Blood Sunset

6



MAJESTIC VIEWS WAS THE NAME of the apartment block where Dallas Boyd had lived. It was squashed between two near-identical 1960s blocks on a narrow cul-de-sac and I wondered if it had been named as such because it had once been possible to glimpse water from the upper floors. If so, the growth of trees and urban development had put a stop to that. I drove past Majestic Views and parked a hundred metres down, watching the street through my rear-view mirror.
A prostitute leant against a telephone pole in the shade of a nearby tree. She was dressed in a pink bikini top and hotpants. I’d never seen her before and figured she was new to the stroll. She wasn’t scrawny and undernourished like most of the girls I knew in St Kilda. Looking around for her spotter, I found him hidden behind a sun visor in a nearby Valiant.
Within minutes, a white HiAce van slowed and the girl bent to the driver-side window. A quick glance over her shoulder, a flash of headlights from her eyes in the Valiant, and she was gone. Before I started working St Kilda I’d never understood the male desire to pick up street girls, risking arrest, robbery or disease when you could easily go to any legal brothel and get a better service with virtually no risk. I’d since come to suspect it was the risk itself, as much as the sex, that was the attraction for many men.
From the back seat I grabbed the white polo T-shirt I’d been wearing earlier and changed into it. It was too hot for a shirt and tie, and I didn’t want to look like a cop for what I was about to do. I tore a blank page from my daybook and folded it into my pocket, then walked back to the apartment block, ignoring the suspicious glance from the spotter, still slouched in the Valiant. Just as I reached the entrance to the apartment block a loud bang reverberated down the street. I dropped to a squat, my shoulder tense and blood pounding in my ears. A few seconds went by before I realised it was just a car backfiring. I leant against a brick letterbox and drew a breath.
The spotter in the Valiant was laughing at me. I snarled abuse at him before going through a gate and walking up to the third floor. Finding Boyd’s apartment, I slid on a pair of gloves and used the key Novak had given me to open the door.
A carpeted entranceway intersected with a door on the right and another ahead. I opened the door on the right – the bedroom. It was warm and musty, the blinds closed, double bed unmade. Posters of black American rappers plastered the walls. I continued up the short passage into the living room. It was also badly in need of airing. An old sofa faced a television and there was a stereo in the corner. Other than an ashtray on a glass coffee table and a few dishes near the sink, there was no mess.
Through the kitchenette, a sliding door led into a bathroom and laundry. This room wasn’t so clean, old flecks of toothpaste and shave bristles around the basin and vanity. I found a packet of OxyContin in the cabinet and remembered fondly the floating relief the same pills had given me during my initial rehabilitation. I also remembered the constipation, stomach pains and flu-like withdrawal when I finally decided to give them up. I closed the cabinet and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The grey etchings and stress lines around my eyes betrayed my age. I was only thirty-nine but looked ten years older. Women used to say I was handsome. While I still had the chiselled jaw Ella had once fallen for, my skin now looked moist and pasty, like the junkies I saw roaming the streets every day.
Back in the kitchen, I opened the fridge and found it stocked with leftover takeaway cartons, soft drink and VB beer. No Amstel. Next I opened the cupboard beneath the sink and found the bin, but it was empty. Above it on the bench was an answering machine, digital and more expensive than my own at home. Both this and the designer clothes Boyd was wearing when we found him seemed at odds with his status as a welfare recipient and ward of the state. I pushed play on the machine, a flashing light indicating he hadn’t heard the message.
‘Yeah, Dall, Sparks here, mate. I’ve got what you wanted me to get. I went to the park last night like we said, but you weren’t there, man. I’ve been ringing ya moby all night but no answer. What the f*ck, man? Hanging on to this thing’s freakin’ me out, you better come get it soon or I’m gonna ditch it. That’s it, man, I gotta run.’
A mechanical voice stated the call had come through at nine fifteen that morning. I played the message again. The caller sounded agitated, his desire to see Boyd urgent. I checked the machine for other messages but there weren’t any. I wrote the name ‘Sparks’ and the time of the call on the page I’d torn from my daybook and began a methodical search of the kitchen, starting in the corner, working my way through all the drawers, checking the oven and above each cupboard. I found little of value beyond a small stash of marijuana and ecstasy tablets in the freezer. The ecstasy pills had a different branding from what Anthony had shown me earlier and revived my unease about my brother’s request. What was I supposed to do? Show Chloe pictures of dead people, tell her horror stories?
I left the drugs in place and moved back into the bedroom, where again I had the impression Boyd wasn’t your average state ward. There were five pairs of runners in the wardrobe and maybe a hundred CDs in a vertical display stand. This kid had money. Pondering how, I noticed a Nokia phone charger plugged into a power socket and again wondered about the missing phone. Even Sparks, whoever he was, had said in his message that he’d been trying to call Dallas on his mobile phone. Had somebody removed the phone from his body? Wouldn’t be the first time a deceased junkie was robbed by his own kind. But why not take his wallet and watch, even his runners?
I squatted down to search the bedside table. In a drawer with socks and underpants was a reminder letter from the YMCA in Prahran advising Boyd that his gym membership was due to expire. The letter was dated 1 December the previous year, less than three months ago. Clipped to the letter was a map of Surfers Paradise. I spread the map out on the bed and saw that someone had highlighted several streets in orange felt pen. Ella had family in Queensland and I’d been to the Gold Coast a number of times, so I immediately recognised the streets as popular tourist precincts. Cavill Avenue. Tedder Avenue. Orchard Avenue. In the top corner of the map was a name and address, obviously written by somebody with poor literacy skills: Derek Jardine, 4/678 Sunset Cresant, Mermade Worters.
Who was Derek Jardine? And why was the map clipped to the YMCA reminder letter? Anthony worked at the Docklands YMCA and would have access to client names. I made a note to call him, then searched the rest of the room but still failed to find a mobile phone. There was a shoebox under the bed with a collection of blank DVDs inside. The title Die Hard With A Vengeance was scribbled on one of the cases. Underneath it were others like Goodfellas and Scarface. I slid the box of pirated movies back and noticed a photo on a stand by the door. It was Dallas Boyd and a girl about the same age posing at St Kilda beach, white sand contrasting against the blue water and a burning red sunset behind them. The photo appeared recent, possibly taken this summer. Boyd even had on the same red baseball cap he’d been wearing when he died.
Who had taken the picture? I hadn’t found a camera in the apartment anywhere. Maybe the camera belonged to the girl and they’d asked somebody to take it for them. But the photo looked so professional this was unlikely; nor was it likely that the picture had been taken with Dallas Boyd’s missing phone, or any phone for that matter. While I was in rehab I’d bought myself a digital camera and done what I could to learn how to use it properly. It hadn’t been nearly as easy as I’d expected. Whoever took this shot had experience. If taken by an amateur with a mobile phone or with a camera by somebody simply strolling past, the sunset in the background would leave the picture washed out with too much light. Instead the couple had been brought to the foreground by a keen eye and technical know-how.
I let some ideas roll around but nothing jogged. I focused on the girl. She was familiar, attractive but trashy, with a pink bikini top and a Celtic tattoo around her navel. Suddenly I recognised her. Replacing the picture, I locked the front door and ran down the concrete walkway to find the Valiant turning into Barkly Street. I chased after it, but was too late. As the Valiant took the corner, the hooker stared back at me from the passenger seat. The girl in the picture.