As he shuffled past the restaurants and adult shops, Monty didn’t fit in with either group. He was still in the scruffy gear he had worn to the rose nursery, and the blisters on his sockless feet compounded his image by giving him a genuine down-and-out limp. And he was tired, more mentally than physically. His conversation with Sbresni had fed his suspicions into a strangling vine that twisted and curled around a variety of scenarios. And the common root went back to one of the few men still left in Central who had been involved in the KP investigations: John Baggly.
Although the idea of John Baggly as a serial killer was ludicrous, Monty couldn’t ignore the possibility that someone had been pulling his strings, just as he’d been pulling Sbresni’s. Perhaps Michelle had also reached this conclusion and that was why she’d gone to see Sbresni last week. Whatever she had dug up was more than likely the reason for her death.
The sooner he confronted Baggly, the better. But first there was another matter to take care of.
He stood in a queue waiting to be served by a Lebanese street vendor, conscious of being looked up and down by a man in an expensive suit. The girl by his side loosened her grip on her handbag when she saw the fifty-dollar note Monty handed to the vendor for his kebab and ginger beer. He had more money in his pocket. A prostitute’s basic fee might be low, but the ante was considerably upped when the service included information.
He spied a bevy of girls with large bags standing at the intersection. They didn’t move when the little green man told them they could walk. Only one of the four was dressed for the cold in a warm coat, the others exposing an abundance of flesh for such a chill night. The tops of their short skirts failed to reach the hems of their slinky tops and their jewelled belly buttons flashed with every turn. Years ago, when he’d worked Vice, this would have been a clear indication that the girls were on the game, but fashions now made it hard to tell the real from the counterfeit.
Monty washed down his last bite of kebab with the ginger beer and settled at an empty table of a street cafe. After a wary waiter had taken his cappuccino order, he rocked back on his chair to observe the pantomime of the street.
There was much amicable chattering and giggling going on among the women. Perhaps they were office girls on a night out—a bevy of beauties or a fishnet of prostitutes? He smiled as he pondered the appropriate collective.
Still no one moved to cross when the lights changed again. A group of scruffy young men in uniform baggy jeans and baseball caps pushed past the girls with a surprising absence of comment. One was wobbling on his feet, supported by another. The knee-length crutch of his sagging jeans forced him to affect a penguin waddle, further hampering his efforts at walking. Monty caught the whiff of cheap bourbon as they staggered by, but the girls didn’t seem to be interested, they were after fatter fish.
The waiter brought Monty his cappuccino. He took small sips to make it last, having no idea how long it would take to find out if they were on the game. He leaned back in his seat and watched.
It didn’t take long. A shiny black Mercedes pulled up at the lights and a visible ripple of anticipation shivered through the girls. The tinted window glided down. One of the girls stepped forward and words were exchanged. She turned back to her companions who responded with nods of encouragement. By the time the lights turned green again she was settled in the front seat.
The remaining three stepped back from the intersection and regrouped under the awning of Monty’s cafe, standing just out of earshot from the other customers, no doubt discussing the next stage of the night’s operations.
Now was as good a time as any.
Monty got up from the table and limped towards the threesome. ‘Hi,’ he said, his smile showing just the right amount of discomfort.
The girls assessed him with distaste. One in particular, a girl with hair as colourful as an exotic parrot, looked at him as if he was something on the bottom of the birdcage.
‘Well, what do you want?’ Polly asked, the slight hook of her crinkling nose adding to the avian effect.
‘I’d say it was kinda obvious what he wants,’ her peroxided companion said with a giggle.
Just then the waiter passed. ‘Hang on, mate,’ Monty said to him, ‘I’ll pay for my coffee now, thanks.’ He produced a hundred-dollar note from his pocket. ‘Sorry, haven’t got anything smaller.’
The waiter turned away with the money and Polly nudged the girl in the coat. It was as if a heater had been turned on in a cold room.
Feeling the sudden warmth, the girl parted her coat, flashing Monty with her pointy pink nipples and a neatly waxed landing strip. He swallowed and looked away.
Polly whispered to her companion.
The coat squeezed his upper arm and gave him a salacious smile. ‘You’re supposed to ask how much. I say, what do you want, mister? You tell me your requirements and I give you my price.’
The waiter reappeared with Monty’s change and scowled at the girls. ‘You girls clear off. I don’t want you hanging around my cafe.’
‘Tosser.’
‘Who put the hair up your arse, then?’
Monty decided to jump in before the fireworks started. With a nervous swipe at his mouth with his jacket sleeve, he said, ‘How about we talk some more over there?’ He pointed to a dark service lane between the cafe and the boutique next door.
Clacking heels followed him, whispers and a high-pitched laugh. When they were congregated at the mouth of the alley, Monty said, ‘I’m looking for a girl.’
‘Oh duh,’ Peroxide said, failing to hold back a giggle.
‘So which one of us do you want?’ The coat’s smug expression suggested she’d figured her earlier performance had clinched the deal.
Monty looked from one to the other of them and hesitated. ‘You’re all gorgeous. I’ll come back for you some other time, but tonight I’m in the mood for Champagne Charlie.’
He reached into his pocket and produced a fistful of notes. As he did so, a sachet of chilli powder fluttered to the pavement. Polly eagerly picked it up. Her face fell when she sniffed the innocent contents, then she exploded into a squawk of a sneezes.
Monty said, ‘Bless you,’ and put the sachet back into his pocket. He started to shuffle the notes in his hands into numerical order.
‘No offence, mister,’ Peroxide said, her eyes not wavering from the money, ‘but you’d be in much better hands with one of us than with Charlie. She’s been around the block a few times if you know what I mean.’
Coat added, ‘Past her use-by date by a few years I reckon.’
Polly sneezed again.
Monty dealt a ten-dollar note to each of them. ‘Where can I find her?’
Peroxide shoved the note into her cleavage. ‘I don’t know if she’s even working tonight.’
The woman in the coat eyed the remaining notes in Monty’s hand then glanced at her companions. ‘Saturday night? Course she’s working.’ She put her hand out to Monty. ‘She hangs around outside the train station in Wellington Street.’
He slipped her another ten. ‘She work alone?’
As if not wishing her professional sister to come away any richer, Peroxide added, ‘She’s a bit wacky, no one wants to stick with her, though sometimes her pimp hangs around. You need to watch him. Don’t try any funny business, he doesn’t miss much.’