Sally Shaw's red hair, waxed into spiky submission, was a helluva lot more expressive than the bland face she was now wearing to hide the disapproval that had flashed forth when she'd opened the door to find Kit standing there.
Now, now, Kit thought, willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. She might have indigestion.
"Oh, it's you," Sally said, with a not-quite sneer.
"Yep," Kit replied chirpily. "Get used to it."
"Not likely," Sally said through a clenched smile. "Rebecca," she called out. "The PI is here; and it looks like she's been in a cat fight."
Okay. No more allowances, Kit thought. A bad attitude is what this girl's got. But be nice, O'Malley; just ignore the bitch.
Kit headed in the direction of Sally's pointing finger, down the short hallway and into the elegant sitting room of the fiftieth-floor hotel suite. Rebecca Jones was reclining on a couch, looking lusciously elegant in nothing but a bathrobe, but it was the view beyond her that held Kit's mouth open in a big 'whoa'. The floor-to-ceiling windows loomed over the top end of the city, out across Carlton and north as far as the eye could see.
"Far out!" said Kit.
"Yeah, it's grea...Oh my goodness!" Rebecca exclaimed, getting to her feet. "What happened to you?"
"I got caught in the crossfire," Kit smiled, giving a dismissive wave. "Is that coffee I can smell? I'm about two minutes from withdrawal. I've only had one cup so far today and my lunch date got hijacked."
"There's a pot over there," Rebecca said. "Do you want lunch? Sally will ring room service for you. What crossfire?"
"A salad sandwich would be just the ticket, if that's okay Sally," Kit said sweetly, making a beeline for the bar and the brewed coffee. "I went to check out Dylan Thomas on the Boardwalk set this morning. While minding my own business - or rather yours - I accidentally on purpose found myself in the middle of a domestic between the show's PR woman and her nasty ex-husband. It's all fixed now though." Kit settled on one of the couches, took a mouthful of coffee and closed her eyes in relief as the caffeine began smoothing out her internal wrinkles.
"What did you do?" Sally asked, trying not to sound too interested.
"Well, he was being a prick, so I kicked him in it. Then he did this," Kit pointed at her own cheek, "on his way face first over my foot to the ground. The bastard's in custody; and Angela and her concussion were taken home from Casualty by Dylan, who is not your letter-writer, Rebecca."
"Oh good, because I liked him a lot. Are you sure, though?
"Pretty much. He'd prefer to be your toy boy," Kit smiled. "I'm not so sure about Bree Fisher though. She was mighty peeved that you didn't want to interview her."
"Who?" Rebecca asked.
"She plays Dylan's girlfriend," Sally reminded her.
"Oh my god, that talentless little...thing," Rebecca laughed. "You don't think it's her?"
"No," Kit said. "But, so far, she's the only person I've met who's had anything bad to say about you."
"Really? That's nice." Rebecca seemed chuffed.
Sally made a strangled sound.
"What now?" Rebecca demanded.
"Someone has threatened to kill you, and yet you're pleased that everyone else thinks you're bonkable."
"I am not, Sally. Don't be ridiculous."
"That's not what I said," Kit interjected. "As far as I know only Dylan thinks she's bonkable. Rekon5 said she was a grouse old lady; Peter from the Funny Club might fancy her in his next life, if he isn't a screaming queen again; and Sylvie Asher said Rebecca reminded her of a lemon meringue pie." Kit raised her eyebrows and shrugged. "I suppose, now that I think about it, the pie comment might have a sexual connotation."
Sally scowled, then handed Kit an unstamped envelope with Rebecca's name and room number.
"Sally, darling," Rebecca laughed. "I wish you'd stop overreacting."
"Someone bloody has to," Sally snapped.
"She's right," Kit agreed, reading the latest collage of intimidation and bad spelling. It said:
Leave, Now, or Die - you sellfish thing.
Thing? Kit wondered. What kind of person uses a word like thing when they've already called someone a slut and a whore?
"Who's right?" Sally asked.
"You are," Kit replied.
Sally looked amazed, then gave Rebecca an "I told you so' look. If she'd had feathers, she would have ruffled them.
"Looks like he-she's given up on the poetry," Kit said.
"Am I still in jeopardy?" Rebecca queried.
"Haven't you read it?"
"She's in denial," Sally stated.
Rebecca shrugged so Kit read the note aloud, and then said: "I checked with the front desk on my way in. According to the receptionist you've had no mail today, so when..."
"That wouldn't include envelopes shoved under the door though would it?" Sally noted.
"I guess not," Kit acknowledged. "Tell me Sally, how come your otherwise appropriate level of overreacting doesn't extend to being careful about who you open the door to?"
"What?" Sally tried not to appear bewildered.
"I buzzed. You opened," Kit shrugged.
Sally sucked in a lot of air to prepare for her smart retort, but the door buzzer chose that moment to sound again; obviously not of its own accord.
"Doo-dee-doo-doo; doo-dee-doo-doo," Kit sang.
"That will be your lunch," Sally said getting to her feet. "Shall I let it in?"
"Frisk it first," Kit called after her. "If it's got avocado in it, send it packing. Green and slimy things cannot be trusted."
"It's my guess," Rebecca commented, "that you two are going to end up killing each other or becoming the best of friends."
"I like the first option," Kit grinned. "Though I rather think Sally likes it more."
"Probably. And she does have some strange and secret hobbies," Rebecca laughed. "I am now going to get dressed and then we, Sally and I, are meeting the rest of Heart and Soul for a team meeting in the backroom of the Crackerjack Café down the street. Will you be joining us?"
"Definitely," Kit nodded. "I have my doubts that these threats are coming from anyone you have interviewed while you've been in Melbourne, so that leaves..."
"Friends or colleagues?" Rebecca finished forlornly.
"Yeah, sorry. Or some mad bastard you don't know from Adam. Or Eve," Kit said. "I still have to check out Anvil - god, where do they get these names - and the theatre woman though."
Rebecca hugged the bathrobe around her slender body, as she unfolded her legs and stood up. She turned at the bedroom door and looked back at Kit. "I apologise profoundly for attracting the kind of trouble that means you have to spend even two minutes with Anvil," she said. "The man is a pig - in every respect. No, that's an unforgivable slur on pigs. His band members are pond scum and he is pure amoebic dysentery." She shut the door behind her.
"Charming," Kit said. "I'll be sure to wear my environmental suit."
"If she was talking about Anvil and his slugs, you'd better take a cricket bat as well," Sally stated, handing Kit a covered tray.
Kit removed the lid to find a large plate of scrumptious-looking sandwiches and a huge slice of seriously-wicked chocolate cake.
"I took a punt on the dessert," Sally almost smiled, taking a seat opposite her.
"Good punt," Kit grinned.
Sally took a noisy breath, held it a moment and then let it go.
"What?" Kit asked.
"I don't suppose you could try to talk RJ into going home," Sally asked.
"I could," Kit said when she'd swallowed her mouthful. "But I won't. She hired me to solve this problem not convince her to hide from it."
"Oh, well shit," Sally swore. "What's it to you anyway?"
"My job," Kit shrugged. "But let's flip that question right back at you," she suggested. "Why are you so desperate for her to return to Sydney?"
"Why? That's a stupid bloody question. Why do you think? She's in danger here."
"Maybe," Kit shrugged. "Maybe not. So far it's only been threatening notes."
"So, what, we wait until this loony actually does something?"
"No," Kit stressed. "We find out who the loony is. Until we know that, and the why of it all, we have no idea whether this person is on a return trip with Rebecca from Sydney; or is going to follow her there should she leave Melbourne."
"Oh my god! You think it's one of us, don't you?" Sally sounded appalled. She put her fists on her hips to show just how appalled she was.
Kit flipped her empty hand up, then stood and carried her sandwich over to the window. The sudden downshift in perspective - fifty floors straight to the ground - and the slingshot slam-dunk back into her mind, because she'd screwed her eyes shut, stopped her dead in her tracks. When her centre of balance was realigned, she marvelled at the view; and, with a mix of awe and the dregs of abject fear, she gazed out over the Carlton Gardens, the Royal Exhibition Building and the new Melbourne Museum. She'd never seen them from such an incredible vantage point and it occurred to her that that was the main problem with 'great' views: they usually required elevated vantages. She turned from the window to face a still-scowling personal assistant on the couch.
"I really don't like that you think it's one of us," Sally sneered.
"I couldn't care less what you like," Kit declared. "In this game everybody is a suspect. And given your unhelpfulness, Sally, not to mention again your desire for Rebecca to go home, you'd have to be top of my list right now."
"What?" Sally was flabbergasted.
There'd been no hesitation, no hint of being cornered and no symptom of being found out, not even a quickly-adopted mask to hide an 'uh-oh'. Kit was pleased that the accusation had resulted in an instantaneous denial because, despite the woman's antagonism, she realised there was something she quite liked about Sally Shaw. Boy is that perverse, or what?
"Look," Sally was saying, through clenched teeth, "I don't know you O'Malley, so I don't trust you; it's that simple. For all I do know, it could be you sending the notes."
Kit crossed her arms and shook her head in amazement. "Me? Why would I?"
"Well der and ditto. Why would I?" Sally asked. "But you? You could have sent them to have something to investigate."
Kit considered Sally for a moment, and then sat down on the couch and tried to ignore her again.
"Yes, O'Malley. I did mean it."
"I know, that you know, that Rebecca came to me," Kit said. "It's not like I coincidentally turned up at just the right time to offer my services to investigate myself."
"But how did she find you?" Sally thrust her chin forward to make the point more - pointy.
"Well," Kit shrugged, "I am in the phone book but, as it happens, it was a mutual friend who..." Kit stopped in mid-sentenced, wondering why one earth she was explaining herself.
"Aha!" Sally raised a finger. "Who's to say you're not in cahoots with this mutual friend?"
Kit snorted with laughter. "Yeah right, Sally. And who's to say I'm not also in cahoots with the Premier in his offshore scam to clone bionic homosexual camels. But it's not bloody likely, is it?"
"Okay, okay," Sally actually laughed. "I get your point."
"And I get yours," Kit smiled. "For the time being."
Kit was back in action as Katherine Turner, author of Women in Television, pretending to be completely engrossed in every little thing that Rebecca Jones did while apparently showing no interest at all in her colleagues. She was sitting in the Crackerjack Café, drinking more coffee and listening to Rebecca, Sally and the other five Heart and Soul staffers discuss the next day's schedule, while she made mental updates of their profiles. The café was quaint, the coffee was robust and the conversation and interaction between her suspects was mostly tedious, sometimes informative and generally unhelpful to her investigation.
There must be a better way of doing this, Kit thought. I need a clue, I need a hint, I need one of these people to wig out and start behaving like a crazed letter-writing individual. They're all way too normal - in their own idiosyncratic ways.
She glanced around the table again. At the far end was Sherry Fender, the show's director. A motherly figure, in a ruthlessly efficient kind of way, Sherry had been working with Rebecca for three years. She was forty-seven, married and, right now, seemed overly concerned with the singular fact that Rebecca wanted to get her hair cut.
"You can't, my sweet," Sherry stated. "You have to do the backstage opening night session with Carrie Burdett tomorrow night."
Theatre producer woman, Kit reminded herself. Burdett was on her list of people to check out because Rebecca had already seen her.
"Why can't she have her hair cut?" Kit asked.
"We've already filmed with her," Sherry replied. "With Carrie Burdett, I mean. Last Friday."
"So?"
"It's a continuity thing," Sally explained.
"But if it's an opening night, surely Rebecca would have her hair done, so why not cut?"
"Very good point Ki...atherine," Rebecca said.
"No, RJ," Sherry pronounced. She glared at Kit, who pretended to cower under the experience, then turned her attention to the other items on her agenda. Kit returned hers to the other players on the team.
No change. Not one of them seemed to be lurking, in the sense that none of them were: casting deadly looks at Rebecca; sulking at some unknown slight; visibly calculating the next move in their diabolical plan; or surreptitiously cutting letters out of a Women's Weekly and sticking them on a piece of paper in their lap. In short none of them looked in the least bit shifty.
On Kit's left was Jenny Porter who weighed a good sixteen stone, but stood only five foot four so most of her weight went sideways. She'd been described by Rebecca as 'the best damn editor in the business' and, blessed as she was with a soothing voice and a listener's demeanour, she was also apparently the team's calming influence. Around the table from her was: Mike Trantor, the hirsute soundman, who was engrossed in his job and his equipment, almost to the exclusion of actual social contact (keep an eye on the quiet hairy ones, O'Malley); Colin Barnaby, the confidence-lacking gofer-boy, who obviously had a crush on Sally Shaw, (while Sally was unaware that Barnaby even walked the earth); and Jim Dixon, the scrawny cameraman who gave Heart and Soul its classy look, who was a temperamental but amusing artist with a boyfriend in Sydney.
Ooh, Women's Weekly. That's it! Kit thought. She must have jumped, because everyone turned and looked at her. "Sorry," she said, "just remembered something. I have to leave, Rebecca. Can I have a word with you about tomorrow? Out the front."
"What gives?" Rebecca asked, as she and Kit stepped out into Collins Street.
"Aaah, look! It's Rebecca Jones," squealed an otherwise sensible-looking middle-aged woman to her friend, whose mouth was wide open in silence. "Hi Rebecca. I mean Miss Jones."
"Hi," Rebecca smiled, accustomed to being accosted by strangers.
That was a realisation that put Kit instantly on guard. Jeez! she thought. How easy would it be! If Rebecca's wacko decided to make good on his-her threats, would she be able to protect her? Not that that was her job. She was not a bodyguard. Well she could be a bodyguard, but in this instance her job was to investigate the threat, not be the human shield against it. On the other hand it might turn out that way, by default, if she's the one who's there when...
Enough already, O'Malley! A gang of terrorists could have bundled Rebecca into a pink limo while you were standing around ruminating on the possibility.
Actually, Muriel Crowe and her 'bestest friend' Barb would have scared the intentions out of even the most serious of terrorists with their babbling, which continued on and on, and on, while Rebecca kindly autographed their paper carrybags, and "one for their friend Shirley who hadn't been able to come with them today on account of her bad leg, not to mention the fact that, since Shirl's husband had taken to..."
Help! Kit thought. And make a note, O'Malley. Never get famous. Forget the paparazzi; imagine having to put up with the very ordinary public. She admired Rebecca's patience greatly, while hers skulked off down the street to be replaced by an urge to strangle Muriel and Barb into silence.
"Sorry about that," Rebecca said to Kit as the fans, 'all the way from Ballarat', yakked their merry way on up the street. "You were about to say something?"
"Um, yeah," Kit said. "I'm really not getting anywhere by sitting around watching your friends and colleagues being normal in everyday situations. If you or Sally haven't noticed any out-of-character twitches or odd behaviour then I'm not likely to."
"Are you saying you can't help me?" Rebecca frowned.
"No, of course not. I'm saying that this," Kit waved at the Crackerjack Café, "is not helpful. If I had a suspect or two it would make a difference, but it seems that everybody likes you Rebecca."
"With one obvious exception."
"True. But even that person might like you. They just might not like whatever it is they think you're doing."
"I wish I knew what it was," Rebecca sighed.
"That makes two of us," Kit agreed, "because my job is next to impossible to do without clues. And in this case, the threats are unenlightening, the notes are forensically unhelpful and I have no leads at all, let alone a shortlist of likely suspects. On top of which Rebecca, you are no help because you can't give me the name of even one person who might have a grudge, or a single reason that might have caused even a slightly-unstable person to trip over into the whacko bin."
Rebecca gave an expansive shrug. "Do you think I should go home?"
"No," Kit shrugged in return. "Not unless you want to. Your departure from Melbourne seems to be what this person wants, but who knows? If they're still in the flipping-out process, your return to Sydney might not be enough anymore. He-she may follow you or, as I said to Sally earlier, they may even be on the same return ticket."
"You don't really think that do you?"
"I have nothing to go on, so I honestly don't know," Kit admitted. "But, having said that, I do have to ask this next question. Given that she has been urging you from the outset to go home, um, what about..." Kit waggled her head.
"She, who?" Rebecca asked, looking bewildered, until it dawned on her who Kit meant. Her face then expressed a little sweep of changing emotions: from startled, to disbelieving then flabbergasted and finally amused. Highly amused. "You mean Sally?" she laughed. "I do understand where the question came from but...no, Kit. Wrong track completely. Sally is my..."
"I know," Kit raised her hands in surrender. "She's your treasure and you'd be lost without her."
"Yep," Rebecca smiled. "Completely lost, Kit. Trust me, Sally is not sending the notes."
"Okay," Kit acknowledged. "If you say so."
"So, if following me around is not useful, what are you going to do next?"
"Well, I think the best way to eliminate your team, hopefully, is to search their hotel rooms."
"For what?" Rebecca obviously, and understandably, did not like the idea.
"Magazines." When her client looked perplexed, Kit added, "with bits missing."
"Oh. I suppose..." Rebecca rubbed her forehead. "Oh, this is awful. I know these people; they're my friends for god's sake."
Kit ran a hand through her hair. "I can't begin to imagine how this must feel," she confessed. "And this is a really dirty part of the job, but it's my part. Okay? I just thought you should be aware of my next move; and also, I need to know which rooms they're all in."
Rebecca paced to-and-fro, then stopped in front of Kit with a sigh of resignation.
Kit was lucky enough, ninety minutes later, to find a parking spot directly in front of Diabolic Sound, a recording studio off Burnley Street in Richmond. Although, given what her client and her Sally had said about Anvil and the Tombsters, she doubted the perfect park was a sign of good luck.
Nope, she decided, like most of the things she did - obviously - it was a fluke. She turned the engine off and sat pondering for a moment. She pondered previous investigations and the things she had found out, worked out and discovered. She gave serious thought to the cases that she'd solved, which happened to be all of them; but then wondered how the hell she'd managed to achieve any of that when she was unquestionably clueless. Not just, as with this specific case, when she was a detective with a dearth of clues; but in general, just walking around, when she was a detective who was inherently, personally clueless. Her intuition was either non-existent or on holidays.
How on earth could you have missed all the signs about Sally and Rebecca? she asked herself.
Oh, come on O'Malley, herself replied. It's obviously a well-kept secret.
Yeah, sure. A big, open, right there in front of your nose, several-times-alluded-to secret. And where was your mind? Off in La-la Land, that's where: psyching yourself up for the return of Alex.
Oh, yeah! Kit grinned, as the thrill of that kiss replayed itself, up and down and up her nerves.
She sighed deeply, shook her shoulders and took out her notebook to make notes beside all of the names on the Heart and Soul possible suspects list. Her search of their rooms, while illuminating, had done little but add to her expense account. No amount of smiling, sweet-talking or inviting her to be part of an 'undercover investigation' had swayed the maid to let Kit into the five suites she'd wanted to check. The $100 note had worked a treat though.
But Kit had found nothing - except the bloody obvious. The suites had either twin beds, or one king-size bed. Of the three blokes, Mike and Barnaby shared a twin-bed room and Jim had an adjoining king; while Jenny Porter had taken a king, and Sherry had spread her belongings all over the unused single bed in her twin room, which she had to herself.
The only reading matter Kit had found, apart from stuff relating to the show's production, was a very-pricey photographic magazine on Jim's bedside table; a Tom Clancy novel and a pile of manga comics on the floor between Barnaby and Mike's beds - ownership debatable; a Cosmo and a Financial Review in Sherry's domain; and a pile of romance novels and one New Idea on Jenny's bed. None of the publications had been vandalised and the maid claimed she had not thrown out any such magazines.
Then there was the super-duper deluxe grand suite, shared by the star and her PA, and comprised of the sitting room, where Kit had not long before enjoyed cake and coffee; a very large bathroom, and one king-size bed in one very large and separate bedroom.
So who's a dense little detective, O'Malley?
Kit was more disappointed than annoyed - with herself. Not only had she failed to twig to the obvious, but she hadn't even considered the possibility that Sally and Rebecca were a couple; that Sally was the other half of the 'perfectly stable and loving relationship' that Rebecca had mentioned in their first meeting. Which meant that she, Kit, had completely overlooked a possible and obvious - likely or not - suspect. And by that she wasn't thinking about Sally Shaw herself (because in fact she had suspected Sally) but rather the person Sally represented: Rebecca's other half.
Kit O'Malley, Private Investigator, had not only failed to consider the client's lover or partner but had forgotten their very existence.
"You're an idiot," she said to herself. "In your case PI stands for 'profoundly incompetent'."
Okay, enough with the self-flagellation!
So, Kit thought, trying to change mental gears and achieve some kind of forward motion, the cut-up magazines in the room idea had resulted in a dead end; possibly. Her search had either cleared Rebecca's colleagues or revealed that the culprit was at least sensible enough not to leave incriminating evidence lying around. Deciding that the latter was unlikely, or rather that it really was doubtful that one of Rebecca's team was responsible, Kit realised she had to start looking for the offender in the complete-stranger file.
After she'd checked out an alleged parasite and his pond scum that is.
The moment Kit laid eyes on Anvil she knew she'd have to have a different cover story; and the second he opened his mouth she knew he wouldn't give a shit about anything she did or said. The man was ugliness personified, although that opinion had nothing to do with her opinion of his looks - well at least not the genetic ones. Granted he was no oil painting, and the receding mullet on his head belonged in the way-passé basket, but he wasn't exactly bad looking. It was just his image and personality that was grotesque, and unexpected. Kit had thought musicians like him had all killed themselves on rum and drugs in the late seventies, or rather when the late seventies didn't keep on rock'n through the eighties. The really odd thing was that Anvil was only in his mid twenties.
Yuck, she thought again, then realised it wasn't the band's heavy metal, post-punk, slug-slime, scumbag grunge image that was offensive - except for the personalities they'd cultivated (probably on a Petri dish) to go with whatever it was they were. It was rather, and quite specifically, the images that were tattooed all over Anvil's chest that turned her stomach. Oh, and his personality.
Kit ordinarily didn't mind tattoos; to be more precise she didn't give them much thought. Quite a few of her women friends these days were sporting fascinating Celtic designs on their arms or ankles; and she'd once seen a stripper with a whole-body tattoo that was actually quite artistic in a mind-blowing, why would you bother sort of way. But Anvil's line of women, depicted as nothing more that three pairs of raised, splayed legs - as in no heads, no bodies, just the legs and the useful bits - was beyond offensive.
Anvil enjoyed her reaction, having removed his shirt for the sole purpose of finding out what it would be; while Kit thought, 'puke, disgusting tats on repulsive human', and then mentally crossed him off her suspect list. He was obviously so completely up himself that it was unlikely he'd give anyone else, let alone Rebecca Jones, a second thought. And while he was probably the sort to be miffed at being so disregarded, Kit was sorry she couldn't have him arrested on principle.
"What can I do ya for?" Anvil asked eloquently; while Spag, the base guitarist, moved a pizza box and a bottle of Bundy off a chair so Kit could sit down with them in the studio's tea room.
Nothing, I hope, Kit thought. "I'm writing a freelance article on the downside of fame," she lied, fabricating a reason on the spot. "You know, all about the fans that famous people don't want and the paparazzi that make your life hell; that sort of stuff."
"We're not that famous," Spag volunteered.
"Paparazzi?" Anvil snorted. "We don't get none of them at our gigs, or anywhere else. As for the fans? Sweet-art, there's no such thing as a chick who's too ugly to pork, know what I mean."
Aaghh! "What about the guys?"
"Hey! We got bouncers with muscle. They don't let no matress-munchers anywhere near us."
"I meant male fans," Kit said quite politely, while she imagined the sheer joy of washing Anvil's mouth out with Draino. "Aren't guys interested in your music?"
"Oh, those guys. Course they are. They're our core market, our base, man; but they're just fans. They follow us everywhere, but we don't ever have trouble with any of them."
"Except for they're all pissheads and they love to fight," Spag explained helpfully.
"So do we, ya wanker," Mule, the skinhead drummer admitted.
"That's why we all get on so well, and why they like our music," Anvil boasted.
"And they follow you everywhere?" Kit repeated.
"Yeah, but not like, um, whatsinames," Anvil stated with a definite nod, as if he'd actually found the right word.
"Stalkers?" Kit proposed.
"Yeah, them. But only poofs are stalkers aren't they?"
"Not if they're stalking chicks, Anvil." Spag really was quite insightful.
"Do we look like chicks, Spag? Ya fucken moron!"
"No Anvil," Spag said, almost condescendingly. "But, we weren't speaking in specificness, were we Kit?" He strolled over to answer the ringing phone they'd all been ignoring.
"No, Spag, we certainly weren't doing that," Kit smiled.
"Maybe we weren't," Anvil said defensively. "But we Tombsters only have two categories of fans. The guy fans, who like our music; and the birds who wanna root us."
"Jesus, Anvil man, you exaggerate," Mule declared.
Kit really wanted to go home, but she persevered with the pointless questions. "Don't women like your music?"
"Dunno. Don't care," Anvil proclaimed. "As long as they introduce themselves like this," he slapped the tattoos on his chest, "I don't care want they think. How bout you? You wanna bit?"
Kit put on a very thoughtful face, as if she was giving his offer serious consideration. "No, I don't think so," she replied finally. "Not even if the future of the human race depended on it."
Mule gave a knee-slapping laugh; Anvil told him to shut the fuck up; and Spag announced: "It was your little girlfriend on the phone, Anvil. She's on her way over."
"Oh yeah? Which one?"
"You've only got one," Mule stated. "And she's a can short of a six-pack."
Okay, Kit thought. There are obviously no bonded males in this room.
Anvil gave a short laugh. "Hey, dork features, don't you dare be rude about her. That chick is stress release, pure and simple. She's a neat little something to shoot my load into."
"Charming," Kit remarked. "But you know, you can use a milk bottle for that."
"Wow, make a note for me guys," Anvil said, reaching for his guitar. "Dump the chick, get a milk bottle. It's not a bad idea for a song as well, eh?"
"Speaking of songs, Anvil, can I stick around while you play something?" Kit asked sweetly.
"S'pose. What do you wanna hear?" Anvil oozed to his feet and nodded at the other Tombsters to make like musicians and follow him.
"Well, it'll have to be your choice, because to be honest I've never heard you play," Kit winked at Spag as they left the room. "But I am curious as to whether your music compensates for you being such a nauseating lifeform."
Kit drove slowly down Swan Street, for once not caring about the traffic jam. She hadn't even cared about the idiot who'd nearly swiped the front off her car five minutes earlier, by trying to squeeze her snazzy white sports thing into the parking space Kit hadn't quite vacated yet. Must've been Anvil's 'chick', she thought. No one else would be in such a hurry to get into the Diabolic sound studios. Now, there was a match made in, well, not heaven. But it was a very appropriate place for the Tombsters to be making noise. Kit wound the window down to let the cacophony of peak hour cars and trams flush the sounds of purgatory out of her head.
For the life of her she couldn't fathom why Rebecca had interviewed Anvil. The man was a moral and cultural vacant lot; and his band, musically, was awful. Actually music as a concept didn't seem to be part of their world. There was a slim chance that Anvil had decided to untune his guitar to Mule's very off beat, but Kit doubted it. The Tombsters were a very bad garage band that someone had forgotten to shut the Rollerdoor on. They should have been locked in long ago; and then bombed.