Chantelle was picking me up at eight to take me to Club Jabber, a nightclub that had just opened. Going there was part of my get-ting-to-know-L.A. campaign. Strewth, half the time I didn't know what people were talking about, and if I were to ace being a PI, I had to know the territory. That meant a crash course in everything, including local nightlife.
I had a quick shower, being careful not to muss my new hairstyle, then made myself a cheese-and-pickle sandwich and a cup of tea to tide me over. I served Julia Roberts tuna. For such an elegant cat, she wasn't what I'd call a delicate eater. She hoed into it like she hadn't had food for days, making rather disgusting slurping noises.
"We chew with our mouths closed in this house," I said, repeating the words my mum had said to me a zillion times when I was growing up. Jules ignored me.
I had some time to kill, so I went back to my room and sat down with Private Investigation: The Complete Handbook I was up to the chapter on how to tell when someone's lying to you. Liars, I read, tend to touch their mouths or noses when saying something untrue. I was so engrossed, I jumped when the phone rang.
"I'm outside, Kylie," said Chantelle. "And you're not. Where are you?"
"Got caught up in something. Be there in a mo."
I grabbed my things, said goodbye to Julia Roberts, and rushed out the front door. As soon as I appeared in the parking area, Chantelle, who was leaning against her red Jeep, gave my hair the once-over. "I like it." Then she gave the rest of me an up and down, and grinned. "That goes for the rest of you too."
I was wearing one of the outfits Harriet Porter had helped me buy, and if I say so myself, I didn't look too bad. "You're pretty crash-hot, yourself," I said, clambering into the passenger seat.
Chantelle was someone who could wear very bright colors and not be swamped by them. Tonight she looked terrific in an iridescent orange top and pants I would never even try to get away with. Maybe it was the contrast with her dark skin, but more likely it was all to do with the way she walked, her voice, her laugh, her mannerisms. Whatever it was, it added up to a personal style. That got me brooding. I reckoned I didn't have a personal style.
Chantelle glanced across at me. She had a really kissable, pouting red mouth. "What's the matter?"
"Not a thing. How's the new job?" Chantelle had just started as a receptionist at Unified Flair Inc., a talent agency. It had to be a big one, as even I had heard of it.
While Chantelle negotiated Thursday night traffic on Sunset, we chatted about the stars and near-stars and never-will-be stars she'd dealt with in the last few days.
"Delford Gunderson," Chantelle said, "is a sweetie, but I wouldn't give the time of day to Maria Flann."
"Dinkum?" I said, a bit down to hear this. Maria Flann had been one of my fave movie stars for years.
"If that means you're asking me if it's true," said Chantelle, "the answer's yes. Actually, the things I've heard…"
Even if half of what Chantelle then told me was dinky-di, those stars certainly had an interesting time of it. "Does all this stuff get on the receptionist network?" I asked, thinking how much I'd hate to have everything about my life out there for anyone to know.
"Of course not," said Chantelle. "It wouldn't be professional to disclose every detail."
"How do you decide what details you can let slip?"
"A receptionist just knows. It's a talent."
Club Jabber was in West Hollywood. As we hit Santa Monica Boulevard, I remembered something I wanted Chantelle to explain. "The woman next to me in the salon this afternoon was talking about her life coach. What's a life coach?"
She grinned. "You sure don't need one, honey!"
"So what does a life coach do?"
"A life coach asks what's missing in your life and what you really want to achieve then gets you to set personal goals. Basically, they keep telling you you're marvelous. It's like having your own private one-person cheer squad."
"People get paid to do this life coaching?"
"Thousands and thousands."
"Beats me why you'd give money to a stranger," I said, "when all you need to do is to sit down and think about it yourself, or maybe talk it out with friends."
"I don't know," said Chantelle, shrugging. "People get in a rut and need someone else to pull them out of it. Quip should be at the club tonight. You can ask him. He was a life coach for a while."
"Quip? Fran's husband? He's a screenwriter."
She laughed indulgently. "Kylie, every second person in this town's a screenwriter. Or an actor. Or both. Then they find you've got to do other things to put food on the table."
I chuckled. "Next you're going to say you've got a screenplay."
Chantelle seemed rather miffed by my lighthearted tone. "Actually, yes, I have. A romantic comedy."
"Don't tell me! One of the main characters is a receptionist."
Her eyebrows dived into a V. She was definitely miffed. "Something wrong with that?" she said in an icy voice.
Yerks! I'd better tread carefully. "Nothing wrong with that at all." I had to get off this subject fast. "My Aunt Millie's coming to Los Angeles," I remarked.
"That's nice."
"No, it isn't."
Chantelle had expressive eyebrows. Now they were raised in questioning arcs. "No?"
"It's a disaster. Could hardly be worse."
Chantelle took her eyes off the road to stare at me. "This must be some aunt!"
"She's indescribable. You'd have to meet her to see what I mean. Not that you will." Chantelle's hurt expression spurred me to add hastily, "That didn't come out quite right. It's not just you. Nobody is going to meet Aunt Millie, if I have anything to do with it."
Chantelle's disbelief was plain. "And your aunt will be happy with this? Not meeting anyone? What are you going to do? Lock her in a room?"
"If only." I was plunged into gloom. Chantelle was right. Aunt Millie would make it her business to meet everyone who had anything to do with me.
"I've got to meet your Aunt Millie," said Chantelle enthusiastically. "She sounds like a real kick."
"Real kick? Is that something good? If so, it doesn't apply to my aunt."
"She can't be that bad."
I slumped in my seat. "You don't know the half of it."
We turned off the main road onto a narrow laneway. "We have to find somewhere to park," said Chantelle. "Quip said you could usually get something down here."
"How do you know Quip?" Chantelle had never mentioned she'd met Fran's husband before.
"UCLA Writers' Program. We were in the same script-writing course a few years ago, when we were both starting out."
Quip had written what seemed countless scripts for movies and television-not one of them made-but at least he was involved in the biz in some way. As far as I knew, Chantelle had only one screenplay.
"Has your screenplay got a title?" I asked.
Chantelle swore under her breath as someone ahead of us snaffled an empty parking spot. She turned the Jeep into yet another narrow lane. "I was going to call it Wrong Number, but then I decided Sorry, Wrong Number had more pizzazz."
"Hasn't Sorry, Wrong Number already been used?"
Chantelle didn't seem concerned. "Has it? Doesn't matter. There's no copyright with titles."
"So you could call your screenplay Gone With the Wind if you wanted to?"
Chantelle shot me a look worthy of Julia Roberts in one of her more haughty moments. "That title wouldn't relate to the essential themes I'm exploring."
I could tell I was getting into chancy territory here. I peered through the windscreen. "Isn't that a parking spot?"
"Where?!"
I pointed. "Someone's just pulling out."
Chantelle accelerated like mad, then slammed on the brakes when we got to the gap in the parked cars. "Get it fast, or lose it," she said, reversing into the space with impressive skill. Thwarted, a guy going the other way gave us the finger as he passed.
We weren't that far from Club Jabber, which was hard to find unless you picked out the tiny red J above the black door. A big bloke was standing outside it, arms folded over his barrel chest. He wore a very tight white T-shirt that carried the words STONE killer in that really purple-purple that puts your teeth on edge. There was a small knot of people clustered around him, but he was ignoring their attempts to talk to him.
"Be nice to the bouncer," said Chantelle.
I looked at the bloke with interest. I'd never met a bouncer before, unless you counted Mucka Onslow, who was the sergeant in charge of the cop shop in the 'Gudge but also doubled on the sly as private security for high school dances and the like.
"G'day," I said to him.
The bouncer grunted. Chantelle said, "It's all right, Dana. She's with me."
Without a flicker of expression on his face, he stood aside and let us into the club. There was an annoyed mutter from the people left waiting outside as we disappeared through the black door.
Safely inside, I said, "The bouncer's name is Dana? That's strictly a girl's name where I come from."
"For pity's sake, don't tell Dana that."
I grinned. "You think he'd mind being told he has a girly name?"
"My guess is he'd mind a lot."
The air trembled with the thump-thump of a bass beat. A bored young woman perched on a tall stool behind a pay window set into the wall. She was chewing gum so hard I thought there was a fair chance she might dislocate her jaw.
"My treat," said Chantelle, shoving money through the slot at the bottom of the glass.
We went down a short, dimly lit hallway and through heavy black curtains, where the sound hit us like a slap in the face. My breastbone was actually vibrating, and my eardrums felt like they were bending inward. I reckoned enough of this and I'd be permanently deafened.
All this sound was coming from a band spotlighted on a tiny stage. The lead guitarist, who wore a shocking pink shirt open to the waist and super tight black jeans, was prancing around, frequently lunging forward to shriek something unintelligible into a microphone. The drummer, thin enough to be a male anorexic, thrashed his head from side to side, apparently in the throes of musical ecstasy. If he'd asked me, I'd have advised the bass guitarist not to perform shirtless, as his bony, hollow-chested physique didn't add anything to the pelvic thrusts he was performing in time to the beat.
"Who are they?" I bellowed to Chantelle, indicating the band on the stage.
I thought she yelled back, "Rat's Piss," but I could have been mistaken.
I looked around. The room wasn't all that large, but it was crammed with people dancing. Around the sides other patrons perched at rickety tables and shouted conversations at each other. Built into one wall was a bar, crowded with individuals fighting each other to get to the front so they could catch the eye of the lone barman.
With an earsplitting crescendo, the band ended what had to be a song, although I hadn't recognized any melody to speak of or made out a single word. People clapped and called out approvingly, possibly because the racket had stopped. In the comparative quiet, I realized my ears were ringing. "Loud, aren't they?" I said to Chantelle.
"Makes up for talent," she said. "Look, there's Quip."
Quip glanced our way at the same time and beckoned eagerly for us to join him at his little table. We had to make our way around the perimeter, as the sound system had started blasting out a dancing beat, galvanizing those hanging around on the floor into frenzied action again.
I like dancing. Not the sort I learned at Madame Syke's Ballroom Dancing Academy when I was attending Wollegudgerie High. At that time my main claim to fame was how consistently I mashed my partner's toes. What I really liked was the fling-yourself-around type of dancing, where partners are optional. Although, when I thought of it, I'd had some awfully nice slow dances with Raylene…
Don't go there, I said to myself, feeling the dismals coming on. Fortunately the dance track drowned out my words.
When we finally got to Quip, he leapt up and gave each of us a hug. He really was the nicest bloke. I was sure I wasn't the first to wonder how he ever got himself married to Fran. Apart from the fact that he was clearly so totally gay, how someone with such a sunny nature could put up with Fran's bleak view of the world was a bit of a puzzle.
Quip wasn't his real name, though I wouldn't have been surprised if it had been. I'd come across some very strange monikers since I'd hit L.A… Melodie had explained to me that Quip believed "Quip Trent" on the front page of a script promised more than "Bruce Trent." He could be right. I've never liked the name Bruce, although that may be because of my revolting cousin Brucie.
"Kylie! How's it going?" Quip asked, grabbing two chairs from a table next to us someone had momentarily deserted.
"Pretty good," I said. "I've got my first case."
Quip squeezed the chairs between the wall and the table, which I saw was fastened to the floor so it couldn't be moved. Chantelle and I managed to wriggle onto our seats, although everything was so crammed together, you had to practically breathe sideways to get any air.
"Where's Fran?" I asked, raising my voice to be heard above the din.
Quip pointed at the mass of people dancing. "In there, somewhere."
I caught sight of Fran almost immediately. "She's a ripper dancer, isn't she?" I said, astonished. Somehow the thought of Fran being expert in this area had never occurred to me. But then, why would it? She was anything but light-footed around the office.
"I can't keep up with her," said Quip, grinning as he watched Fran gyrate by us. "That gal was born to dance." He switched his attention to Chantelle and me. "What do you want to drink?"
Given the crush at the bar, I don't know how he did it, but a few minutes later Quip was back with beers for all of us, and one for Fran, when she eventually made it back to the table.
We clinked cans and glugged a mouthful or two. It felt good. Carrying on a shouted conversation had made me thirsty.
"Fran told me about your very first clients," Quip said to me. "Twins, aren't they? I don't remember their names."
"Alf and Chicka Hartnidge," announced Chantelle with the satisfied smile of one who has access to sources of information denied to many. I hadn't told her a thing yet about the Hartnidges, but I knew who had.
Chantelle confirmed her source by saying, "Melodie has a date with Chicka tonight. Can't wait to hear about it." I had a bet with myself the receptionist network would be humming tomorrow.
She hadn't finished. Leaning forward to speak confidentially, which was ridiculous, because everyone had to yell to be heard, Chantelle said, "Would you believe it? The Hartnidge brothers have Marty-O as their agent. And he's got Lamb White committed to a movie deal."
"Oh, God," said Quip, his handsome face showing deep disgust. "You know what doing business with Lamb White means, don't you? That creep Brother Owen and his off-the-planet Church of Possibilities will get involved. That sucks."
"Who's Marty-O? Who's Brother Owen, and what is the Church of Possibilities?" I asked.
Quip and Chantelle looked at each other, then switched their combined stares to me.
"What?" I said.
"You've never heard of Marty O. Ziema?"
"Not a sausage." From their expressions, they needed more. "I know nothing about him. Wouldn't know the bloke if I fell over him. Who is he?"
"Uber-agent," said Quip.
"Known throughout the biz as Marty-O," said Chantelle.
"Industry," said Quip.
Chantelle blinked at him.
"Those in the know," said Quip, "call it the industry, not the biz."
"Oh," said Chantelle. She seemed to be blushing. "I knew that."