‘Which prison?’ he asked.
‘Port Phillip. What does it matter? Listen. I’ve got to go to hospital and get some sedatives. The drugs aren’t wearing off.’
‘What drugs?’
‘It’s a long story. Sorry, but I’ve got to go.’ I hung up.
•
After almost a week in lockdown with Chloe, Curtis and the unnamed baby in a suburban brick veneer, I’d just about had it. The baby wouldn’t stop crying, Chloe and Curtis argued constantly and dramatically, and I was seriously coming down from my ice-capade, near-death experience and the toe-curling way I’d finally destroyed any relationship with Alex and Sean. I was about to chuck it all in and take my chances with Craig Murdoch’s hitmen out on the streets when Caroline Swift showed up with a copy of
The Age.
‘Check it out.’ She threw it on the seventies smoked-glass coffee table and I snatched it up and read the front page.
Two inmates found dead in maximum security prison
Port Phillip Prison is in lockdown after the death of two inmates.
The bodies of Emery Saxon Wade, aged 55, and Craig Alan Murdoch, 38, were found hanging in Wade’s cell last night.
A prison spokesman confirmed that officers from the Homicide Squad, Police Corrections Inspectorate and the State Coroner’s Office were investigating.
Wade, a former criminal lawyer, was awaiting trial on three charges of murder and the attempted murder of Melbourne private investigator Simone Kirsch in March last year.
Murdoch, president of the Red Devils motorcycle gang, was serving a six-year sentence for the serious assault of Michael Riccardo, head of rival gang the Assassins, which left Riccardo brain-damaged. Murdoch was also convicted of firearms offences and masterminding the fire-bombing of the Assassins’ Melbourne clubhouse eighteen months ago.
It is understood both men were being investigated by the Homicide Squad over the slaying of author Isabella Bishop as well as facing blackmail, kidnapping and drugs charges.
When asked about the possibility of a murder– suicide, a police spokeswoman said it was too early to comment. The police investigation is continuing.
A note at the foot of the article directed readers to related coverage a few pages on.
Lethal lies
Action writer Rod Thurlow, recently refused bail after being charged with attempted murder and conspiracy, is now at the centre of a literary scandal. His agent, Brendan Reed, has confessed the ex-army officer didn’t pen the best-selling Chase Macallister novels—it was Reed himself.
‘We thought naming Rod as the author would boost sales,’ Reed revealed. ‘He’s got the look, the background and readers love authenticity—I mean, look at Andy McNab.’ Reed said he decided to come clean because he was tired of the deception and wanted to finally receive the recognition and profit share he deserved.
I
was out the front of what used to be my office, sweating in the heat, wearing my cut-off shorts and ‘Damn Right I’m a Cowgirl’ t-shirt. A bandana restrained my re-dyed dark brown hair and I hoped I didn’t look too much like Axl Rose.
Orthodox Jews, junkies and old ladies with shopping trolleys glanced at me as they strolled by, and the shorts got a few whistles from rev-heads in passing cars. I sneered. Although the threat to my life had been, to use military euphemism, neutralised, it wasn’t a happy day. It hadn’t been a happy month. The bonus Liz had slung me after rescuing her brother was long gone, and I was injured, dumped, unemployed and about to become homeless. I’d heard nothing about having my licence reinstated and had finally decided to scrape the
Simone Kirsch
Investigations
sign off the glass. About time Chloe recouped some money from renting out the shopfront.
‘Hey.’
I turned and nearly dropped the scraper. A part-Maori guy wearing dark sunglasses slouched against the wall like he was starring in a Hugo Boss campaign—even though it was obvious he hadn’t been to bed all night. He was six foot, with mussed-up black hair and a pouty mouth, designer jeans hanging off slender hips. It was my younger brother, Jasper. I stood on tiptoe to hug him, smelled sweat, smoke and expensive cologne.
‘The hell are you doing here?’
‘Expected a
slightly
warmer welcome after two years . . .’
‘Sorry.’
‘What you up to?’ He nodded to the door, where all that was left of my name was a cursive
irsch.
‘Shutting up shop.’
He pushed his sunnies up on his head, revealing the soulful brown eyes that earned him more in a year than my moot could make in a lifetime. An old lady clocked him and nearly walked straight into a power pole.
‘Stop it.’ He grabbed the paint scraper. ‘You’ll only need to get it done again.’
‘Doubtful.’ I cricked my neck and rolled my shoulders. My back had been giving me hell since the helicopter crash and I should have seen a physio, but couldn’t afford it. Cheaper to pop the occasional painkiller. ‘You been to bed yet?’
‘Bed yes, sleep no.’
‘You’re a worse slut than me.’
‘Don’t you mean a better one?’
Bada-bing. Just like when we were kids in the car, only filthier.
‘I want to go up to the old house for a while,’ he said. ‘Maybe study something, def initely take a break, stop partying.’
‘Up north?’
‘Uh-huh. Mum and I were up around Byron for New Year’s, and when we weren’t sequestered at the cop shop because of you, we went to look at the old place. Even stayed one night but it was more like camping. I’m thinking of spending at least a month fixing the place up, getting the electricity connected and the phone back on. We could go swimming in the creek, revive the old kitchen garden. We could buy chickens!’
‘We?’
‘You’re not doing anything. Why don’t you come and help?’
‘You’ve got to be joking.’
Jasper looked over my shoulder and slipped his sunnies back on. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘It’s the cops.’
‘Don’t be a dick.’
‘I mean it.’
I glanced at the road behind me. A marked police car had pulled up. I put my hands on my hips. What now?
The passenger door opened and Dianne Talbot stepped out wearing pants, heels and a shell top. She carried a clipboard and when she spotted Jasper she smoothed her brown bob and pulled her shoulders back. I hoped Chloe didn’t come downstairs; she’d probably start humping Jasper’s leg.
‘This is my brother.’ I introduced him to Talbot.
‘Great to meet you, ma’am.’ He shook her hand and gave her his thousand-watt grin.
‘You need another statement?’ I asked. They always needed another statement.
‘No. I was on my way to the St Kilda station and thought I’d stop by to tell you that my friend in licensing has agreed to reinstate a provisional inquiry licence effective—’
‘Immediately?’
She checked a piece of paper in her folder. ‘The fifteenth of March. And only if you keep your nose clean and stay out of those bloody strip clubs.’
‘I was broke.’
‘Word gets around,’ she said.
I was so happy I felt like punching the air, but kept it in check, acted cool.
‘What the hell am I supposed to do for the next six weeks?’
Jasper looked at me and grinned.
T
hanks to:
Michael Lynch and the rest of my family: Thea and Bruce, Tony and Kelly, Stella, Jean, Jesse, Kate, Jasmine and Julian, Grandma and Oma and Opa.
My encouraging girlfriends: Dotti, Juliet, Helena, Donna B and Donna T.
Everyone at Allen & Unwin, in particular: Annette Barlow, Clara Finlay and Catherine Milne. Jo Jarrah, world’s greatest editor.
Trish Weekes and Dan Edwards, for lending me your house to write in.
All the great people from the Broken Hill Weekend of Crime: Amelia Veale, Sarah McConnell, Marvis Sofield, Dr Steve Flecknoe-Brown and Detective Senior Constable Ian West.
The wonderful writers I’ve met, who were the inspiration for this book: Jared Thomas, Miles Merrill, Katherine Howell, Jarad Henry, Shane Maloney and Peter Temple.
My Sisters in Crime: Carmel Shute, Lindy Cameron, Sue Turnbull, Katrina Beard, Vivienne Colmer, Phyllis King, Michelle Cooper, Cathy Martin, Tanya King and Robin Bowles.
Christine Cremen for the scurrilous literary gossip.
Jason from Castlemaine Cycles for suggesting a pub for Simone and an address for David Geddes.
And to Doug Mansfield. Thank you for the songs.
NOW READ THE FIRST BOOK IN THE SERIE
S
peepshow
Simone Kirsch, aka Vivien Leigh, is intelligent, sexy and funny.
And she needs it all as she goes undercover at The Red Room to find out who killed the sleazy owner, Francesco ‘Frank’ Parisi. It’s the only way to get her best friend Chloe back from Frank’s underworld brother Sal, who says he’ll kill her unless Simone comes up with the real murderer, pronto.
Always resourceful, Simone has a few tricks up her sleeve . . . and she’s never been afraid of getting herself into sticky situations. But now she’s tangling with the city’s most corrupt cop, some crazy strippers and a rockabilly band called Las Vegas Grind.
A criminally witty romp on the sexy side of the mean streets.
peepshow
LEIG H RED HEAD
ISBN 978 1 74114 976 0
chapter
one
I
was lying on my back in the peepshow at the Shaft Cinema, legs in the air, wearing a peekaboo nightie and no knickers.
Two of the six booths were occupied, and every time one of the guys put a coin in I heard a buzz, the glass went from opaque to clear, and a small orange light came on above the window.
It cost them two dollars for forty-five seconds, and I got a dollar of that. The booths were dark and the men’s faces shadowy, unless they pressed them right up against the glass. Not a good idea.
They kept putting coins in so I writhed around on the thin mattress, got on all fours, flipped my long dark hair around in faux orgasmic throes and pretended to play with myself. A portable stereo blasted out Madonna and the small room was lit with coloured disco lights. Mirrors on the walls and ceiling reflected each other and there were thousands of me, stretching out into eternity.
The peep’s door opened and my best friend, Chloe, pulled across the tatty red curtain.
‘Simone!’ Her blonde hair was in rollers and she popped out of a small pink bikini top.
‘You’re keen.’ I glanced at the clock. It was three forty-five in the afternoon. ‘I’ve still got fifteen minutes.’
‘He’s dead.’ She was clutching the pm edition of the
Herald
Sun
. ‘That fat bastard’s been murdered.’
‘What fat bastard?’ I lay on one side and lifted my leg up, Jane Fonda style.
‘Strip club slaying,’ Chloe read from the front page. ‘The body of a man discovered floating near St Kilda beach this morning has been identified as strip club boss Francesco (Frank) Parisi, thirty-eight. Police have confirmed Mr Parisi, proprietor of Flinders Street table dancing venue the Red Room, was brutally hacked to death before being dumped in the bay.’ Chloe worked at the Shaft during the day and moonlighted at the Red on Friday and Saturday nights.
I bent over in front of the windows and gave everyone a flash. ‘Did you knock him off?’ I joked.
Chloe wasn’t laughing. She hugged the paper tightly to her chest and chewed her bottom lip. ‘I think we’d better go for a drink,’ she said.
•
We crossed Swanston Street, dodging trams and Silver-top taxis, and headed to the Black Opal. It was a pokies place with cheap drinks and the men were too busy willing their machines to pay out to bother cracking onto a couple of off-duty strippers. Maxine was covering for us in the peeps. She should have retired back in the mid eighties but that was another story.
I bought bourbon and Coke for Chloe and champagne for myself and we sat at a high table at the back of the bar, the newspaper between us.
I sipped my drink and waited for her to fill me in. She lit a ciggie and looked around the bar with big scared eyes. Drama queen. I slid the paper over and read my horoscope. It worked.
‘I never told you what happened on Saturday night,’ she blurted out. ‘I should’ve, but I was embarrassed.’
When she paused for effect I flipped through to the employment section. She lasted five seconds.
‘It was early in the shift and Frank called me into his office to do a line of coke. You know, kickstart the night.’
I knew, even though I hadn’t done any drugs for a year.
‘I’d been alone with him before and nothing ever happened. But this time, after we’d done a couple, he gets up and comes over to where I’m sitting and unzips his pants. Gets his cock out and tells me to suck it. Mate, I just fucking laughed at him, thought it was a joke, right? Then he tries to push my head down, like, hard, and somehow I manage to wriggle out of his hands and I bolt back into the club.’
Shit like that made me really mad. If Frank wasn’t already dead I would have had to kill him myself. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I asked.
Chloe took another slug of bourbon and rubbed her face with her hands. ‘I shouldn’t have got myself into that situation. You wouldn’t have.’
It was true Chloe flirted and appeared promiscuous and up for anything. But that was no excuse.
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ I said.
She shrugged. ‘So there I am at the bar and I’m like, coking off my head but I’m also in shock and a couple of the girls are asking me what’s the matter when Frank comes out of his office and tells me to clean out my locker, I’m fired.
‘And I say, well that’s OK ’cause I quit anyway and where’s the two hundred you owe me from the night before? And he says he’s not giving it to me. Fuck, mate, I just went ballistic. I earned that money. I worked fucking hard for every cent of it. I went off at him, called him every name under the sun and told him I was going to report him to the cops, charge him with sexual assault, drugs, you name it.’
I raised my eyebrows. Chloe groaned. ‘I know, not the smartest thing to say to a prick like that. So he goes, you don’t know who you’re dealing with, bitch, you want to wind up dead? And I say, you don’t fucking scare me, you better watch your back motherfucker ’cause I know people. And then Flame, she’s kind of like his girlfriend, hands me the stuff from my locker and the bouncers drag me out.’