Читать книгу Operation Paradise - Sarah Evans - Страница 9

`Yoo-hoo! Anyone home?' Margot, my next-door neighbour, tripped into the kitchen without so much as a by your leave.

It was seven-thirty the next morning and she was wearing her trademark stiletto sandals, a white denim mini skirt and a plunging fringed silver top more suited for nightclubbing than early visits to your neighbour. You'd be forgiven for thinking she was on the game or some wannabe country and western singer. In fact, she was a model who'd fallen on hard times due to her age and society's obsession with pubescent stick insects. But hey, she was usually upbeat about it.

Ten years older than me, but a lot less ragged about the edges, Margot sported long jet-black hair piled up in a high topknot, long fingernails to rival Fu Manchu and long Tina Turner legs to die for. She could happily pass as Ab-Fab Patsy's dark-haired twin sister. Not only that, she shared the same appetite for pretty younger men.

Margot had the biggest heart in the Southern Hemisphere. She was the best neighbour a girl could have, except early on a Saturday morning when my head was pounding from an overindulgence of rough red. I was out of painkillers, food and ironed clothes, and the weather was already hot enough to fry an egg on the footpath. I was not a happy bunny and it was made worse because it was all self-inflicted. I should have forfeited last night's wine.

Make that the week's wine.

And I should have shopped and ironed when I'd had the opportunity instead of slothfully snuggling in bed.

`You look jaded,' said Margot and laughed. I winced because her laugh sounded like a hysterical hyena.

`Don't mince your words. Tell me how you really see it.' I slammed shut the fridge door after a futile search for anything without extra culture, and I don't mean the Beethoven variety. I filled the kettle. At least I had an on-going supply of water and didn't have to shop for it.

`Hard night?' She clicked her tongue sympathetically and leaned a narrow hip against my kitchen counter.

`Self imposed,' I admitted.

`Another night solo?'

`Not completely. I was working for most of it.'

`Poor substitute. We'll have to do something about your social life, honey.' She snapped her fingers decisively which made her lashings of bracelets jingle and jangle. Margot dripped enough gold jewellery to re-finance South America and still have change for the poker machines.

`I've got a brilliant idea,' she said.

It was too early in the day for brilliance.

`Tell me later,' I pleaded. `I need painkillers and coffee and then I have to go to work. You want a coffee?'

She waved her hand dismissively, causing another bout of clashing metal, and carried on with her spiel. `But this will suit you down to the ground, Evie. Swift, sure and satisfying. No messing around. No wasted time. Just straight in there and down to brass tacks.'

`Go on then,' I said, spooning instant coffee into a mug and impatiently waiting for the kettle to boil. I was already running late and Margot's ill-timed visit would delay me a heap more.

`I'll take you speed dating,' she said.

`Huh?'

`It cuts out the wasted flab of chatting someone up. You have five minutes to work out if the bloke is worth dating or not and if he isn't you haven't wasted a lifetime's investment on him. It's like an accelerated version of a lonely hearts' club.'

`Sounds like a sop for a bunch of losers.'

`Yeah, and you're not one when it comes to dating?' Her eyes narrowed dangerously.

I took a sip of scalding coffee and burnt my tongue while trying to ignore her true but cruel shaft. She had a point. I sometimes felt I had Loser Lover tattooed on my forehead.

`There's a new place in town called Hit and Miss in Hay Street. We'll go together, tonight,' she said, which sounded great in theory but I was sure would be absolutely disastrous in practice.

Margot, you see, had always beaten me in any encounter with the opposite sex simply by slinging a hip in a provocative pose and batting one artful, artificial eyelash at them. Hey, when I slung a hip, it was to get a better aim with my gun. Ditto when lowering an eyelid. Maybe I should try Cupid's bow rather than a gun. And aim for the heart rather than the leg.

`Better if I meet you there,' I said. `Then if I get caught up on a case, you can speed date for the two of us.'

`You're not going to stand me up?'

`As if.'

`Remember to dress to knock `em dead. See you at eight.'

`I'll do my best.'

My best, as it turned out, wasn't very good. For starters, I was late. As usual. Everyone was already milling around with clipboards of pink paper and red pens. They were dressed to kill and I was still clad in my hard-day-at-the-office jeans and t-shirt. Even though the night was muggy, I had on my leather jacket. Call it a security blanket if you like. It made me feel in control.

It also hid my gun.

Hit and Miss: the place lived up to its name. It was neither a bar nor a hall, but simply a room with a scratchy, carpet-tiled floor in deadbeat brown, and neutral, corpse-beige walls. I should think it had once been an office and those running the speed dating had got it cheap. I hesitated at the door, trying to spot Margot and hoping I'd got the wrong place.

I hadn't.

She yoo-hooed me from the other side of the room and pointed to a small card table where the organiser was seated. The lady in charge was called Josie. She was a bottle blonde with fake tan and, judging by her protruding cheek bones and taut skin, she'd been stretched and nipped a few too many times for comfort. She dressed like a teenager and affected a Shirley Temple cuteness. She must have been all of sixty-five, though it was hard to tell without cutting her in half and counting the rings.

`Yes?' she asked when I hovered by the table. Her voice was sugary and girly and would appeal to the older male punters, I reckoned, as would the little pink bow in her hair.

`I… er…' What the hell was I doing here? I should make a dash for freedom before it was too late.

`At last, Eve!'

Damn, too late. She who hesitates-

`Josie, meet my friend Eve. She wants to sign up,' said Margot over my shoulder. `You're late.'

She waggled her finger and jingled her bracelets. `You've wasted valuable talent-spotting time.'

What talent? I couldn't see any from where I was standing.

`It couldn't be helped. I was busy,' I told her. `So what do we do now?'

`Pay up front, put your name down, grab a clipboard and get your backside on a chair in front of a man.'

`Sounds-'

`Simple? It is.'

`Actually, I was going to say clinical.' Though cynical was also appropriate. And awful and horrendous and a complete waste of valuable curry-eating, wine-drinking, cigar-smoking time.

Josie handed me a form. `You have five minutes with each person. You fill in the scorecards provided and anyone with a score of ten-plus should be a good match. Five and over aren't bad either. You might just need more time to find common ground. We take no responsibility for what goes on between consenting adults. Good luck.'

Good luck? After that spiel, I reckoned I needed it. I looked at the registration form the Barbie doll grandma had given me and tried to spend an inordinate amount of time filling it in. If I spun it out long enough, the clock would strike midnight and I could return to the ashes and pumpkins and miss the ball altogether.

`Oh for goodness sake, do it later. You'll miss out otherwise,' said Margot returning from the back-blocks of the room to hassle me.

By now I'd got an eyeful of her get-up. She'd stinted at nothing in the fashion stakes. She had on a leopard-skin boob tube that revealed a great deal of her womanly charms, and a red leather mini skirt. Her red snakeskin heels I'd swear were circus stilts and made her at least seven foot tall. She was all woman. I wondered which men here would be game to take her on. Even a milkshake with Margot on the other end of the straw would be more than a lot of these mousy types could handle.

Margot grabbed my arm and sat me down in the nearest chair.

`Go for it, kid,' she said and skittered away back to her dark corner, where she obviously had someone tasty baled up. It took me a split second to realise there was a man sitting on the other side of the small, round, café-style table.

Feeling acutely embarrassed and avoiding all eye contact,

I said, `Evening.'

I purposely left out the `good' bit, because, as far as I could see, there was nothing remotely good about the night. I'd be more gainfully employed watching the Paradise for perps. Or feeding my face with takeaway chilli chicken masala.

My taste buds tingled instantly at the thought. Finding love and companionship in a nanosecond sucked. But you knew where you stood with an Indian.

`Do you believe in miracles?' the man said. His voice was creepily quiet, like crumpled tissue paper in an airtight room. I gave him a swift once over. He was no miracle, I could tell him that for nothing.

`Actually, no. Especially not tonight,' I said instead.

He had an uncanny resemblance to Elton John. Or was that Elton's mum? That was scary enough on its own. But his smile owed everything to Alfred Hitchcock. Bring on the psycho.

Eek! Eek! Eek!

I wasn't surprised when he said, `I do. I believe in miracles.'

I shut my eyes in disbelief. He wasn't going to start singing that old Hot Chocolate number, was he? Hell, I hoped not. His nasty smile widened so I could easily count the fillings in his molars.

`There's a French proverb that says miracles only happen to those who believe in them. I think tonight is my lucky night,' he said.

I shuddered and I didn't care if he noticed. `Not with me, mate. I think our five minutes is up.'

I abruptly pushed back my chair. The legs caught on the cheap carpet mats and the chair went tumbling. Everybody's heads turned to stare. I'm not sure, but I think I was making an impression and not necessarily a good one. I picked up the fallen chair and tucked it back under the table. I straightened my jacket, subtly readjusted my gun holster and then cast my eye about for another vacant lot.

There was only one. The man was a bear. He was big, brown and hairy. And he looked sort of familiar. I purposefully sauntered over.

`Evening,' I said again. `May I sit down?'

`That's the idea.' He looked me up and down. `Nice to see you've made an effort.'

He waved a paw at my jeans and leather.

`You have a problem with the way I dress?' Was this part of the five minute get-to-know-you stuff? He wouldn't win any best-dressed awards either. His charcoal grey jacket was rumpled as if he'd slept in it for a week and there were dangerous stains on his maroon tie. I should think he hadn't bothered to change his shirt for several days. His tie for several decades. He was a businessman's disaster. He smiled without warmth.

`Most of the women here are dressed to kill. Either you wanted to make a statement by being different or-'

`How do you work that one out?'

`By dressing so contrarily to the other ladies, you instantly attract every man's attention.'

`And my other reason?' I might as well hear it, even though I knew I probably wouldn't like it.

`You're butch.'

`Oh. I see. Well, we've only got five minutes. Do you want to spend it trading insults?' I asked sweetly, trying not to grind my teeth. Surely I didn't look butch? I was a mother for goodness sake. The bear should get together with Zefferelli so they could swap bad impressions.

`Yeah, why not? It'll make a change from sugar-coated innuendos.'

I'd recognised him by this stage. He was the bloke in the gorgeous silver Rover who'd tried to pick up Fox.

`Okay,' I said. `It's my turn. You're the type of man who picks up prostitutes for lunch; male and female.'

His eyes narrowed. `You're a hooker,' he said flatly.

`Worse - I'm a cop. But at least I'm not a divorce lawyer.'

The bear leaned back in his chair. If he leaned back any further, I was sure the chair legs would snap. I was tempted, in a juvenile sort of way, to stick out my foot and push the chair the last centimetre or so, just to make certain.

`So you know who I am,' he said. It was not a question.

`Leo Stark. Married and divorced three times - I hope you give yourself cheap rates. You own a small practice in Subiaco, have a very nice Rover on lease and you need to attend Weight Watchers before heart disease and diabetes overtake you. At a guess, I would say you're moderately successful as a lawyer, hit the booze too hard and are a pussycat where unsuitable women are concerned. How do I score?'

He was silent. His eyes were still narrowed so I couldn't read any expression in them. I should think it was a learned lawyer tactic. He stroked his beard with one large paw. There was a signet ring on his pinky but from this distance I couldn't make out what was engraved on it.

`You don't score. Our five minutes have expired.' He rocked the chair back on all fours and then left without a backward glance.

I watched him go all the way. He negotiated the tables like a huge sea-faring galleon avoiding treacherous rocks. For a big man he moved with surprising grace. He waved to Josie and then left the Hit and Miss. Why was he in such a hurry to leave? I wasn't that ugly or that butch. Maybe he didn't like police officers. It was common enough but it still bothered me. Did Leo Stark have something to hide? Or was he fed up with the whole speed dating game? I know I was, and I'd only been there ten minutes.

In fact, I was very tempted to follow him out. But before I could put the thought into action, Josie rushed over to my singleton table. `What did you say to Leo?' she demanded with a squeak. `He never leaves early. Were you rude?'

`She was rude to me,' Mr Psycho piped up.

`And she hasn't even bothered to speak to me,' said another loser.

`I'm learning how this whole thing works, okay? Back off, the lot of you.' I felt like drawing my gun to underscore my frustration.

`No need to get snitchy,' said the Barbie grandma. `There's still time for you all to mingle and get to know each other.'

She then eyeballed me with one of her china-blue eyes. The other was pointing to the ceiling. I guess the plastic surgeon hadn't had the expertise to fix her squint.

`We don't want trouble, Eve,' she admonished. `Play by the rules or you'll be expelled.'

Grief, this sounded much too much like Saint Immaculata's. Get me out of here!

`Now here comes one of our new clients. Do try to be nice.' She took hold of my arm in a surprisingly strong grip and led me to yet another small, round table where a salesman type in a blue suit sat with a smug, self-satisfied gleam in his leering eyes. I swung a panicked glance around the room for Margot. She must have picked up my vibes because she was standing up and staring in our direction.

`Help!' I mouthed.

She smiled and did a little finger wave back and then returned her attention to whoever she was speed dating. No escape there, then. She obviously didn't want to squander her precious five minutes of chat-up time. I would have to bear it then. But not without a reward, that was for sure. I promised myself a treat if I got through the next five minutes without gagging.

I squared my shoulders and met my opponent.

`Hello, I'm Eve,' I said with as much warmth as a chilled watermelon.

`I wish I could say I was Adam,' he smirked back. `But my name's Den. You can call me Tiger.'

I failed the treat challenge and gagged.