Blood Sunset

20



THE DRIVE BACK TO MELBOURNE took almost an hour less than the drive up. I kept the speedo on one-thirty all the way and the stereo muted. I wasn’t in the mood for love songs or any other music. I just wanted to get back to Melbourne and go to work. I arrived in St Kilda to find most of it had been blocked off for the festival and I had to badge a team of council workers guarding the barricades before they’d let me through. Even then, I had to drive at snail’s pace along the tram tracks.
Thousands of people walked the streets, like a parade without a cause. Tables and umbrellas covered the sidewalks, waiters flitting between them. Large banners hovered over the street, welcoming everyone to St Kilda. A concert was underway on the foreshore, a past Australian Idol personality headlining. All of it infuriated me. Didn’t they realise what went on in this place? I wanted to blow my horn until they all moved along but had to sit patiently, wasting time.
Finally I pulled up outside the 7-Eleven, double-parked and waited for all the customers to leave before I walked in. Dallas Boyd had bought a recharge card for his mobile phone here at ten o’clock Thursday night, less than two hours before he was murdered. Yet we’d never found a phone on or near his body, and it still hadn’t turned up. It was a loose end that needed to be tied.
The shop attendant, a man of Pakistani descent, crouched over a cardboard box, stocking the fridge. ‘Excuse me,’ I said, showing him my badge. ‘I need to view your tapes for last Thursday, from about 9 p.m. onwards.’
‘This could make a problem,’ he said. ‘Police have already taken the disk.’
I thought about this; the only likely explanation was that Stello had come for it.
‘When?’
‘I am thinking late yesterday. I was not here.’
I cursed myself for neglecting to swing by the day before; instead, I’d gone for a swim.
‘Hang on. You said they came by to collect the disk?’
‘This is correct. The disk.’
‘So your system is digital. Not on tape,’ I said, looking up at the camera above the console.
‘Correct. No tape.’
‘Okay, so why is there a problem? Can’t you make me a copy?’
‘It will take a long time and I am the only person here,’ he said, looking around nervously. ‘I am thinking it is easier to get the copy from your colleague, yes?’
‘Sir, I really need you to copy me the disk. This is important, and I’m happy to pay you for a blank disk if that’s what you’re worried about.’
The man hesitated, then led me through to an office at the back of the store where a computer sat atop a desk cluttered with folders, boxes and empty takeaway containers.
‘I must be quick,’ he said, clicking on the computer screen. ‘Customers can steal as they please if I am not in the store.’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘If you show me what to do, you can get back to stocking your fridge.’
‘No, I will do it myself,’ he said, typing a series of commands. An image of the shop appeared on the monitor, the date and time counting forward in the bottom right-hand corner. It was still cued up for 9 p.m. on the Thursday, probably saved from Stello’s copy.
‘It is Thursday, yes?’ he asked.
‘Yes, from nine onwards.’
‘I can only give you three hours per disk.’
‘Fine. Give me from nine-thirty onwards.’
The man went to work. The image disappeared and a measuring scale appeared on screen, showing the progress of the burning. A minute later the disk tray opened.
‘All finish,’ he said, handing me the DVD.
‘Can I watch it quickly?’ I asked. ‘You know, just to make sure it worked?’
‘I am promising you, it will work.’
‘I believe you, but it would be great if I could watch it here.’
Taking the disk, he put it in the tray and pointed the cursor arrow to a control box at the bottom of the screen. I recognised buttons similar to those on my DVD player at home.
‘Fast forward with this button,’ he said. ‘When you are finished, press stop and eject. I must be going back to the store.’
When he was gone, I pressed fast forward and watched dozens of customers walk in and out of the store as the clock counter skipped towards 10 p.m. A few minutes before ten, Dallas Boyd entered. I pressed play and the movement slowed to natural speed. The volume was muted and I tried to find a dial but couldn’t. Deciding it wasn’t necessary, I watched as Boyd moved around the store, from the fridge to the confectionery aisle, eventually stepping towards the counter. At this stage he asked for something, and the attendant turned and pulled out a recharge card. Meanwhile, Boyd quickly snatched a chocolate bar off the console and slid it in his pocket.
‘Cheeky little bugger,’ I said.
As the attendant handed Boyd the receipt and recharge card, a girl in a miniskirt entered the store and came into view. It was the girl I’d seen in the picture in Dallas Boyd’s bedroom, the hooker outside the apartment block. She sidled up to Boyd and put an arm around him. I paused the image and called out to the shop attendant for help.
‘I need a printout of this girl,’ I said when he came in. ‘Can you do that?’
He muttered something in another language as he leant over me and punched in the keyboard commands. When the page was printed, he snatched it up, removed the disk and handed them both to me.
‘Will that be all?’
‘Yes, thank you.’

I took Grey Street into the red-light district, looking for the green Valiant or the girl in the picture. Despite the heat, or perhaps because of it, the street seemed devoid of prostitution. I turned down Greeves Street, a favourite on the hooker circuit, but still failed to see a single girl. This wasn’t right. Normally there were at least twenty girls out during the day, more at night. I drove around again and finally spotted a transvestite who went by the working name of Dixie Normas.
Dixie, aka David Castleton, had a story similar to many others: absent father, sexual molestation as a young boy, a runaway at first. There was big money for young boys on the block. Big risks too. He’d been raped and assaulted at least twice, busted for drugs and solicitation more than once. Puberty blues and the rock spiders were no longer interested in him, but there were plenty who were. At age twenty-five, he was one of the hardest-working girls on the block.
I parked across the street and walked towards him. He must have read the determination in my face because he started walking away.
‘Hey!’ I yelled. ‘Stop, I wanna talk to you.’ He kept walking and I jogged to catch up, grabbed him by the arm and turned him around. ‘I told you to stop.’
He yanked his arm free and stared at me. Up close I saw that he no longer took as much pride and patience with the make-up. Maybe his clientele liked it that way, or maybe he was just worn out.
‘I’m not talking to you, not now,’ he said, taking a step back. His heel caught in the sidewalk and he grimaced as he stumbled.
Catching his elbow, I helped him upright. ‘I’m looking for someone,’ I said, showing him the picture I’d printed at the 7-Eleven. ‘She’s a new girl. Who is she and where can I find her?’
He turned his head away, and in profile he looked like a man. Like many trannies around St Kilda, he’d had the implants but not the tackle chop. Whenever we locked up a trannie, we had to put them in a cell on their own because they didn’t belong in the women’s or the men’s.
‘Just look at the picture,’ I said. ‘This is important.’
‘And so am I. I’m not doing this, not today.’
A late model BMW slowed on the other side of the road. Despite not being able to see through the tinted windows, I knew the driver was watching us. He was probably a pervert angling for a blow job and was unable to find anyone out today. I stared at the dark windows until the car drove off.
‘What’s your problem?’ I snapped at Dixie. ‘I just want a name. She’s not in a blue; I just need to speak to her.’
He handed the picture back and turned to walk off but I grabbed his wrist and held it firm.
‘You know the rules, Big Dick. You respect me and I’ll do the same for you. If I need help, you don’t get to choose when it suits. I decide when it’s important. You don’t walk away and you don’t give me attitude. You just answer my questions and give me what I need. That way, when you need my help there’s some left over.’
He knew exactly what I was saying. Pretty soon every hooker becomes a victim and they need us just as much as we need them.
‘Look, today’s not a good day for us, that’s all I’m saying.’
‘What do you mean? I don’t care about the festival.’
‘I’m not talking about the festival,’ he hissed. ‘Why do you reckon the streets are empty?’
‘What are you talking about? Where is everyone?’
‘Like you don’t know.’
Suddenly a cold dread washed through me. ‘What’s going on, Dave?’
‘You really don’t know, do you?’
‘No. What is it?’
He stepped under the shade of an elm tree and leant against a brick fence. Another car drove past, slowed and tooted its horn. Neither of us acknowledged it.
‘I’ve never bullshitted you, Dave. I’ve always played fair. Just look at the picture and tell me what’s going on around here.’
His eyes shunted back and forth, searching the street, before finally he looked at the picture. It wasn’t a long look.
‘You’re right. She is new to the stroll. Her name’s Tammy, I think. That’s all I know.’
‘Surname? Address?’
He shook his head and handed the picture back.
‘Did you know her boyfriend, Dallas Boyd?’
He looked up at me sharply then. ‘Yeah, I knew Dall. Everyone did. He was a cool guy, young but smart.’
‘Sad,’ I said. ‘From what I gather he was cleaning himself up.’
‘If that’s what you call it.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing. He knew the risks. We all do.’
I wanted to ask whether he thought the death was accidental and what the word on the street was, but I had the sense that it didn’t matter. The street had killed Dallas Boyd no matter which way you saw it.
‘Okay, so where the hell is everyone?’
He broke away from me then and yelled ‘Talbot Reserve’ over his shoulder as he scurried around the corner. There was no point going after him. I went back to my car and drove down to Barkly Street, turned left and stopped when I saw the crime scene tape and a squadron of police cars barricading Talbot Reserve.