Private Oz (19 page)

THERE WAS A tap at the door. Johnny looked up from his desk and saw Micky Stevens’ girlfriend, Katia, standing at the entrance. She looked even more stunning than the night before. Today she was dressed entirely in white – a long flowing dress that reached the floor, the miniature sword on the pink silk ribbon still about her neck.

Johnny came round the desk. “Katia.”

She gave him a faint smile.

“How’s Micky?”

“Oh, he’s absolutely fine.”

“Fine?”

“Up by two this afternoon and off to a rehearsal at three.”

“But …?”

Katia gave him a broader smile. “You’re pretty naive, aren’t you, Johnny Ishmah? That’s sweet.”

He blushed. “I don’t know much about the rock world, but I’m not exactly naive.”

“Micky has an incredible constitution, but he keeps Dr. James close by. Graham insists upon it. Micky can’t stand the guy. Thinks he’s a grossly overpaid …”

Johnny perched himself on the edge of the desk. “Last night, you were starting to tell me what you thought about this Club 27 thing.”

“Yes. I really don’t know what to think anymore. I’ve been with Micky for six months. He was a user when I met him. He drinks heavily. But … you know … he’s a rock star … That’s what rock stars do, isn’t it? But he’s become a lot worse in the last two months.”

“And you think that’s because he’s approaching his twenty-seventh birthday? Or do you think Parker is pushing him into killing himself?”

Katia folded her arms and looked as though she was about to burst into tears. Johnny was shocked for a moment.

“Look, Katia,” he said, “last night I saw something.”

She fixed him with her huge dark eyes.

“The smack. I saw Parker give it to Johnny just before he went into the bathroom.”

Katia exhaled through her nose. “Of course he did,” she said, her expression cynical. “Micky was a prize racehorse. He used to be Graham’s most valuable asset. Now though, even with his career on the slide, the guy’s still Micky’s filter for everything … even his Class A drugs.”

JOHNNY HAD BEEN tailing Graham Parker for over two hours and he’d ended up here – Kings Cross, the stretch of strip clubs, discos and gambling haunts called The Strip.

Parker had ducked into a joint called The Roxy. Johnny stopped outside, stepped past the bouncer at the door and pulled out his wallet as he approached a woman in a short black dress with a plunging neckline that revealed acres of cleavage. She was sitting on a stool, legs crossed, a cash register on a shelf next to her. A sign on the wall behind her shoulder read: ENTRANCE $50.

Inside, the thump of some nameless dance track, all bass drum and bubbling synthesizer. There was a circular stage, spotlights moving in a crazy random pattern sending splashes of color across a couple of girls wearing G-strings and nothing else. Several punters stood near the edge of the stage looking up at the girls and the glare. A bar in one corner was surrounded by UV lights.

Johnny scanned the room, but it was hard to make anything out. He moved slowly around the edge of the space trying not to make himself obvious to the half dozen men sitting at tables.
He couldn’t see Parker. Then he caught movement in the corner of his vision, a man slipping under an arch. A notice to the side said “Private Rooms”.

Johnny made his way over, slowed as he reached the arch and took a couple of paces into a narrow corridor lined with closed doors. At the end stood an emergency exit left ajar and opening onto an alley. The music was quieter here, just the thud of the bass drum. He paced along the corridor and heard voices coming from beyond the exit, recognized Parker’s voice. He pulled in close to the wall and held his breath, straining to hear what was being said.

Then came a thumping sound, a groan and suddenly Graham Parker was flying toward the emergency exit, grasping the doorframe to break his fall. Johnny couldn’t help himself, he reacted instinctively, jumping aside and into full view of the men in the alley.

JOHNNY TORE THROUGH the doorway and right, into the lane, gaining a few seconds lead before the men realized what was happening.

The alley was dimly lit, the surface cratered with potholes and strewn with garbage. He tripped, almost went down but managed to keep going. He flicked a glance over his shoulder and saw two thugs running toward him through the shadows. Beyond them, the rear lights of a car.

He reached a turning to his left, dived in, sped through the darkness. He could hear the two men had reached the opening and were coming after him, gaining on him.

Johnny’s heart was thumping, sweat ran down his cheeks, but somehow he found some new energy. He ripped along the narrow laneway emerging from the end onto a brightly lit road. People were out with their friends, in restaurants and bars. He could merge in maybe. But these guys would get him somehow. It was their turf.

Directly across the street, a dark entrance to another alley. He darted across the road, barely looking where he was going. A driver blasted his horn, Johnny swerved, gained speed and
flew into the passageway. But the men were faster, they crashed into the lane a few yards behind him. Johnny put on a final burst of speed, reached the end, a T-junction. He swung left and tripped, hitting the ground with a spine-jarring crunch.

THEY WERE ON his back in an instant, pulling him to his feet. One of them stepped away, the other rammed Johnny against the wall, hand at his throat.

“A bit nosy, aren’t we, kid?”

Johnny stared into the man’s face. He had a shaved head, big brown, malevolent eyes that searched his questioningly.

“I was just leaving the place.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Look, I’m not interested in what you were saying.”

The other guy laughed, took a step forward. The first man loosened his grip on Johnny’s neck, grabbed his left arm, pulled it up hard behind his back making him cry out in pain.

“A little word with the boss, I think,” he said and pushed him forward, back to the lane, and then the street beyond.

Thirty seconds later the two men had marched Johnny to the rear entrance to The Roxy, a big car stood in the lane.

Johnny struggled to get away but it was hopeless, the two men had an arm each, gripping him like a vice. They came round the side of the vehicle and the one on Johnny’s right opened the door with his spare hand, pushed down on his
head shoving him into the car before sliding in beside him. The other guy ran round and jumped into the driver’s seat.

“You a little out of breath?” the boss asked, turning to the henchman in the back. “Gave you a run for your … Johnny?
Johnny Ishmah
?”

Johnny stared at the boss. He had a flabby face, small black eyes and was wearing a big grin.

“Jerry Loretto!” Johnny said, amazed. “It’s been a long time …”

“ALRIGHT YOU TWO … piss off,” Loretto snapped at his men, and without a word, they stepped out into the alley slamming the doors.

“Well, well!” the boss exclaimed. “Never thought I’d see you again, Johnny. What the hell you doin’ here?”

Johnny had regained some composure, took a deep breath. “Could ask the same of you, Jerry. You watching one of your dad’s places?”

Jerry snorted. “My own, you cheeky bastard. I’m a big boy now!”

Johnny knew Jerry Loretto was only twenty-four, although he looked at least ten years older. He’d known Jerry at school. Not that Loretto had been at school much. Even then he’d been a petty criminal, a kid gangster, following in the footsteps of his father.

Johnny had studiously avoided Jerry. He was bullied at school because he wanted to get on, do well, get out of the Western Suburbs. Jerry Loretto was one of the school thugs, a thoroughly nasty piece of work even at the age of eleven. But then one day Loretto crossed the path of another tough
kid from a neighboring school who had intruded into Jerry’s “patch” selling cannabis and ecstasy. Loretto had been jumped, knifed and dumped by the roadside. Johnny had found him and Jerry had begged him not to call an ambulance because he didn’t want anyone to know what he’d been up to.

Johnny had helped Jerry get home, and after that, Loretto was his guardian angel. He was never bullied again.

“I’m here on an investigation,” Johnny said, a little embarrassed. “I’m a PI.”

“What!” Loretto’s eyes widened and then he burst out laughing. “Well, I guess that figures, Johnny, you always were a goody-two-shoes,” and he slapped him on the back. “You’re not investigating me, are you?” he added, eyes narrowing.

It was Johnny’s turn to laugh, a nervous edge to it. “Nah, your buddy, Graham Parker.”

“That shyster?”

“He manages one of our clients.”

“Micky Friggin’ Stevens?”

Johnny nodded.

“So what do you want to know about Parker then, Johnny Boy?”

“Well, he’s obviously up to his neck in it.”

“Up to his eyeballs more like … Up to here.” And Jerry indicated a level six inches above his head.

“Gambling?”

Loretto nodded. “Stupid bastard must be the worst punter in history, but he don’t give up.”

“How much does he owe you?”

Jerry frowned, then tapped his nose. “Client confidentiality,” and laughed loudly. “Let’s just say
a lot
.”

“And you’ve given him an ultimatum?”

“One he probably can’t meet.”

Johnny nodded. “He really is up to here …” He imitated Loretto’s earlier gesture.

“Oh yes, Johnny Boy. I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes in three days’ time.”

I GOT THE call from the hooker Ruthie just as I was dropping Justine off at her hotel. The girl sounded nervous as hell and at one point I thought she’d change her mind and hang up.

“Can we meet?” I said.

“Where?”

“There’s a bar in Crows Nest, The Corporal Jones.”

“I know it.”

“I could be there in half an hour.”

I lowered the phone and turned to Justine. “That was the prostitute I met at the place in Chester Street. Wants to talk.”

“Let’s go then.”

We got there on time and sat nursing glasses of insipid pub wine for almost twenty minutes before Ruthie showed. She saw us at a table by a window and walked over.

I did the introductions and fetched the girl a double vodka and tonic, then waited for her to start talking.

“This business with the cameras,” she began, looking from
me to Justine and back. “Can’t handle it no more. Something’s going on at work. It smells rotten. I want out.”

“I can understand that,” Justine commented.

“Can you?” Ruthie replied sarcastically.

Justine took a sip of wine.

“Is that why you called me?” I asked.

The girl gave me a hard look. “I want five hundred bucks.”

“Do you now!”

“I think when you’ve heard what I’ve got to say you’ll think it’s cheap.”

“Go on.”

She had a hand out on the table, palm up.

I took out my wallet as surreptitiously as I could. I’d suspected something like this would happen and stopped at an ATM on the way over. I pulled out a handful of fifties. “Two hundred now,” I said. “Two hundred more if I consider your information important enough.”

She snatched the notes and gulped her vodka and tonic, looking around as she swallowed. “A few nights ago, I had a client I recognized from TV. He’s a politician, seen him on the news. He was in several nights in a row just before the cameras were taken out. I recorded one of the sessions.”

“Do you know his name?” Justine asked.

She shook her head. “Called himself Pete, but I know that’s crap.”

“Describe him,” I said.

“He’s a big, rough bastard. I was lucky. The night after he was with me he beat up one of the girls. He’s banned now. He’s old … about forty. A big fat thing, spiky silver hair. I noticed he had a bit of a limp.”

I stared at the girl, shaking my head slowly.

“What?”

“You’ve just described the government minister, Ken Boston.”

WE SAW RUTHIE to a cab and walked quickly back to my car. Closing the door, I pulled out my cell and punched in Pam’s number. No response. I went to put in her home number, saw Justine staring at me and put the phone down.

“I was calling Pam,” I said, “but maybe it’s not the smartest …” Then I came to a snap decision. Turning the key in the ignition, the car sprang to life. I hung a right onto the main road in the direction of the freeway.

“Where are we going?” Justine asked.

“The Hewes’ house is only ten minutes from here.”

GEOFF WAS SO drunk it was a minor miracle he made it home without totaling his car or failing a breath test. He’d started drinking that afternoon after speaking to Ken Boston.

Pam had also gotten through half a bottle of red. She saw him walk a little unsteadily into the lounge and just knew there would be trouble. She took it carefully. “Hi, darling.” She pecked him on the cheek. “You eaten?”

Geoff shook his head. “Not hungry, babe.” He sounded excited.

“You look pleased, honey. What’s happened?”

“Oh, just the biggest break I’ve ever had, Pam.”

She stared warily at his back as he walked over to the drinks cabinet, poured himself a generous whiskey and meandered back to the sofa, swirling the drink in the glass.

“So, you going to tell me?” she asked enthusiastically, and sat in the opposite sofa, leaning forward, arms folded on her knees. She realized Geoff was actually more drunk than she had at first thought.

“You know Al Loretto? Big businessman?” he began.

Pam nodded. “Heard of him.”

“Yeah … I should think you have. He’s a huge name. I do
some work for him from time to time. Anyway, he knows lots of influential people.”

Pam nodded and kept looking keen.

“Some of the guys he knows have been … well, indiscreet.”

“How?”

Geoff waved his free hand in front of him. “Oh, don’t worry about that, babe. Let’s just say, Al has evidence, which I helped him get.”

Pam said nothing.

“Any … way,” Geoff started to say, thought better of it and stood up to refill his glass. Back on the sofa with another half-full tumbler, he took a gulp. “Anyway, because I helped, Al Loretto is cutting me in for a percentage.”

“Darling,” Pam said evenly. “Don’t you think that’s dangerous?”

Geoff’s expression darkened. “What d’ya mean?”

“It sounds dodgy … well, it’s blackmail, actually.”

He screwed up his face. Pam took a gulp of wine, eyeing her husband over the rim of the glass. Her mind was racing. She had quickly put two and two together. The camera scam had netted someone big.

“Geoff, I know what you’re talking about. And I know Al Loretto is more than a businessman.”

“Oh?” He gave her a nasty look. “You do, do you?” He pulled himself up.

“Sit down, Geoff!” Pam snapped and emptied her glass.

“No. I won’t sit down! Who the hell do you think you’re talking too?

Pam stared him out.

He refused to acknowledge her for several moments, twirled the contents of the tumbler, then slowly sat down.

“What’s got into you? I know about the brothels. I know you’ve upset Loretto. But you won’t let it go, will you? Now you tell me you’re blackmailing someone?”

“Not just anyone,” Geoff spat. “Only Ken Boston!”

Pam glared at him. “Are you
insane
? You’ve become obsessed with money.”

Hewes closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath. “I’m obsessed? Obsessed! Of course I’m obsessed, you stupid bitch! How do you think I find the money for the private schools? How do I pay for your clothes, your fancy shoes, your $2,000 handbags … the holidays in Phuket?”

“I work.”

“
Hah
!” he spat.

“Geoff, I …”

He was up again, his whiskey tumbler flying through the air, its contents spraying across the floor as it went. It shot past Pam’s right ear missing her by an inch. Before she had time to recover, Geoff was round the coffee table.

She managed to half-rise, half-slide along the sofa, but her husband was too fast for her. He was on her in a second. “You fucking ungrateful bitch!” he yelled and slammed a fist into the side of her face, sending her sprawling. She pulled up a cushion to protect her face and curled up in a ball. Geoff’s fists rained down. “Bitch … Stupid, stupid bitch!”

There was a noise from the doorway. It cut through Pam’s muffled cries and Geoff’s profanity. He spun round. Their seven-year-old daughter, Sophia, was standing across the room, screaming. Next to her stood her nine-year-old brother, Sam, his face ashen.