‘Think they’ve got someone watching us?’ I asked.
‘Definitely. Got your gun?’
‘Uh-huh.’ I withdrew it from my bag and rested it on my lap. ‘Reckon there’ll be trouble?’
‘I don’t think they’ll try anything. Want the money too bad, but I’ll check on you from the pub. I reccied the place earlier, and you can see out the windows even though you can’t see in.’
I nodded. He’d thought of everything.
‘Then what do I do?’ I asked.
‘Whatever you want. Go see Chloe. Give yourself up to the cops.’
‘What do I tell them?’
‘Anything. That you escaped my evil clutches. That I killed Geddes. That I’m really Watto or Elvis Mask or whatever his name is, out of my mind on drugs. Just don’t tell them the truth and don’t implicate the Devils. That’s part of the deal, yeah? No one grasses, no one testifies, they’re happy and our families and friends are safe.’
‘So they just get away with it?’
‘There’s no other option. They’ve got too much clout, Simone. It’s why I couldn’t go to jail. They’d have got me in there easier than on the outside.’ He checked his watch. ‘I’m going in. Thanks for this. And once again, I’m sorry for walking into your office that day, for losing you your licence, screwing up your life.’
‘I probably would have screwed it up myself anyway, sooner or later.’
‘You know, I kind of wish I was writing the next Zack book now,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the best idea for a female PI. A smart-mouthed, crazy ex-stripper who never, ever drinks green tea.’
‘Bit far-fetched,’ I said.
Nick smiled and got out of the car, then paused with the door open. ‘Oh, before I go—take this.’ He pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket. It was the last of Liz’s money.
‘Won’t you need it?’
‘I’ll be right.’ He smiled. ‘Bye.’
‘Wait,’ I said. Something had been brewing in my head ever since we’d spoken in his room at the Silver City hotel.
‘
You said you thought you knew who the money belonged to, but you were wrong. Was it Lachlan Elliot you ripped off? Victoria and Isabella knew him. He was in with the Devils. What if he was holding on to the bikies’ money and they killed him because they thought he’d stolen it? Kind of makes sense . . .’
Nick just gave me an enigmatic smile, slammed the door and was gone.
I scooted over to the driver’s seat and sat waiting, the gun on my lap hidden by a tourist map of Broken Hill. I was so tense my shoulders were bunched around my ears and my neck felt like a pillar of stone. Nick couldn’t have been in the pub for more than a few minutes but time seemed to have slowed and stretched out, become elastic.
I wished I had a drink. I wished I had a cigarette. I found an old bottle of water rolling around in the passenger side foot-well and had a swig but it tasted stale and chemical, like the plastic had degraded in the heat.
A late model black van with tinted windows cruised past the pub a couple of times, but I couldn’t see who was driving. The vehicle stopped in front of the entrance and a man got out and walked into the building. He was chunky, with long hair and a leather bikie waistcoat.
After an excruciatingly long five minutes a cab pulled up and I nearly had a heart attack, thinking it was a police car. I squinted through the window. The driver got out to have a cigarette and I realised it was the same dude who’d picked up me and Chloe from the airport.
Finally Nick walked out of the pub, got in the taxi and drove away. A minute later the black van came back, the bikie got in and they did the same.
I guessed that was it. Nick had paid them off, was taking his false passport and getting the hell out of dodge. Craig Murdoch, hopefully, was going to dispose of his crazed ‘enforcer’. I didn’t see why he wouldn’t. Surely he didn’t need any more heat and just wanted to be left alone to carry on his business dealings, or work on his documentary or whatever it was he did behind bars. Nick had been right. They’d gotten away with everything, but it was the only way to ensure no one else would get hurt. I should have been happy—it was all over—but an uneasy, dejected feeling settled around me like low-lying cloud.
I wondered what was going to happen to me now that everything was finished. I’d go through a lot of shit with the coppers and they’d know I was lying and never reinstate my licence. My only hope had been the job in Vietnam, but that was up shit creek. There was always stripping to fall back on, but I was nearly thirty and the older you got the worse stuff you had to do to keep up with the younger, hotter girls. Not just nips and tucks but sick shit like sitting on witches hats and popping live animals out of your pussy. Forget erotica, the whole thing turned into a freak show.
What was left? I’d done hospitality and retail and they both made me feel like shooting myself in the head. I could always finish my arts degree, but who ever heard of a BA actually getting you a job?
I started up the Magna and thought about what to do. I could give myself up to Talbot or go see my best friend give birth. Both options were unappealing, but at least the latter would include a celebratory bottle of champagne. I checked the tourist directory for the location of a drive-through and the hospital, and picked up a bottle of Domain Chandon and a sparkly pink bottle-bag on the way.
I dragged my feet into the reception area.
‘I’m looking for my friend, Chloe Wozniak? She went into labour at a pub in town.’
‘The one screaming bloody murder about her caesarean and her fanny?’ the nurse said, smiling. I smiled back.
‘That’d be her.’
‘She’s in the delivery room. No time for the caesar. We told her not to worry, everything would snap back, good as new.’
‘Does it?’
She literally hooted with laughter and slapped her palm against the desk. I resolved never to have sex again.
I heard the screams on the way down the green linoleum corridor. I’d had the misfortune of hearing Chloe ‘make love’ and had always thought it sounded like a person being murdered. That night was worse, more like she was being skinned alive.
The nurse poked her head inside the delivery room and spoke to someone. JJ emerged, wrist in a plaster cast, wearing a gown and gloves, both streaked with blood. He looked beatific.
‘Simone! You made it.’
‘How’s the baby?’
‘Fine. Coming quick though. You might want to gown up.’
I clutched the champagne to my chest as another howl emanated from behind the swinging doors.
‘That sound. Can’t they give her something for the pain?’
‘Too late for an epidural and they don’t want to risk peth. There’s gas but I think it’s doing more for me than her. Doctor’s cool. How’s Nick?’
‘Paid off the Devils and disappeared.’
I quickly told JJ about Nick’s plan.
‘How’d he get hold of a million bucks?’ he asked, incredulous.
‘Not sure. I thought maybe Travis gave it to him. Nick visited the Kit Kat before he came to Broken Hill.’
JJ shook his head. ‘No way. Travis is dead broke. His only asset is his beloved surfboard.’
‘What about the club?’
‘He just manages. Deals a little on the side, but it’s smalltime stuff.’
‘Maybe the Assassins lent it? He’s in with them, right?’
‘You’ve got to be joking,’ JJ laughed. ‘Maybe Nick sold his house?’
‘All his assets are frozen. House. Bank account. Rights to his books.’
‘Well, shit, I don’t know. How does someone get hold of a million dollars?’
And suddenly I knew. I couldn’t believe I’d been so stupid, but it had all happened so fast, there hadn’t been time to think it over.
Nick didn’t have the million. Nick
was
the million. The bikies were handing him over to Rod Thurlow. Wanted, dead or alive. It made sense. The long hugs, faraway looks, him feeling he should say something profound. The story about disappearing was bullshit so I’d go along with it and help him.
And I had. I’d helped him kill himself.
‘Well,’ said JJ, ‘however he managed it, I’m glad it all worked out in the end. You’d better get into the delivery room or you’re gonna miss the birth. It’s the most amazing experience, watching a new life come into the world.’
‘Send Chloe my apologies and give her this.’ I handed him the champers. ‘There’s something I have to do.’
In the hospital lobby I used the payphone to call the taxi driver who’d driven us in from the airport and picked up Nick. He pulled up in front of admissions and I got in.
‘Remember me?’ I took a fifty from Liz’s envelope and handed it over.
‘The good tipper.’
‘You picked up a fare from the Bauxite Hotel about half an hour ago. Guy with black hair and a goatee. Where did you take him?’
The driver hesitated. I gave him another fifty.
‘Red Devils’ clubhouse,’ he said. ‘Outskirts of town.’
‘Take me there.’
‘I’m not sure it’s such a good idea for a young lady to go out there on her own.’
‘And I’m not sure I’m what you’d call a lady. There’s another hundred in it for you, on top of the metered fare.’
He put the car in drive.
W
e were in an industrial area on the south side of the giant mullock heap and everything was quiet, factories and warehouses dark behind chain link fences and steel roller-doors. The occasional street light emitted pale pools of radiance and signs warned of twenty-four-hour security patrols. Not that I could see any. The streets were empty of traffic.
I had no idea if Nick was alive or dead, although I had a feeling Rod Thurlow would want him alive, if only for a little while. What had he said?
I want him to suffer like
Isabella suffered.
We pulled up on a corner. I couldn’t see anything resembling a clubhouse, not that I would have known. I’d heard some bad stories about biker do’s and had generally avoided them, so my knowledge was pretty much confined to B-grade sixties films starring Jack Nicholson and Peter Fonda.
‘Where is it?’ I asked.
‘A block up. They have surveillance video. Sure you want to do this?’
‘Yep. Drop me off right in front of the place. I want them to see me on the cameras.’
He sighed, but did as I said.
‘Why you want to go there anyway?’
‘Trying to find a friend.’
We stopped in front of a building that looked like it had once been a small factory or workshop, although it was hard to tell—the perimeter was encircled by a heavy steel fence. He was right about the CCTV cameras. They were on the posts in anodised metal housings, the kind that swivel around and follow your every move.
‘Here.’ I gave him a hundred and fifty. ‘Wait for me where you stopped before, yeah? If I’m not out in an hour call the Broken Hill police. Ask for Detective Talbot.’
‘What’s going on? Never heard of a local copper named Talbot. This something to do with that raid on the pub?’
‘I’ll tell you everything in an hour. Best gossip you ever heard. And I’ll give you another hundred, swear to god. Just stay out of sight of the clubhouse.’
I got out of the cab and walked up to the gate. Solid steel, no handle or gap to look through. There was an intercom, though, and it hit me that I was often behind tall gates talking into them. Probably because I always had to question dodgy pricks who needed to protect themselves from the world.
I knew the drill so I pressed the buzzer and popped some gum in my mouth while I waited, thankful as hell for my new blonde hair.
‘Who is it?’ Gruff male voice.
‘Candy.’ I turned my voice a bit westie, stepped back so the camera got a good view, sucked in my stomach and pushed out my boobs. ‘I’m the entertainment.’
‘We’ve already got entertainment.’ The voice sounded puzzled.
‘Now you’ve got some more. Open the gate, mate.’
It didn’t open. I was sweating, and not just from the heat.
‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Candy.’ I rolled my eyes, chomped the gum. ‘Craig sent me.’
‘Craig who?’
‘Murdoch. Who do ya reckon?’
‘I didn’t hear anything about it.’
‘’Cause I’m supposed to be a surprise. For the celebration.’
‘What celebration?’ Suspicious.
‘Fuck should I know? I get a call from Craig at Port—we go way back—and he says how quick can I get on a plane to Broken Hill? Boys are having a special party so they need a special show and he knows me show’s not the sort of thing you see every day, so, like, I said, Craig, I know we’re mates ’n’ all, but fuck off, I’m not going out the back of Bourke for one fucken strip. And he offers me a grand, plane ticket and a motel room, so I say, okay, whatever, fuck it, and here I am. Look, you don’t want the show, that’s fine. I’ve already been paid, I’ll just go back to me motel and drink bourbon and watch telly before I fly back tomorrow. Easy money. Craig’ll be pissed off, but it’s not my problem he went to all this trouble to surprise yas and yas didn’t let me in, aye?’
Something clanked and the metal gate rolled back. I waved the cab driver off and sauntered in, trying to sway my hips nonchalantly and give the impression I did ‘special’ shows at biker clubhouses every day. The building was squat and concrete, a bunker with no windows, heavily fortified with the same Colorbond steel as the fence. The car park that surrounded the building was empty, no van, not a single Harley. I remembered news reports about clubhouses being firebombed and shot up by rival gangs. One mob had actually crashed a van through a security gate and blown it up. Then there were the coppers to worry about. No wonder security was tight. Bikes were probably parked inside.
A door opened on the right side of the building and a fat bearded bloke who could have been a bikie from central casting poked his head out and waved me over. I ambled across, trying not to clutch my bag too tightly, hoping desperately they didn’t search you before you went in, and that they wouldn’t try calling Craig to check out my story. The gate clanked shut behind me.
I chewed my gum while he looked me up and down. He seemed plenty pissed, hyped on uppers, but he liked what he saw.
‘Trev.’ He stuck out a meaty palm.
‘Candy.’ I shook it. ‘Grouse ta meet ya.’