He returned with champagne for me and a vodka and cranberry for himself and threw a packet of Marlboro Lights and a book of matches on the table. As I sipped my drink I watched him take off his jacket and loosen his tie.
The pushed-up sleeves, open shirt and tousled hair gave him a kind of dissolute look and I had a sudden urge to pounce, push him to the footpath and straddle him. It was weird, but almost getting wasted made me frisky as a rabbit on Spanish fly. Must have been some evolutionary, biological thing, a last gasp at passing on the genes.
I realised Sean was asking me something.
‘What was this news you had to tell me?’
‘Oh, it wasn’t all that special . . .’ I sipped my champagne.
‘Don’t make me interrogate you. I can do incredibly painful things with phone books and bags of oranges.’
‘Well . . .’ I drew it out until he leaned over like he was about to pinch me. ‘Hitch up the tuk-tuk, baby, we’re going to ’Nam.’
His face split into a huge grin and he grabbed me and pulled me onto his lap, spilling my champagne and making me squeal. People looked over, but Sean didn’t care, just bent me backwards and kissed me, old Hollywood style. A couple of suits at the next table stuck their cigarettes between their teeth and applauded. If Elvis Mask
was
watching he’d be damn sure I hadn’t dobbed him in.
‘That’s awesome,’ Sean finally said, pulling me back into a sitting position. ‘Just one thing. Tuk-tuks are from Thailand. It’s cyclos in Vietnam.’
‘Whatever.’ I drained what was left in my glass and noticed my hand was still shaking. ‘Get me another champagne.’
T
he next day was New Year’s Eve, and Tony followed me, as arranged. I went to the gym, had a late breakfast at the Turtle Café, did a little grocery shopping, tried on clothes I couldn’t afford and finally went home, waiting anxiously for Tony’s call. If I could just find out who the guy stalking me was . . .
‘There was no one there,’ Tony said.
‘You sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure. I was watching for six hours. You sound disappointed.’
‘Nah.’
Just a day late, and a buck short, as per usual.
‘It’s frustrating,’ I said. ‘I’m sure he’ll be back as soon as you leave.’
‘Want me to stay on you? I could do another hour or so, but the wife and I are going to a party.’
‘No, it’s fine. Thanks, Tone.’ I hung up the phone.
At five o’clock I drove to Balaclava, keeping a lookout for guys in Elvis masks, seeing none. I had to meet the girl with the masquerade costume upstairs at Chloe’s at six and thought I’d put in a little time at the computer first: do another internet search, reprint the stuff that had been taken along with my file, see if I could learn anything about JJ.
As I booted up the hard drive I heard a thudding bass line and a stretchy, groaning sound coming from the ceiling that indicated people were moving around above me. Just because the girls were working on New Year’s Eve didn’t mean they weren’t celebrating as well. Chloe’s flat was gonna be party central while they got ready and when they stopped over between shows.
I was glad she wouldn’t be alone. Just thinking about Elvis Mask gave me a shiver that rippled up from the base of my spine and shook my shoulders. Was it more terrifying because I hadn’t seen his face? I desperately wanted to call the police, but realised it would be stupid to take that risk unless I knew who was after me and why.
If only I could find Nick. He knew the answer, and when I was done throttling him for ruining my life, I’d ask what it was.
I googled Nick Austin, Isabella Bishop, Desiree and JJ all in the same search line without expecting to get a hit on such a broad query, but I did. Just one. I clicked on the result and a PDF file opened up. A program for a writers’ roadshow. Writers’ roadshow . . . I realised I’d heard of it before—Nick’s ex-wife Jenny had told me it was where he and Isabella first met. And Desiree and the mysterious poet JJ, it seemed. I printed out the document and leaned back in my chair, skimming through it.
The event was described as a ‘regional literature initiative’ sponsored by the government through the Australia Council for the Arts, and had taken place three years earlier. Basically, they’d packed a bunch of writers into a minivan and driven them around country Victoria, South Australia and New South Wales where the authors had held talks at schools and libraries and conducted writing workshops. The trip had taken six weeks and covered several thousand kilometres. Desiree hadn’t been there for the whole thing, I noticed. She’d just put in a couple of days in Broken Hill, running a workshop entitled ‘Writing Real Life’.
I flipped to the back of the document and found the participants’ biographies. JJ’s full name was Jerome Jones and his photo showed a good-looking black guy in his late twenties, wearing a black suit, skinny tie and pork pie hat. I read on:
Jerome Jones, aka JJ, is a Nukunu person from the Southern
Flinders Ranges. An award-winning poet and playwright, he is
currently completing a PhD in Creative Writing at the University
of Adelaide.
The good old ‘I’m getting somewhere’ buzz started humming through my brain. Theories and scenarios flitted in front of my eyes, and one in particular seemed to make sense.
Far as I knew, the roadshow was the only place they’d all been together at the same time. Elvis Mask was after all four of them, so what if something had happened on that trip? But what? It wasn’t like a randy football team or drug-fucked rock band had come rolling into town. Didn’t writers spend all their time hunched behind desks, or lounging around bars in cravats and elbow patches, pontificating on the death of the novel? They weren’t troublemakers. What could they possibly have done to make that psycho so hell-bent on eviscerating them?
I needed to speak to JJ, and the other writers who’d been there. Looking through the rest of the bios I discovered there were three more; judging by their pics, they were all aged in their fifties or sixties. Cecelia Levy wrote children’s books, Thomas Finch’s forte was historical fiction, and Albert Da Silva was a literary author.
I could bugger around for hours searching the hard way, like I had with Jenny Clunes, but I didn’t have time. After New Year’s, Sean had four days off and most if not all of my operations would have to be suspended. I needed to find out as much as I possibly could, and fast.
I called Tony and asked for one final favour. He said he’d get on it, find the authors’ details and text them to me.
Glancing at the time in the bottom right-hand corner of the computer screen I discovered it was after six. If I didn’t motor I’d miss the boat. Literally.
T
he metal steps clanged as I shot up the back stairs. All the strippers’ drivers had congregated on Chloe’s deck and were sitting at the green plastic outdoor setting or leaning on the railing between the potted palms, chatting, smoking and drinking Coca-Cola out of sweaty red cans. I waved to them on my way through.
Inside it was chaos. Fifteen or so dancers milled around in various stages of undress, applying body glitter and false eyelashes, laughing, screeching, drinking champagne. French perfume and cheap body-spray mingled, hovering like a mist in the air, making my nose twitch and my eyes water. Loose sequins crunched underfoot and the carpet was covered with so many boa feathers it looked like someone had just butchered a flock of multicoloured chickens. A couple of girls were showing each other moves on the practice pole as ‘Sexyback’ boomed out of the stereo.
The scene made me nostalgic for New Years past as I remembered Chloe and me getting ready, high on nerves and the odd line of low-grade speed. Part of me wished I was performing, feeling sexy in fishnets and feathers, getting a rush from the applause and the sheer fun and abandonment of dancing around naked. It was hard to let go of, but I had to. I guessed we both did, now that she was a single mum to be and I was, well, pretty much an unemployed housewife.
My best friend reclined on her red lip-shaped couch, drinking champagne and shouting into her mobile phone. A stretchy baby-pink tube top rode up over her belly and a black skirt in the same fabric slid below.
I picked up the bottle of sparkling from her desk, found a plastic cup, filled it, and had to remove a rather brutal looking black dildo from the couch before sitting down.
Chloe hung up the phone, put her arm around my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek.
‘Happy New Year, mate. It’s been fucking crazy here, everybody wanting last-minute shows. Don’t wanna do one?’
‘Can’t.’
We pressed our plastic cups together and took a sip.
‘Don’t give me any crap about drinking,’ Chloe said.
‘Wasn’t gonna.’
‘There’s that much other shit around I haven’t touched. Fucking Curtis. Soon as this parasite’s out I’m going on a binge. Right in the hospital room. What do you reckon? Coke, E’s, bit of Louie. Maybe a trip. I haven’t had acid for years.’
I felt exhausted just thinking about it.
‘You might have to wait until you finish breastfeeding.’
‘Fuck that. The thing’s having a bottle.’
I couldn’t be bothered arguing with her.
‘How’s the case going?’ she whispered.
I told her a few things, leaving out the death threats. I didn’t think I should stress her unnecessarily, given her condition.
‘How are you going with the books? Any clues?’
‘I couldn’t get through
Thrill City
,’ she admitted. ‘The first bit was okay, this chick brains a speed dealer with a replica Harley, but then she just sort of wanders around thinking about shit and I got bored. I like Nick’s books, but then I get so into them I forget I’m supposed to be looking for clues. Rod’s are okay, but they’re a bit unrealistic. Every time his hero gets in trouble he has this mini jet pack that gets him out of it. Dunno about the sex scenes either. What’s a pudendum?’
‘A pussy?’ I wasn’t exactly sure myself.
‘Oh. Thought it was a sexually transmitted disease.’
‘Well, keep going. You might find a clue yet. Here— brought you some more books.’ I handed her Desiree’s Christmas two-pack. As long as Chloe was reading, she wasn’t out following me around. ‘Is the chick here with the dress? I really have to get going.’
‘Porsche!’ She waved at one of the pole girls then pointed to me.
A dark-haired Italian-looking girl disentangled her long limbs from the pole. She was all of twenty-one, my height and had a classic gymnast’s body except for the fake tits. She disappeared into Chloe’s bedroom and came back carrying a plastic-sheathed gown with the reverence of a Renaissance Madonna holding the infant Jesus.
‘Portia, is it? Nice to finally meet you. I’m Simone.’
‘Not Portia,
Porsche.
’ A lame joke popped out before I could stop it: ‘You look more like a Ferrari.’
‘I know.’ She sighed. ‘But that name was taken.’
‘How about Datsun 180Y?’
Porsche appeared unamused and looked me up and down with an expression that said she’d heard all about me and wasn’t sure she approved. I couldn’t win a trick. The straight world thought I was too bent and the bent world assumed I was too big for my thigh-high boots. Chloe’s phone trilled Abba’s ‘Happy New Year’ and she picked it up and waddled to the desk to answer.
‘I don’t think I should lend you the costume,’ Porsche said.
‘Why not?’
She huffed and rolled her eyes as if it were so obvious I shouldn’t have bothered asking.
‘Firstly, I was going to wear it tonight. Secondly, I don’t want it wrecked. Or
stretched
.’ She stared pointedly at my midsection. ‘This gown is custom made. The skirt is attached to the bodice with Velcro for easy removal and the corset, fully lace-able at the back, can be released with a zip that’s hidden at the front. The fabric’s from Italy and the outfit was vital in me taking home the runner-up sash at the Miss Erotica state finals. It cost me over a thousand bucks, it’s original and I’m sooo sick of people copying me. Like, I was doing pearls and then everyone started doing pearls?’
I didn’t tell her it had all been done before. Schoolgirls, secretaries, police women, harem girls, nurses, brides. Girls working hot had shoved in and pulled out anything that would fit up their twats. Vibrators, fruit and veg, you name it. I’d heard of live frogs, but I didn’t know if that was an urban stripping legend. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find out it was true.
‘I’ll take very good care of it.’
All I got was a sour look, so I continued: ‘And, you know, if you’ve lost income from not wearing it I’ll hire it off you. How’s a hundred? No? Two.’
Nothing.
‘Two fifty and I’ll get it dry-cleaned. I’m not even stripping out of it, just wearing it to a party.’
After a long pause she said, ‘Okay.’
‘Show me how to put it on?’
We went into Chloe’s bedroom. Tiara, the skinny blonde, and another girl were smoking out of a glass pipe. I thought it was some kind of newfangled bong until I remembered Chloe telling me about Tiara’s fondness for ice. Tiara started, thinking I was Chloe, then gave me a challenging look when she saw me check out the pipe.
I ignored her. I didn’t give a shit what she did. It was none of my business and I’d never been an angel. They left soon after. The room smelled of burning chemicals, like when you accidentally throw plastic into a fire.
I undressed to my knickers and bra and Porsche helped me slide into the corset and step into the full, hooped skirt. She had to loosen the laces.
‘Lucky you have such small boobs or there’s no way you’d fit,’ she said.
I sighed and looked skyward.
T
he cab dropped me off at the eastern end of the casino, just before Queens Bridge, and I power-walked along the promenade to the dock where the party boat was moored. The riverbank and restaurants were packed with people, all there to see the fireworks, and my get-up prompted a few people to nudge each other and wolf-whistle.