Sharp Turn Page 4

  He picked up his bags and followed me back down the driveway as meek as a lamb.

  Inside my flat, I scooped all the clothes off the couch and threw them on my bed. ‘Couch is yours.’

  Wal slung his bags down and then joined them.

  Spotting my errant bra hanging from the window rail, I dived over and stuffed it in my jeans pocket.

  ‘I gotta go now, Wal,’ I said. ‘I think there’s food in the –’

  But Wal was asleep; head lolling, lips puttering as he exhaled. He’d only been on his narcolepsy medication a short time and hadn’t really stablised.

  I shook my head and sighed. This was turning out to be one strange day.

  Chapter 4

  I CLIMBED INTO MONA and headed out for my meeting with Bolo Ignatius. I was a bit early so I thought I’d drive up to the Burger Bus near the Ocean Beach Hotel for a double meat and bacon burger. Dinner was a couple of hours away and I didn’t want my stomach gurgling through the meeting.

  The OBH had long been my local pub. I’d met boyfriends there, shot pool with mates, and poured my heart out to Smitty and Bok over many a cheap scotch with beer chasers. As for half of the young people of Perth, the OBH held many memories for me, including some I wished I’d forgotten. This evening it was already filling up with its crop of beautiful young things, and I envied them their eighteen-and-anything-is-possible attitudes. At almost twenty-eight, I was still unfettered and knew I probably shouldn’t be. Where was the mortgage? And the life partner? And the kids?

  Pushing my momentary life crisis to the side, I paid for the burger and decided to eat in the car park above Dog Beach. I took the beach road back north a little, and drank in the view.

  Like most cities, Perth has different faces. Today, my city was all business and get on with it. The weather was shiny and crisp, with neat whitecaps on the Indian Ocean and a sharp cleansing wind. Days like this infused me with energy and made me think I could take on anyone.

  I pulled into a parking bay just above Dog Beach and got out of the car to sit on my bonnet, eat and scout for Smitty and Fridge. It would be hard to miss them seeing as Fridge was the size of a Shetland pony. With the brown and white shaggy coat of a Saint Bernard and the square head of a Great Dane, he was also a kind of mutant beast.

  I spotted him bounding crazily about in the sand below, chasing his ball, seagulls, anything that looked like fun.

  I waved and called out to Smitty. She saw me and threw Fridge’s ball back up towards the dunes in my general direction. It landed on the rocks below where I sat.

  Fridge bounded across the strip of beach and leaped effortlessly up the jagged outcrop to reclaim it. He paused at the top, his nose pricked up into the wind as he scented me. With an excited yelp, he dropped the ball and rushed at me like a bull. I reacted too slowly and he fell upon me before I could move. Giant paws knocked me on my back and gobs of stringy saliva slathered my hair. I tried to shout but a dog’s tongue the size of an Atlantic salmon muted me.

  The next thing I heard was the gulping swallow of my burger disappearing into that giant mouth and gullet.

  ‘Fridge! Fridge!’ shouted Smitty, puffing up the rocks. ‘Bad dog! Get down!’

  After a bit more remonstrating, some manoeuvring to attach his lead and some heavy-duty tugging, Fridge withdrew. Not without one final sloppy lick up the side of my neck and into my ear.

  Dazed, I sat up.

  ‘Dammit, T, sorry about that, but you know Fridge thinks you’re cool.’

  Barely restraining her laughter, Smitty handed her beach towel to me to dry off. Then she tapped Fridge on the haunches with his lead and he sat down, tongue lolling happily. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’

  I scraped up the remnants of my burger – now only bits of beetroot and lettuce strewn across Mona’s bonnet – with the wrapper and dumped them in a nearby bin.

  ‘On my way to Sable’s. Jees, Fridge.’ I wagged my finger at the unruly dog. ‘Don’t eat my food or we can’t be friends.’

  He yipped.

  ‘I think you’d better get going before he decides he’s coming home with you,’ Smitty said.

  I nodded. ‘Good idea.’

  Fridge howled as I jumped into Mona and began to reverse out. The last thing I saw was him trying to haul Smitty after me. I planted my foot to make a quick escape.

  Sable’s was directly behind the Stoned Crow (a place of many a cider incident in my early drinking days). My cousin Crack and his go-getting girlfriend, Sable, had bought the warehouse lease from a fashion designer wholesaler and converted the place into a slick cocktail bar. The interior was all acid-cleaned walls and plush couches. Sable’s dad was a grano-worker who’d scored her a selection of granite slabs for a low price. With the right lighting on them, the bar tops twinkled greens and pinks and reds from their black rock backgrounds. Gorgeous!

  Cousin Crack was behind the bar and gave me a wave. With his long dark hair tied back in a neat ponytail and a fitted tee-shirt and jeans on, he looked like a younger version of Christian Kane. The opposite sex had always dug Crack, but he generally only had eyes for girls named Ducati, Aprilia and Honda. Until Sable came along.

  Crack’s mum, Cynthia (Syn to the family, on account of some of her wilder ways), was horrified to see her son change so much. But my mother lauded Crack’s new girlfriend as having ‘whipped the fellow into shape’. That was, until she and Sable went head to head over the intricacies of making pavlova one family Christmas. Since then Sable had been relegated, along with Syn and Crack, into Joanna’s ‘tolerated’ basket.

  I ducked into the ladies, washed my face and hands, then combed the Fridge-attack out of my hair, before going over to say hello.

  ‘Hey, Crack,’ I said, plopping myself down on a bar stool. ‘How’s it going?’

  Crack pulled a dismal face. ‘Slow. Sable wants me to sell one of the bikes to pay for next month’s rent. Or get a job.’

  Until he’d met Sable, Crack had lived in a large room underneath his parents’ two-storey home surrounded by the bits and pieces of his thirteen motorbikes. One time, I’d crashed on his couch after a party and managed to step in a tub of sump oil trying to find the loo in the middle of the night.

  ‘That bad?’ I asked.

  He nodded. ‘Worse. We had an investor to get us over the opening hump, but they went belly up in the recession and we’ve had to borrow from the bank. Just need a bit of breathing space to get the place happening. Numbers have been pretty good but we’re carrying a shitload of bank interest that’s eating up our takings.’

  My heart went out to him. Crack had never been going to amount to much before he met Sable. He thought the world of her . . . but selling one of his bikes . . . didn’t she know he’d rather sell a testicle?

  ‘Wish I had some money to lend you,’ I said. ‘What’re you going to do?’

  He served me a glass of tequila and lime with a cute strawberry cut into a flower shape clinging to the straw. ‘Dunno. Here, it’s on the house.’

  I reached into my purse and slapped some coins on the bar. ‘No way. Not with things the way they are.’

  He counted the money into the till appreciatively. ‘What’s happening, anyway? How’re Joanna and Bob?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’m meeting a guy called Bolo Ignatius here in a minute. He might have some work for me.’

  Crack poised mid-count. ‘Bolo Ignatius?’

  ‘Yeah. You know him?’

  His eye roll told me that I needed to get a brain transplant. ‘Moto-Sane Racing. Who doesn’t?’

  ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘Moto-Sane’s one of the top teams. You need a lot of money for that kinda gig. Good sponsors and a good rider. He’s got both. Do me a favour and find a way to mention my name,’ he said, pulling a business card from his wallet with his name and number underneath a Sable’s logo. ‘Or better still, introduce me.’

  ‘Sure, cuz.’

  We touched knuckles and he mooched off down the b
ar to serve someone else. I dropped his card in my bag and munched my strawberry flower as I watched the door.

  It wasn’t long before a short, balding guy in bike leathers hustled on through. Even in the club lighting his aura was visible as a strong blue with vivid red flashes. He scanned the bar and made a beeline for me.

  He hopped up onto the seat next to me and stuck out his hand. ‘Tara Sharp? I’m Bolo Ignatius.’

  I returned the quick, firm handshake with surprise. ‘How did you know me?’

  ‘I saw you in the paper recently. Didn’t you help one of the local coppers catch a burglar?’

  ‘Errr . . . yeah . . . sort of . . . Actually, it was Nick Tozzi’s mother. I happened to be in the right place at the right time. Saw the burglar getting away.’

  ‘Getting away from Eireen? What an outstanding villain!’

  Actually, a dead villain, I thought with a shiver.

  ‘I gather you know her?’ I said.

  ‘Indeed. I’m terrified of the woman.’

  ‘Me too.’

  We both smiled.

  This was getting off to a good start, so I kept rolling. ‘So tell me about your problem.’

  He glanced around to make sure no one could hear. ‘I need the utmost discretion on this, Tara. I wouldn’t want to see any of this business end up in the papers.’

  ‘Of course not,’ I assured him. ‘Client confidentiality and discretion are my middle names. If it makes you feel more comfortable I can send over my client agreement.’

  I could feel my nose growing from the lie. I didn’t even have a letterhead let alone a client agreement.

  ‘Not necessary,’ he said, to my relief. ‘I want this informal and off the record. Nick Tozzi recommended you and that’s good enough for me.’

  ‘Nick and I have worked together recently,’ I said.

  ‘He said that you view things differently to most. I’m a businessman, Tara. I know how useful out-of-the-box thinking can be.’

  ‘I’ll certainly do my best. But go on, please.’

  His face fell into an intense arrangement of lines. ‘The final qualifier for the National Championships is on next weekend. If my team doesn’t get the win we’re . . . in trouble.’

  ‘What sort of trouble? You mean you might have to disband the team?’

  ‘Yes. My sponsors have told me they won’t renew their investments if we don’t qualify for the Nationals. In the previous state rounds, little accidents kept happening that affected our preparation, and then our result. I want you to help me ensure the same thing doesn’t happen before this race.’

  ‘Tell me about these accidents.’

  He took a deep breath and his blue aura became agitated. ‘Broken levers, bad petrol mixes, electronics malfunctions. Endless little things.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t put any of it down to general wear and tear and a run of bad luck?’

  He looked annoyed. ‘Would I be sitting here talking to you if I thought that? These are NOT coincidences.’

  Lesson number one, Tara Sharp – don’t disagree with the client when they’re offering you a job.

  ‘Do you have any idea who might be behind it?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes and no. Two other teams are on the same points as us. And a third team is only a few points behind.’

  ‘Ouch. That’s tight.’

  ‘One of the three other teams has to be responsible, but I don’t know which one. I want you to find out.’

  ‘Surely you can eliminate the team behind you if they can’t win?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ he said. ‘If we have to withdraw for some reason, they’ll move up a place.’

  ‘Have you had any problems before with the owners of the other teams?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘We pretty much keep to ourselves. It’s a very competitive business, Tara.’

  Nick Tozzi had said as much. I got out my phone and opened my notes. ‘Can you tell me the names of the other teams so I can do some background work?’

  ‘Riley, Chesley and Bennett. I assume that means you’re happy to take the job?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ My mind was already racing ahead with possibilities as I keyed the names in. ‘Nick said something about your tyre orders going astray?’

  ‘Just another example,’ he said. ‘We buy our slicks from a supplier in Adelaide.’

  ‘Why there?’

  ‘Personal preference. So I don’t have to deal with Riley’s.’

  I glanced at my list of team names. ‘Is that the same Riley?’

  ‘Riley’s Tyres. Team Riley. One and the same. Wouldn’t use them if they had the last rubber on earth.’ He flushed. ‘So to speak.’

  So much for no previous conflict.

  ‘So when can I come out to the track?’ I asked.

  ‘Tomorrow. There’s an opportunity for you to work in the pits during practice. You’ll arouse less suspicion that way.’

  Excitement squirted hotly into my stomach. Me.

  The pits. Hell, yeah.

  ‘In what capacity?’ I asked as coolly as I could manage.

  ‘There’s a man with a mobile food van who sells lunch on practice days. He’s got a bad back and I said I’d find someone who could handle the van this week until he comes back.’

  ‘Cook?’ I croaked.

  ‘No, no. Just sandwiches and cans of drink. Maybe the odd bucket of hot chips. Here’s his address.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out his business card with a name and address handwritten on the back. ‘My number’s there as well. Can I ring Jim and tell him you’ll be at his place at 6 am tomorrow to pick up the van? Track opens at 8 am.’

  I swallowed hard. I eat hot chips; I don’t cook them. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘what payment arrangement would you prefer? Hourly or retainer?’

  Visions of myself knee-deep in chopped lettuce and shredded ham were quickly replaced with the thought of cash flow.

  ‘Retainer. And I’ll need . . . that is . . . my . . . errr . . . terms . . . are two days in advance when I work on retainer.’

  He slipped an envelope out of his pocket and held it just out of my reach. ‘There’s one stipulation. I must find out who’s behind this ahead of the race on Sunday. No other option is acceptable.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Fine.’ He handed the envelope to me. ‘This should be enough.’

  I swallowed back a whoop at the sight of several crisp one-hundred-dollar notes.

  ‘I’ll write you a receipt now,’ I said. ‘And send through an invoice for the week.’

  ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘No paper trail! Your advance can serve as a kill fee if you don’t deliver the information I need in time. However, I don’t anticipate that you’ll let me down. There’ll be some expenses. Keep a handwritten tally that you can destroy afterwards. You’ll get the balance of payment plus expenses next Monday.’

  It sounded fair enough.

  Crack mooched back along the bar. ‘Ahem, can I get you two any drinks?’ he asked, giving me the stare.

  ‘I’m right, thanks, but, Bolo, I’d like you to meet my cousin, Crack. Crack’s one of your kind, been sleeping with his motorbike since he was nine years old.’

  Crack leaned over the bar. ‘That your Ducati by the door?’

  Bolo nodded without turning his head.

  ‘Limited edition 1198 R Corse,’ said Crack, as though talking to himself. ‘I’d have to give her my bed.’

  Bolo laughed. ‘You sound like a man after my own heart. Got any wrenching skills?’

  Crack’s eyebrows shot up so high they almost became part of his hairline. ‘I like to mess around with bikes. Can put anything back together. No formal training though. Dad wanted me to be a dentist.’

  Crack’s dad had more of a thing about professionals than Joanna did. Crack’s mum, on the other hand, had wanted him to join the circus. How his parents’ marriage had ever survived was one of life’s seven wonders.

  Bolo pulled a card
from his wallet. ‘Come have a look around the pits sometime.’

  Crack’s mouth hung wide open long after Bolo had roared off into the night on his Ducati. When he finally closed it, he took off his apron, ducked under the bar and gave me a hug.

  ‘What did I do?’ I asked, squirming in his embrace. Crack hadn’t hugged me since I’d pushed over the Laidley twins for bullying him when we were ten.

  ‘Things always happen around you, T. It’s your karma, I swear.’

  ‘Is that like . . . karma . . . or karma?’ I asked, doing my best My Name Is Earl impersonation.

  ‘Both,’ he said. ‘You’re fucking amazing, I swear.’

  He laughed and tried to pick me up, but I weighed over eighty kilos and was half a head taller than him, so that went nowhere fast.

  ‘Crack!’ Sable’s voice cut through the air like a sharpened machete.

  I elbowed Crack off me and threw the apron at him. ‘Get back to work, cuz.’

  He slung the apron over his shoulder and hustled back behind the bar.

  Sable appeared next to him. ‘Hello, Tara. Here by yourself?’

  Sable was like her name: a dark, brown-haired beauty who moved with an animal grace. She favoured bangles, tiny little tank tops, tight pants and high heels. Something about her reminded me of Shakira. Next to her I felt enormous and awkward. It didn’t help that she treated me with suspicion. Other than Bok, Crack was the person I’d gotten into the most trouble with, and we’d made the mistake of reminiscing once too often around Sable. She saw me as a bad influence and was also a bit disapproving of my single status.

  To my relief, Edouardo walked in the door on cue.

  ‘No, actually, I’m meeting someone,’ I said, and waved madly at my gorgeous date.

  There were only a few customers in the bar this early but all of them turned to look at him – guys included. I didn’t really focus on the slim hips and ripped torso that showed beneath his thin tee-shirt. To me, Ed was distinguished by his startling aquamarine aura, which flowed around him day and night like a slice of the Coral Sea – clear and bright and healthy.

  ‘He’s with you?’ Sable didn’t even bother to keep the disbelief from her voice.