‘Shit.’ Nick clocked them at the same time and froze like a hunted deer.
‘Might not be after you,’ I whispered. ‘Could be, I dunno, a drug raid or something.’
‘Then what’s she doing here?’
Detective Talbot slid out of the passenger side of the four-wheel drive, her brown bob sleek and a flak jacket over her usual pantsuit, bulking out her sinewy frame. A tall, brawny Aboriginal copper with a salt and pepper beard and a khaki uniform slammed the door on the driver’s side, and the two of them crossed the sidewalk and entered the pub. She squinted, scanning the crowd, while he made for the stage and hopped up.
‘And the winner is . . .’ JJ, glassy-eyed with red and blinded by the spotlight, hadn’t noticed them.
‘Police!’ The cop took the microphone. ‘We have a warrant to search these premises. Nobody move.’
T
he crowd booed and hissed and despite the order not to, began shuff ling around chaotically. A few people tried to leave but all the doorways were blocked by uniformed cops. JJ bounded off the stage back to Chloe, looked up and saw me and Nick. The expression on his face rapidly morphed from ‘I know you from somewhere’ to ‘Holy shit.’
‘I’ll explain later,’ Nick said. ‘Right now we’ve got to get out of here.’
Chloe hoisted herself up from her chair.
‘You.’ Nick pointed. ‘Stay.’
‘Make me.’ She tossed her long blonde hair and stuck her hands on her hips.
Rage momentarily darkened his face, but instead of throttling her he turned and walked slowly and calmly to the corridor that led to the hotel stairs. JJ, Chloe and I followed, our actions hidden by the crowd. Nick glanced to the right, down the passageway, and I followed his gaze. A couple of cops stood outside the glass door at the end of the hall, backs to us. Nick started to jog up the stairs and the rest of us followed. We’d just reached the first landing when I heard a shout.
‘Oi, you lot. Stop right there.’
We bolted, JJ helping Chloe, practically lifting her off her high-heeled mules. I felt the old pub shake as the cops thundered up the creaky hallway, simultaneously radioing for backup.
When we reached the top Nick was holding the door to his room open. We sprinted in and he closed it quietly just before the coppers reached the top of the stairs. He held his finger to his lips, crossed the room and carefully opened the balcony door.
Outside our pursuers were rattling handles and bashing on doors.
‘Police, open up!’
‘I’ll check the fire exit,’ one of them shouted.
A radio crackled and I heard a voice I was sure was Talbot’s. ‘Got the keys. I’m coming up.’
Nick slipped out the door and beckoned the rest of us to follow. JJ went first, holding Chloe’s hand and pulling her along. I closed the door and brought up the rear. We walked lightly, sticking close to the wall so no one could see us from the street, Chloe on tippy-toes to stop her heels from clattering. At the end of the balcony stood another old two-storey building with a veranda of its own, a two-foot gap in between. Nick jumped across and kept going, not looking back. I guessed he’d scoped out the escape route as soon as he’d checked into the room.
JJ and I helped Chloe struggle from the first balcony to the second and by the time we’d got there Nick had disappeared. I leaned over the railing and looked down. The next building along was single storey with a flat concrete roof, and he was already halfway across it.
JJ climbed over, hung for a second and dropped. It was five foot, not much, unless you were about that tall, eight months up the duff and wearing four-inch heels.
JJ waited with his arms open, looking up at Chloe.
‘Stay here,’ I whispered to her, just before I jumped. ‘Cops aren’t after you.’
‘Fuck that.’
I stumbled a bit as I landed and righted myself just as Chloe flung herself into space, falling towards JJ, a front-heavy human missile.
He caught her, but she landed hard and he staggered back, huffing out air and losing his balance. He swung a hand behind him to break their fall and when they hit the concrete I heard a sharp crack, like a twig snapped for kindling. I hurried over. JJ groaned.
‘You guys alright?’
‘Fine.’ Chloe was dusting herself off.
‘My wrist,’ JJ said.
I heard voices coming from the pub veranda.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We don’t have much time.’
I helped JJ up and we ran to the edge of the roof where I’d last seen Nick. A set of metal rungs had been fixed into the wall as a ladder and he was waiting down the bottom, in an alleyway filled with rubbish skips. As I climbed down he whispered: ‘End of the lane, turn left. Venue called the Demo Club. Tell the others. Meet you there.’ He wedged his hands in his pockets and strolled off, still doing his ‘act casual’ thing.
Chloe got to the bottom of the ladder no problem: all those years of stripping in platforms had made her amazingly agile in heels. As JJ struggled down one-handed, I told her what the story was, said I’d meet them there and hurried off. I didn’t want to get caught, and figured an expectant platinum-haired stripper and an injured poet dressed like a Blues Brother might stand out a tad in Broken Hill.
I turned left on the wide main drag, forcing myself to walk slowly, not looking back at the Silver City hotel. People passed me, heading to the pub. Word had obviously gotten around that something big was going down, and everyone wanted a look-see.
A block later I arrived at a long, low building with signs advertising a
Family Bistro
,
Keno
and
Live Entertainment
.
Barrier
Social Democratic Club
was painted on an awning overhanging the footpath, so I guessed it was the place Nick had told me about.
I smiled at the bouncer, signed in at the front desk for temporary membership, giving a false name and address, and followed a carpeted corridor towards the bistro, where music was pumping. I doubted Nick would be in the gaming room—too many cameras.
The room was large and cavernous and the restaurant was closed, its bains-marie empty. Tables and chairs had been pushed back against the walls, exposing red carpet patterned with yellow swirls, making room for a dance floor in front of a small stage. Coloured spots lit up a four-piece band. They were performing a cover of a Pogues song—‘Fairytale of New York’—and the lead singer was thrashing around drunkenly, doing a very convincing Shane MacGowan impression. The same song had been playing at Nick’s the day I’d stumbled onto Isabella’s body. Seemed like a lifetime ago.
I spotted Nick on the far side of the bar, hidden in shadow, watching the band with a funny expression on his face and drinking something that looked like straight spirits. I guessed if you were going to fall off the wagon then the conclusion of a police pursuit was the time to do it. I walked over.
‘Hey,’ I said. ‘That was fucking close.’
He nodded but kept looking at the band.
‘These guys were playing when me and Isabella were here as part of the roadshow. Pogues cover band. Guess what they’re called?’
I shrugged.
‘The Rogues.’ He shook his head and grimaced as he sipped his drink.
The room was crowded with young people, well-dressed men and women in their early to mid twenties, all drinking, some swaying and singing along with the song. It surprised me. Guessed I’d expected a bunch of grizzled, smudge-faced miners wearing hard hats with lights attached to the front, hacking their lungs out into their beers. Place reminded me of a blue light disco I’d been to as a teenager, held at the local RSL.
‘I know you don’t want to tell me, but is Victoria’s connection to Lachlan Elliot the reason Watto tried to kill her? Both her and Isabella knew him, he knew the bikies . . .’
Nick just shook his head.
JJ and Chloe entered the room and were mostly ignored, thanks to the band launching into ‘If I Should Fall from Grace with God’, which inspired the crowd to pogo, link arms and swing each other around as though performing a psychotic barn dance.
I ordered a water—f leeing from the fuzz had made me kinda thirsty—and when Chloe came over she ordered a red wine and a champagne.
‘How’s the wrist?’ I asked JJ.
‘Pretty banged up. Lucky I’m already anaesthetised.’ He looked at Nick. ‘What the fuck’s going on, mate?’
Chloe handed JJ the red and took a slug of the champagne. Nick had just opened his mouth to speak when some drunken patrons staggered by and a female voice said, ‘Disgusting.’
‘You say something?’ Chloe yelled after them.
The group stopped, turned. A large girl with frizzy red hair stepped forward, holding a Bacardi Breezer. She looked Chloe up and down.
‘Yeah, I did actually. I said disgusting. Drinking in your condition. You should be ashamed of yourself.’
Chloe bristled and stood up tall on her stupid heels.
‘Ashamed? I don’t think so, love. Pretty soon I won’t be pregnant but you’ll still be an ugly bush-pig.’
‘What did you call me?’
‘Bush-pig. You heard.’
‘Slapper.’
The band had finished their song and launched into a cover of ‘Fiesta’, a fast-paced ditty equal parts Irish-folk-punk and crazed mariachi band. The dancers thrashed violently around the floor.
Chloe and the red-haired chick launched at each other at the same time, all bared teeth and sharp fingernails. I pulled Chloe back, JJ assisting with his one workable hand. The girl’s boyfriend grabbed her, but she broke free and slapped Chloe across the face. I was holding Chloe by the shoulders with all my might while JJ spoke to the boyfriend.
‘Hey, keep a hold of her, will you. This is a pregnant woman here.’
‘Control your own bitch,’ spat the chick.
‘Yeah,’ said her boyfriend. ‘What’s it to you, you fucken boong.’
Chloe and JJ looked at each other and threw themselves at the offending couple as one. I couldn’t hold her. I didn’t try.
JJ shot off a couple of short, sharp punches—not bad considering he only had one hand. The guy staggered back and hit the floor. Chloe leapt at the chick and the two of them fell, Chloe on top, clawing at the girl’s hair and attempting to lift then smash her head against the carpet. The couple’s friends advanced and JJ sent a few wild swings their way but made no contact. One of them picked up a plastic chair and brandished it like he was a lion tamer. I looked to Nick to help and he reluctantly stood up and moved out of the shadows, towards us.
The band played on with lots of brass, whistles and yelping from the singer, but the dancers were peeling off, either to gawk at us or join in. Two big bouncers pushed their way through the crowd, but before they or Nick could reach us the redhead let out a high-pitched screech and Chloe actually got off her and stood still with a strange expression on her face.
‘She’s pissing on me!’ the girl screamed, lying on the floor. ‘The fucking slapper’s pissing on me!’
Everyone stood back and watched. Fluid was gushing down Chloe’s legs, soaking the redhead’s dress, turning it from pale blue to navy. The bouncers finally arrived at the scene.
‘Fuck’s going on?’ one of them said, face screwed up in confusion and disgust.
‘Get an ambulance, mate.’ JJ had his arm around Chloe’s shoulders. ‘Her waters just broke. She’s about to have a baby.’
T
he ambulance didn’t take long and I wondered if it had been just up the road, staking out the Silver City hotel. Five minutes later two paramedics were crouched next to Chloe who was reclining on the pub carpet, swearing and clutching JJ’s arm. The redhaired chick and her mates had scurried off quick-smart, threatening legal action and looking vaguely ill.
Nick nudged me in the ribs. ‘Been nice knowing you,’ he said.
‘Huh?’
‘It’s almost time.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘JJ and I have to go.’
‘What about me?’
‘You’ll be at the hospital with Chloe, surely.’
‘For secret women’s business? Give me a break, Nick, I’m coming to the pub. JJ can’t help. He’s half cut, doesn’t know the plan or what Watto looks like, and—if you hadn’t noticed—he’s got a broken wrist and a better idea of what’s happening to Chloe than I do. He’s going with her, not me.’
‘Fine.’ Nick slammed down the rest of his drink and squatted next to JJ. I followed suit.
‘Mate, I need to borrow your car. Where’s it parked?’
‘Sulphide Street. Couple of blocks. What’s going on?’
‘You’re going to hospital with her and I’m paying the Devils what I owe them. I don’t have time to explain.’
JJ pulled a set of keys from his pocket. Chloe seized my forearm, fake fingernails digging in.
‘I want a contract out on that cocksucker,’ she gasped.
‘Who?’
‘Curtis, the goddamn mother—’ She stopped to let out a primal shriek. The Shane MacGowan lookalike stopped writhing on the stage and peered in our direction.
‘Okay,’ the female ambo said. ‘It’s off to maternity for you.’
‘I’m not due for a month!’
The two paramedics hoisted her onto a stretcher.
‘I’m booked in for a fucking caesarean!’ she yelled. ‘In Melbourne!’
They looked at each other and chuckled.
‘Little bit late for that . . .’ the guy said.
‘My moot!’ Chloe cried.
‘Will I see you later?’ JJ asked Nick.
‘Probably not. I’ve got to disappear for a while. I just wanted to say . . .’ He paused. ‘Fuck it. I’m no good at impromptu speeches. Don’t even know what I
think
until I see what I write. Cops ask you questions, you don’t know a thing.’
‘I know the drill.’
‘Take care, mate.’
‘Yeah, you too.’
They hugged. It seemed like Nick didn’t want to let go. JJ looked puzzled, patted Nick’s back, pulled away and followed Chloe out to the ambulance. I yelled that I’d catch up with her soon, but wasn’t sure she’d heard.
Fifteen minutes later Nick and I sat in JJ’s old Mitsubishi Magna, across the road from the pub. The hotel was on the outskirts of town, not a grand two-storey job but a squat concrete bunker with a corrugated-iron awning and blacked-out windows. A chalkboard on the side of the entrance advertised topless barmaids and five-dollar steak specials. A couple of Harley Davidsons and a few utes were parked outside. My mouth was dry. Nick gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white.