By day the Lord Rochester Hotel, located in the back streets of Collingwood amidst car repair shops, storage warehouses, a few run-down turn-of-the-century worker's cottages, and factories that specialised in making small metal doodads for larger metal doodads that were made elsewhere, served cold beer and cheap counter meals to a subspecies of overalled and tattooed men in desperate need of social reconditioning, who still called their girlfriends chicks and wouldn't be seen dead talking to a poofter.
By night the Lord Rochester became Route 69, one of the longest-running and most popular gay bars in Melbourne which served cold beer and top-shelf liquor to a subspecies of gay and straight party animals who didn't care that they had to front up for work the next day as long as they could dance all night. And stuff the hangover!
Kit was rammed up against the bar with a drag queen's elbow in her left ear and Alex's arm pressed across the small of her back so she could grip the counter on the other side to avoid being crushed any further forward. Apart from being nearly seven feet tall, the guy beside Kit was an almost perfect reconstruction of Barbra Streisand. He kept apologising for the behaviour of his elbow but as he had nowhere else to put it Kit just smiled and told him to forget it. Besides, if he put his arm down Alex would have to release her grip of the bar and move her arm and that was the last thing Kit wanted.
The barman slammed a vodka and lemonade, two double Jack Daniels and a pot of mineral water down in front of Kit and she handed him half her life savings. She mouthed a thank you, as there was no point ruining her vocal chords by trying to compete with the retro-techno-punk, post apocalyptic version of O Fortuna, and turned on the spot into the waiting arms of Alex Cazenove. Kit handed two glasses to the woman who had insisted on helping her carry the drinks but who suddenly looked extremely awkward about being pressed up against the person to whom she'd spent the whole day been completely and deliberately disagreeable.
Alex smiled and although Kit could not work out whether it was genuine, forced, apologetic, embarrassed or just an ordinary, every-day, no hidden meaning, devastating Alex Cazenove smile, she was awfully glad that Barbra Streisand still had his elbow in her ear or she would have swooned pathetically to the floor and been trampled by half of Route 69's mixed Monday night crowd who were determined to get a drink from the bar whatever the cost.
Alex had managed to escape backwards and was trying to make her way through the hot, sweaty and desperately thirsty throng and Kit, close on her heels, was thinking how apt the music was, it being all about Fate barging in and ruining all chance of triumphant love and happy ever-afters. Once famous solely for being the opening and closing numbers of Carmina Burana, before it was shanghaied by the PR people at Nescafé to promote the most stirring cup of coffee ever made, this version was so loud it was bouncing off all the walls at once and making Kit's teeth rattle.
Despite the volume, however, she could still hear the warning bells going off in her head. After all there was nothing as ridiculous as someone whose nerve endings were going completely gah-gah over a person who didn't particularly like that someone at all, at all.
And there was also absolutely no point in allowing herself to become interested in a person whose interests lay elsewhere. And Kit was not thinking about Alex's impending marriage. In fact, the way that Alex was watching over Quinn - correction, make that 'watching' full stop - Kit was beginning to wonder if Alex knew whether she was on the right path by intending to plight her troth to the divine Enzo.
She pushed her way through the crowd trying not to spill the over-priced drinks down the back of the 501s and blue silk shirt that Alex had insisted on going home to change into. That detour was only part of the rebellion that had taken place in Kit's kitchen four hours before when she had announced she would check out Route 69, Byron's regular Thursday night hangout, to see if anyone remembered seeing him there last week.
The other rebels had miraculously managed to find a table in one of Route 69's back rooms. It was stuck in a corner behind a thick concrete column, a huge plastic potted plant and about fifty people but it was, nonetheless, a table and it even had four chairs around it. Kit was glad Lillian hadn't insisted on coming along with everyone else who was suddenly making it their business to see she was doing her job properly - there just wouldn't have been enough seats.
Kit sat down heavily next to Damien and handed him the mineral water before taking a swig of bourbon. She had to concede that it was sensible to have enlisted Damien's help in tracing Byron's movements last Thursday night. After all it was only in the movies that the barman just happened to remember the nondescript customer who had ordered three nondescript beers and a packet of nondescript nuts one night last week because he, the barman, remembered thinking to himself at the time that he'd better remember this particular nondescript customer just in case someone came round asking questions about him next week.
Looking at the wall-to-wall humanity, and Monday was a quiet night at the Route, Kit realised that it would have been next to impossible for her to work out who to ask. She had actually tried the barman but after having to repeat the question three times to be heard over the music, he'd asked her if she was crazy.
Damien, on the other hand, was at least able to pick specific people out of the crowd who might actually remember having seen Byron five nights ago, hopefully in the company of a blonde boy who had his name, address and telephone number tattooed on his forehead.
While Damien's company was logical, the presence of Quinn and Alex was not; nor was it particularly helpful. Kit took another sip, wishing she'd given the barman the rest of her money for the whole bottle, as she watched Alex casually drape her arm across the back of Quinn's chair and lean in close to say something to her.
To say what? Kit wondered as Alex looked deliberately at Kit while she was saying whatever it was, and Quinn glanced at Kit then made a 'don't be ridiculous' face at Alex.
Shit! Kit thought. What are you doing here O'Malley? Get a life for god's sake. So what if Sam's 'we have to talk' message had sounded particularly ominous. You were losing interest anyway, remember? But there's no point going completely masochistic by transferring that interest to an unattainable someone who doesn't even like you. Got that? She doesn't like you! On top of that she's getting married to the divine Enzo and she's obviously got the hots, whether she knows it or not, for the incredibly wealthy Gucci waif to your right.
Kit finished the rest of her bourbon in one swallow and forced herself to give her undivided attention to Damien, who had been shouting in her ear that he'd already spoken to five people, two of whom had stayed home last Thursday night and three who could not recall seeing Byron.
'Damien are you sure, with everything that happened to Byron last week, that he would still go out partying as usual on Thursday night?' Kit shouted.
'You saw his bedroom Kit. I can't think of anywhere else he would have picked someone up for the night. Besides, you don't know him like I do. Sure he was upset about that prick Robinson, but Byron's a resilient guy. He's bounced back quickly from even the worst disasters in his life, and there have been a few of them. He probably found the information he'd gone looking for and was out celebrating.'
'I have to admit,' Kit said 'that I can't reconcile the Byron I met at Celia's with the Byron in those photographs. I mean it was obviously him, but...'
'But he had a body back then, right?' Damien said. 'He used to be into that whole scene. You know, ray-lamp tans and body building. Byron did it for shape not bulk - he was no beefcake. But then he got really sick about four years ago with some kidney thing and it just wasted him. When he got well he started back at the gym but found he'd lost interest in the body beautiful - unless it belonged to someone else of course. And speaking of bodies I suppose I'd better mingle or we'll be here all night.'
Kit had to stand up to let Damien get out, then she shuffled across into his chair, tilted it back against the wall and put her feet up on the one she'd been sitting on. Closing her eyes she smiled as the booming rhythm of I Am What I Am coursed through her body. A wave of exhaustion hit her when she realised it was still Monday, that she'd been up since 6 a.m., and that her body did not like her very much at the moment.
A hand slid up her right arm. She opened her eyes to find Quinn smiling at her.
'What?' Kit asked.
'Alex thinks you're a bad influence on me,' Quinn repeated, leaning in close to speak directly into Kit's ear.
'Really?' Kit said sarcastically. 'It must be some record to have that kind of effect on someone you've only known for 14 hours. What's her problem, for god's sake?'
Quinn grinned. 'It's a long story,' she said.
'I'll bet it is,' Kit laughed, glancing at Alex and then away in a hurry because those stunning grey eyes had reflected, for just a second, the same friendly amusement they'd held when she'd first looked down at Kit lying sprawled on the floor of Douglas' office.
Get a grip, O'Malley! she thought as she was nearly knocked her off her chair by a body rush that was as exhilarating as it was sudden. Again? Had she been standing up, she would have fallen down.
Hey, I don't need this shit, Kit thought. Please, please let this ridiculous and inappropriate case of lust wear off! Bad influence, huh?
'Do you want to dance Quinn?' Kit asked, standing up.
'You bet,' Quinn said, leaping to her feet. 'Back in a minute,' she said to Alex as she clasped Kit's outstretched hand and manoeuvred herself out from behind the table. Alex looked suitably stunned.
Good, thought Kit, and then walked smack into a very large, stationary object.
When Kit had finished apologising for spilling the guy's drink, and Quinn had finished laughing and apologising for laughing, Damien introduced them to John Baxter - known to his friends as Tooly. Kit didn't dare ask why.
'He saw Byron here about midnight last Thursday,' Damien shouted.
'He was looking awfully pleased with himself,' Tooly explained in a voice that was as thin as he was fat. 'He wouldn't tell me why, the spoil sport.'
'Tell Kit about the guy,' Damien said.
'What a dish!' Tooly exclaimed. 'He was mighty persistent. Kept hovering around us - me and Byron and that delicious Timmy Denton - trying to join in on the goss. He shouted at least three rounds. I tell you I would have gone anywhere with him, but he was definitely putting the moves on Byron.'
'Had you ever seen him before?' Kit asked.
'No sweetie, none of us had,' Tooly replied.
'Was Byron interested?'
'Not at first, he had something real big on his mind, I could tell. But then he mellowed out and well, what can I say.'
'What did this guy look like?'
'As I said, really dishy. A bod a bit like Damien here, only even thinner, same height though. Blonde hair. It looked natural but it's hard to tell these days until you...well we won't go into that one. Blue eyes. Let me see, probably 19 or 20 years old.'
'Name?' Kit asked.
Tooly looked thoughtful for a few seconds, then shook his head. 'No idea. I don't believe we introduced ourselves.'
'Do you know if they left together?'
'Honey, they could barely keep their hands off each other when they came by to say ciao to me around 2 a.m. I assume they shuffled off together, but I didn't actually see them go.'
'This dish didn't happen to mention what he did for a living?'
'I doubt it honey. If I remember correctly we were talking about the Midsumma Ball and a new band that Poppy Curtiz has started. It's called the Screaming Queens - if you don't mind! No one was talking about boring things. No wait, now that I think on it, he may have mentioned something about being an entrepreneur. That can't be right, he was just a baby. Maybe he said he worked for an entrepreneur,' Tooly said, shrugging his more than generous shoulders. 'Doesn't mean much in this day and age though, does it honey? He was probably just big-noting himself. I guess an entrepreneur's assistant sounds better than a plumber's apprentice.'
'I guess so,' Kit agreed. 'Well thanks for your time, Tooly.'
'Anytime dearie.'
Kit waited till Tooly had disappeared into the crowd before screwing up her face. For some reason being called dearie by a male of the screaming queen variety was considerably less offensive than being called dearie - or honey, love, babe or girlie - by any other male-type person whose acquaintance she'd just made, but it still made Kit's skin crawl.
'Now what?' Quinn asked.
'It depends. Is the other guy that was with Byron and Tooly here tonight, Damien?'
'Tim Denton? No, he went to Darwin on Saturday.'
'In that case I'm outta here. I can't stand the noise anymore, and a body could die of thirst before it got a drink at this bar,' Kit stated.
'Are you going home then,' Quinn asked, disappointed.
Oh dear! 'No, I'm going to The Terpsichore. I've got to see a woman about a busted pipe,' Kit said.
'What is The Terpsichore?' came Alex's voice from directly behind Kit.
'A club, piano bar, pool parlour, disco, coffee lounge, you name it,' Kit said. 'For women,' she added looking at Damien.
'I know, Kit,' he said with a grin. 'I thought I'd stick around here anyway. I'll let you know if I find out anything else.' He fished around in his pocket for his wallet and pulled out a business card. 'Will you do the same?'
'Of course,' she replied, slipping the card into her back pocket. 'Do you two want to share my taxi?'
The Terpsichore, or Angie's as it was more commonly known, had been running for three years which was somewhat of a record for a women's club in Melbourne. One reason was that the whole kit and caboodle was privately owned, unlike most other women's venues which tended to last only as long as a hotel took enough money over the bar to justify lending one or two back rooms for what were euphemistically known as 'private functions'.
The Terpsichore's main success, however, lay in the fact that it wasn't just a weekly late-night dance venue. It was open from midday until 2 a.m. Sunday to Thursday and till 4 a.m. on Fridays and Saturdays. It had a pool room, which guaranteed a regular clientele, and the soundproof Red Room at the back meant the loud dance music or live bands did not drown out the conversation or soft music in the piano bar.
The bistro, run by Angie's lover Julia, also served some of the best food north of the city which, considering how close it was to Brunswick and Lygon streets, was an achievement in itself.
Kit gazed at The Terpsichore through the windscreen of the taxi while she waited for the driver to give her change. Angie Nichols had bought the former church manse from an elderly Italian gent who'd been using it to store the overflow from his used-furniture shop further up the street. The church itself, since its de-consecration, had been used for a variety of activities including an illegal betting shop (busted in 1979) and a progressive community school (closed in 1986). In its current incarnation it hosted adult education classes in karate, carpentry and migrant English.
Little or no maintenance had been carried out on the church since it stopped being one so it looked rather sore and sorry for itself beside the bluestone manse which had been lovingly restored by Angie and her three semi-silent partners. They had gutted the interior and injected a considerable fortune and 12 months work into its renovation and redecoration.
Angie's provided a welcoming respite from just about anything that could be bothering a person and for this reason alone it had become Kit's home away from home, which was why she was now questioning her sanity.
Why on earth did you bring them here, O'Malley? she thought morosely. Are you mad? You're supposed to leave your work at the office, or out on the streets. You should have sent them home!
Quinn and Alex, who had slipped out of the back seat of the taxi as soon as it pulled up, no doubt to escape the stench of citrus air-freshner which did little to cover the lingering smell of body odour most of which rose in a fug from the driver himself, were standing on the footpath carrying on an animated conversation. Well, Quinn was, Alex was just laughing a lot.
Kit raked her fingers through her hair and took a deep breath before clambering out of the taxi. Despite her annoyance with herself at allowing her young client to latch on and follow her absolutely everywhere, she was worried about Quinn. Celia's daughter was enduring a serious case of denial and Kit wondered when the crash was going to happen.
Kit remembered when her father had died, Lillian had set her jaw and straightened her back just long enough to inform everyone and then had gone completely to pieces. Kit had never seen her mother like that before. It was more heartbreaking than her own immediate sense of loss. She'd pushed her feelings into the background to cope with having to take charge of all the arrangements, which was quite a task for a 16-year-old. Lillian had recovered her equilibrium right in the middle of the wild Irish wake that Patrick Francis O'Malley's rowdy and lovable friends had helped Kit organise, but it had taken Kit herself a month to dismantle her defences enough to face her own grief. And then, of course, there'd been Hannah two years ago.
'Are you coming O'Malley, or are we going to spend the rest of the night on the footpath?' Alex demanded.
Kit had no energy left even to try and think of a smart retort so she led the way up the path to the entrance at the side of the building. Opening the door she could hear the incomparable Ella Fitzgerald singing It's Only A Paper Moon, and as she stepped inside her sour mood immediately began to dissipate.
The what on earth have I gotten myself into? expression on Alex's face, as she stared open-mouthed at the four life-size caryatids that supported the cupola over the fountain in the middle of the slate-tiled foyer, made her feel even better.
'Far out!' exclaimed Quinn. 'My mother's been here hasn't she?'
Kit explained that Angie had become a born-again new age hippie around the time she'd bought the building, and that of the other three partners one was a witch and another ran an assertiveness training programme for 'wimmin' so, all things considered, she felt they'd been fairly restrained in their decorative references to the cult of the goddess. They had at least confined it to the foyer.
'Wait till you see the rest though,' she added.
Alex looked like she'd rather go home right about then, but asked where the toilet was instead. Kit pointed to the door to their left and then escorted Quinn into the piano bar/bistro.
'Far out,' Quinn said again, this time with delight as she looked around the lacquered walls, every square inch of which had first been wallpapered with articles, paintings and photos of real, down-to-earth, flesh and blood women who had led, influenced, or taken part in just about every field of human endeavour ever invented.
'I'm going to like this place. Lead me to the bar,' she said.
'Close your mouth, Katy darling, it's quite unbecoming,' said Angie, who had interrupted her conversation with two women at the other end of the bar to serve Kit and Quinn.
Angie had a trim figure but was big boned, with large gentle hands and the biggest feet Kit had ever seen on a woman. Right now though she looked somewhat like a crazed Amazon warrior dressed in black and red tie-dyed pants and a white T-shirt emblazoned with the words Right On Fairies!
'What's with the hair, Angie?' Kit asked, reaching out to touch her friend's crazy mass of curls which, since she'd last seen them, had been dyed an extremely violent shade of red.
'Carol is on holiday. I asked her offsider Chantelle to give me a colour that looked like she spilled a good bottle of shiraz in my hair.'
'I don't think Chantelle is a wine drinker,' Kit said unnecessarily.
'Tell me about it. What can I get you? And your friend?'
'Quinn Orlando this is Angie Nichols. Angie, Quinn. Quinn, Angie. We'll have a couple of cleansing ales please. Had a busy night?'
'So-so. The pool comp finished about an hour ago. It's been pretty quiet since then,' Angie said as she placed fresh coasters on the bar and pulled two pots of beer.
'Where's Julia?'
'The love of my life went completely pre-menstrual at about 10 o'clock eastern standard time. She was dropping glasses and spilling stuff all over the place. I couldn't do a thing with her and when she threw a perfectly good plate of lasagne across the kitchen I sent her home.' Angie was about to lounge against the bar when something over Kit's shoulder caught her attention and made her stand bolt upright.
'Well I'll be damned!' she exclaimed. 'Of all the gin joints in all the world, I never thought you'd walk into mine.'
Kit turned around to find Alex standing there, arms akimbo, looking like her life had just flashed before her eyes. Either that or she thought the crazy red-headed hippy behind the bar was delivering the most bizarre pick-up line she'd ever heard.
'I might have known you'd end up running a gin joint like this,' Alex said, quite calmly considering her face had changed from a deathly white, of the just-seen-a-ghost variety, to the colour of rhubarb in a matter of seconds. She took a seat next to Quinn.
'Do you two know each other?' Kit asked, realising it was a completely ridiculous question.
'We shared a house back in... Oh god Alex, it was 17 years ago,' Angie said.
'Time certainly flies, when you're, er...' Alex said.
'When you're getting old,' Quinn said with a grin. 'Let me see, 17 years ago I was eight years old.'
'Who brought her?' Angie asked, looking accusingly at Kit.
'Don't look at me,' Kit said. 'I don't know either of them. They've just been following me around all night. Your old house mate looks like she could do with a drink though, I think the shock has been too much for her.'
Alex, who had just managed to regain her composure, cast a grateful look at Kit and took another swig of Quinn's beer before putting it back on the bar.
'Too much for her?' Angie said. 'I had the most enormous crush on this woman way back then. A serious case of unrequited lust that lasted nigh on two years - the memory of which still stirs the old loins, I might add - before she took off to finish her degree in Vancouver or wherever it was.'
'Toronto,' said Alex softly. She was blushing again, but she was also smiling.
'Please don't tell me you came back from Canada and married that Peter, Peter, oh what was his name?'
'Hindmarsh,' Alex said. 'And no, I didn't.'
'Thank god for that,' Angie said as she placed a pot of beer in front of Alex. 'That guy was terminally boring.'
'But she is getting married next month,' Kit threw in.
'Oh no. What a shame. I thought you would have seen the light by now,' Angie said.
Alex laughed an uncomfortable laugh and Quinn looked like she was going to say something and then thought better of it.
'Damn. The last minute rush,' Angie said as she went off to serve a group of five women who had just walked in.
'I need a more comfortable chair,' Kit said as she got up and carried her drink over to one of the leather booth seats in the piano bar. Alex and Quinn followed her. Kit realised she was starting to get used to it.
'You can stay at the bar if you want Alex. You and Angie could talk about the good old days at uni,' she said.
'Some other time, maybe,' Alex said. 'What I really want to do is tell you about the Smiths, so I can go home to bed.'
'The Smiths? Who are the Smiths? Oh, I remember, that's why you came to my apartment in the first place,' Kit said.
'Exactly. We all sort of got sidetracked, what with Damien turning up and your mother insisting on ordering home-delivered pizza for everyone,' Alex said.
'And you insisting on going home to change,' Kit added.
'I really like your Mum,' Quinn stated, trying to change the subject.
'Thanks Quinn. I really like my Mum too. So tell me about the Smiths,' Kit said to change the subject back again. She had a feeling that now was not a good time to let Quinn dwell on the subject of mothers.
'All the specific details are in the folder I left on your desk, along with the info on Orlan Carriers and Freyling Imports. Which reminds me, I left my briefcase at your place too so, if it's not inconvenient, I'll drop by in the morning and pick it up. And my car. Now, the Smiths.'
Alex pushed her hair behind her left ear with her index finger while she gathered her thoughts on the subject. The action had the opposite affect on Kit, whose thoughts became progressively ungathered as she watched Alex's finger trace a line along her jaw. When Alex rested her chin between her thumb and index finger and looked directly at her, Kit just wanted to die, right then and there. She had a vision of herself in 17 years time, sounding just like Angie bemoaning a serious case of unrequited lust - and for the same woman for god's sake!
Kit simply could not remember being this attracted to anyone. Ever. And she was not having a good time.
'Kit? Are you OK?' Quinn asked gently.
Kit dragged her gaze from Alex's. She looked at Quinn with a half smile. 'I'm fine,' she lied. 'I think I've just been awake too long today. I'm absolutely stuffed.' Not to mention absolutely, irretrievably and ridiculously smitten, she thought.
'Right. I think we're all tired,' Alex said. 'Michael Dixon, an ex-colleague and old friend of mine, tracked down the Smiths in Sydney. Correction, he tracked down Malcolm Smith in Sydney. Shirley Smith, who is his sister and not his wife as I surmised, lives here in Melbourne somewhere and owns something called the Endicott Centre in the Dandenongs.
'What made you think you'd find him in Sydney?' Kit asked.
'Well, if you remember Wellborn Enterprises owns several properties in Sydney and Coolangatta. I thought it was a good place to start. Anyway, the Smiths, Dalkeith, Edwina Barnes, Grainger and Whitten, in various combinations, seem to have their fingers in a great many pies. Michael is still trying to untangle the paper trail. They have companies within companies, some of which seem to do nothing but front for other companies which own businesses and properties up and down the east coast.'
'What businesses?' Kit asked.
'All sorts it seems, from a construction company in Woolongong and a real estate business in Paddington to video stores all over town and a restaurant in Double Bay. One of Gerald Grainger's nightclubs is owned by another subsidiary of Wellborn. About the only thing, from memory, that belongs solely to the Smiths is a small fleet of luxury pleasure boats. Oh, and the Endicott Centre of which Shirley Smith is a director. It appears the total revenue from her 10 per cent shares in Freyling, Wellborn and the other companies goes directly to the Endicott Centre. It's the only straight line Michael has been able to uncover.'
'And Geoffrey's name still hasn't turned up on anything?'
'Not yet. But Michael loves this sort of stuff. He says it's like trying to solve a Rubik's cube. If Geoffrey has any connection he'll find it.'
'What is this Endicott Centre?' Quinn asked.
'I gather it's some sort of sanatorium or health farm. The other board members include two doctors and a psychiatrist.'
'Mmm. Are you busy tomorrow Alex?' Kit asked.
'Why?'
'Well, I was going to check out the Skintone Agency and then drop into the St Kilda Star to see if a journo friend of mine has anything recent on Edwina Barnes. I'm also hoping she might have heard of Factor Four. And I'll have to pick up Geoffrey's tail to find out what the mystery appointment is at 5pm.'
'So?'
'So I was wondering if you'd have time to check out the Endicott Centre. In person,' Kit said. That way there's no chance of you following me around all day, she thought.
'Ah, sure. I'll take a drive out there in the morning after I pick up my car.'
'What about me?' Quinn asked, almost petulantly.
'Is Geoffrey included in the family business Douglas needs you for in the morning?'
'Yeah. The pig,' Quinn sneered.
'Good. You get to keep an eye on the pig. Just don't lose control OK? We don't want Geoffrey knowing that we know anything at all. When he leaves you follow him wherever he goes - at a distance. You can call me at the Star or on my mobile to tell me where to meet you when I've finished.'
'Neat,' Quinn said excitedly.
'I don't think it's neat,' Alex stated.
'Give it a rest Alex,' Quinn snapped.