you mess around with.

He’s corrupt and he’s dangerous. It’s people like him made me leave the force.’

‘Got anything on a cop who works with Farquhar named Alexander Christakos?’ I asked.

‘Never heard of him, but I can find out. In the meantime don’t do anything stupid, OK?’

‘I won’t,’ I said, and dialled Alex’s number.

He answered after three rings. ‘Alex Christakos.’

‘Hi, it’s Vivien. We met at the Red Friday night?’

I was walking around in nervous little circles with the portable phone.

‘Vivien,’ he sounded surprised and pleased. ‘I didn’t think you’d call.’

‘Neither did I. How’s Grant?’

He groaned. ‘I have to apologise for that whole scene. What a fuck-up. Anyway, what are you up to tonight?’

‘Nothing much.’ I sat on the couch.

‘How about dinner?’

I imagined sitting in a restaurant, all civilised.

Hmmm. I flipped through the
Impress
on the coffee table to check out band listings. Doug Mansfield was playing at the Greyhound at four o’clock.

‘How about a band?’

‘A country and western band?’ The corners of Alex’s mouth turned down in distaste. We sat a couple of tables back from the stage. Actually I was sitting; he perched on the edge of the chair like he might get something nasty on his trousers.

‘Not western, just country,’ I said. ‘There is a difference, you know.’

The public bar was half full. Old rock dinosaurs in flannelette shirts propped up the bar and over at a window table a group of rough-looking guys shared a jug of beer with a loud drag queen and a smacked-out hooker. A couple of diehard country fans sat up front near the band, a man and woman in their sixties, dressed in checked shirts and cowboy boots. The man wore a string tie. At the table behind them a group of backpackers drank beer, talked loudly and occasionally shouted yee-ha. Two large Islander guys had staked claim on the pool table and the barmaid looked tired. It was the Greyhound all right.

I had gotten to the pub early and was working on champagne number three. Alex nursed a scotch. He wore an olive green shirt that looked expensive for a cop who wasn’t on the take and his hair was slicked back and slightly damp. I’d decided on a white sundress. I thought a virginal look might confuse him after the red latex the other night.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

‘Well,’ I ventured.

‘So,’ said Alex. We laughed. I looked him in the eye and he returned the gaze. It was a stare-off.

‘You have beautiful eyes,’ he said. ‘Are they real?’

I almost choked on my drink. ‘What do you mean, are they real?’

‘They’re not coloured contacts?’

‘No.’

‘It’s just that they’re such a bright blue. You don’t notice it so much at night but in the light they’re amazing.’

I squinted and leaned across the table. ‘You’re a Libra, right?’

‘How did—’

I shrugged. ‘You dress well, smell nice and you’re not short on charm.’

‘I don’t believe in star signs,’ he said. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

I said yes although I probably shouldn’t have. I was knocking them back like water to quell the nerves and it was certainly working. With Alex gone I turned my attention to the band. They played that cool, honky-tonk kind of country. Songs about whisky and prison and heartbreak. And about Melbourne too.

Doug Mansfield sat on a stool at the front. He had a beard and cowboy hat, and walked with a cane. A guy in a checked shirt played pedal steel, the drummer and guitarist wore Stetsons, and the bass player, handsome and dressed in black like Johnny Cash, looked over at me.

‘That guy’s checking you out.’ Alex was back with the drinks.

‘I go to all their gigs,’ I explained. ‘He probably thinks I’m stalking him.’

That statement led to another uncomfortable silence.

Alex broke it.

‘So, Vivien,’ he said, ‘tell me about yourself.’

‘Not much to tell really. I grew up in a trailer park, always wanted to go to beauty school and got into the entertainment industry to pay the tuition.’

‘Is that right?’ he smirked.

‘Yes indeedy. What about you? How long you been a cop?’

‘Ten years.’

‘That’s a long time. How old are you?’

‘Thirty-five.’

‘You married?’

‘Was.’

‘Kids?’

‘No. Do you have a boyfriend?’

‘Nuh-uh. It’s difficult when you’re in . . . show business . . .’

‘Girlfriend?’ He raised his eyebrows hopefully.

‘You wish.’

Alex laughed. ‘You’re an unusual girl. I don’t think I’ve met anyone quite like you before.’

‘I’m trouble with a capital T.’ I was getting a little tipsy. ‘I don’t doubt it.’

I took another large sip of champagne. More of a gulp really. ‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘enough of this flirting. Let’s get down to business.’

‘Business?’ Alex looked amused.

‘Come on,’ I said, ‘I know you’re dying to ask me more about the Parisi murder. Although I’m not sure what your angle is.’

‘My angle?’

‘I know you’re one of Farquhar’s boys . . .’

Alex’s look of surprise only lasted a second.

‘And I know Farquhar had some kind of deal going on with Frank. Word on the street is he and possibly his whole unit is corrupt.’ I had made that bit up. ‘Now I’m wondering if he sent you to the club to find out if anyone knows anything, or if you’re operating on your own or maybe for someone else. What’s your agenda, Detective Christakos?’ While I talked I leaned forward and rested my bare knee against his leg. It would have seemed accidental except I kept increasing the pressure in small increments. After a couple of drinks I was a regular Mata Hari.

Alex sipped his scotch and smiled enigmatically. The band was between songs and I heard balls click on the pool table and the dull roar of drunken conversation.

Outside the sky had gone molten orange. He leaned forward too and rested his hand where the hem of my dress met my thigh.

‘And what’s your agenda, Simone Kirsch?’ My shocked expression lasted a fair bit longer than his had and seemed to please him. How the hell did he know my name?

‘You can’t have been working at the Red long as you weren’t interviewed in the initial investigation.

Let’s see . . .’ He took a small notebook from his pants pocket and began reading. ‘You’re twenty-eight years old, live on Broadway in Elwood, drive a nineteen sixty-seven Ford Futura and your work history’s a bit hit and miss. Jill of all trades, huh? You’ve moved around the country a lot, been in Melbourne three years, had a few parking tickets and done once for speeding. No criminal record though. Applied for the Victoria Police earlier this year but got knocked back—probably because you admitted you worked as a stripper—not that anyone will tell you that’s the reason because the department doesn’t want to get sued for discrimination. And here,’ he pointed to his pad, ‘here’s the clincher. You applied for and received your inquiry agent’s license two weeks ago.’ His palm was hot against my leg and his face unbearably smug. ‘So I’m wondering why you’re so interested in the murder, who you’re working for and what you want from me.’

I pulled my leg away from his hand, sure I’d gone bright red, and excused myself to go to the toilet. I sat down heavily in the graffiti-ridden cubicle and groaned.

It was because I’d called him from my home phone—what an idiot. On the wall opposite a poster warned that one in eight young Australians had genital herpes.

Cheery stuff. Probably one in four if you picked up at the Greyhound. I stopped at the bar on the way back and downed two cocksucking cowboys before purchasing more champagne for me and scotch for Alex.

‘You still haven’t answered my question,’ I told him when I got back.

He shook his head. ‘You are something else.’ Then he leaned in close and whispered in my ear, ‘How’d you like to work as an informer for the police? You’d get paid.’

‘I already get paid, and very well,’ I said. ‘How about a simple exchange of information?’

‘I can’t do that,’ he said.

‘Well, if you can’t then neither can I.’ I shrugged.

The band asked for requests.

‘ “Achy Breaky Heart”,’ shouted one of the backpackers.

‘How does “fuck off ” grab you?’ Doug swigged from a can of Melbourne Bitter.

‘ “She Dances on Tables”!’ I yelled. As the title suggested it was a song about a Melbourne table dancer.

Doug and the boys conferred briefly about the key and started playing.

‘This one’s my absolute favourite,’ I shouted in Alex’s ear.

Doug sang: ‘Well she came into the city looking for a better life to live . . .’

‘Come up and dance.’ I tugged at Alex’s sleeve. ‘I want to dance.’

‘Now you’re really pushing it.’

I pouted and went over to the backpackers’ table and asked if anyone wanted to join me. A young Swedish guy with white blond dreadlocks leapt up and followed me to the dance floor. We spun around to the chorus, his friends yelling encouragement.

‘. . . And she pays the rent, dancing around on tables, shaking it all about for the city boys . . .’

I was dancing in a style that could best be described as Daisy Duke meets Lola Montez and the Swede loped around like a demented hillbilly: knees up and hands down. The drag queen became inspired and began shimmying about and then the country couple got up, the man earnestly twirling the woman around the floor.

The crowd watched, whooping and hollering, and the band members grinned at each other. Alex shook his head as if he couldn’t believe he’d gotten involved in something so incredibly uncool.