length of timber. It was only lightweight pine but it had some tremendously reassuring nails sticking out the end. Nobody was going to mess with me.
Nobody tried. The upper balcony was deserted, the whole site silent as a grave. I loped through the access walkway, headed for the exit. I took the dogleg corner wide, ready for anything. Nothing like being on the receiving end of an attempted homicide to get the old glands pumping.
Spider was in Little Collins Street. Pedestrians were coursing around him. He’d run hard and was doubled up, catching his breath. The back end of Eastlake’s Mercedes was barrelling through a green light at the far end of the block, past the flashing No Turns sign. ‘Shit,’ said Spider, standing erect and sliding his visor back down over his eyes.
I had no idea exactly where this big-eared lug fitted into the scheme of things. I no longer flattered myself that I had any grip at all on the scheme of things. The only thing I knew for sure was that Spider Webb had just saved my life. And that gets you a lot of points in my book. I nearly kissed him.
‘Fucking psycho,’ I said. ‘Your boss is a fucking psycho.’ Two approaching women, spotting the cudgel in my hand, veered to the other side of the street. A weapon was now probably superfluous. I tossed it back down the alley.
‘He is now,’ said Spider, like Eastlake’s behaviour was entirely my fault. ‘And Christ alone knows where he’s headed.’
Christ and yours truly. ‘Fiona Lambert’s place,’ I said. ‘Bet you anything.’
‘Why there?’ Spider didn’t find the idea by any means obvious. ‘What did you tell him?’
‘I told him that his girlfriend’s been cheating.’ I was beginning to get a very bad feeling about having told Eastlake that. And the other bit. The bit about her and Karlin. I’d been thinking on my feet, so to speak. The lie hadn’t bought me any more time. But judging by the expression on Eastlake’s face when he stomped my knuckles, it had certainly hit home.
‘Shit,’ said Spider again. ‘No wonder he flipped out.’ His neck went up and his head radared about.
‘What’s going on, for Chrissake,’ I demanded. ‘Tell me.’ I was starting to sound like Claire.
‘Later.’ Spider took off up the street, head swivelling as he went, like he’d mislaid something. ‘Wait,’ I yelled, and headed after him.
The rush-hour traffic was beginning to ease, but Swanston Street was still busy. It was the main thoroughfare through the central business district and the route for all cross-town trams. A row of them was banked up at the traffic lights. I was three paces behind Spider and one step ahead of him. Given the rate the motor traffic was inching ahead, there was a better than even chance that a tram would beat a Mercedes to Domain Road. ‘Please, Noel,’ I pleaded. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’
Spider didn’t answer. He was too busy joining the crowd of pedestrians surging across Swanston Street, weaving through the gridlocked cars towards the green and yellow trams. The foremost was a Number 8. Toorak via Domain Rd, read the destination board.
Halfway across the street, Spider stopped abruptly and bent to the driver’s window of a black Saab. As I caught him up, he reached inside and snatched a car phone from the ear of the driver and began punching in numbers. The chinless wonder behind the wheel couldn’t believe it. Spluttering, he tried to open his door, demanding his toy back. Spider held the car door shut with his foot and clamped the phone to one of his auricular protuberances. ‘C’mon, c’mon,’ he urged. Then, quickly, ‘He’s headed for Lambert’s place. Get there fast. He’s finally flipped.’
He tossed the mobile back into the Saab driver’s lap and sprinted for the trams. The lights went green, air- brakes hissed and the front tram lurched forward. Spider swung himself aboard just as the door began to glide shut.
I wasn’t so fast. I raced alongside and swung myself up onto the running board. The tram was crowded. Standing room only. It crossed the intersection, gaining momentum, headed for Princes Bridge. Faces peered out at me, some amused, some alarmed. The door slid open and a rough hand hauled me aboard.
‘You in a hurry?’ the conductor scowled. She had a nose ring and was wearing acid-proof work boots with her green uniform skirt and blouse. ‘Ta!’ I said and began shouldering my way into the press of hot bodies, pursuing Spider towards the front of the carriage.
My fellow passengers parted before me like the Red Sea. And with good reason. My grime-streaked shirt-tails were hanging out. I was clutching my throbbing right shoulder with a swollen red hand. My half-healed ear had started bleeding again. I was panting heavily. And an aromatic wet patch extended down my trouser leg from crotch to knee. Apart from everything else that had happened in the preceding twenty minutes, I had evidently contrived to piss myself.
Spider had got as far as the front window. He was squeezed between a couple of strap-hanging white-collar types, doing his best to pretend he didn’t know me. ‘Piss off,’ he hissed, squaring his glasses on the bridge of his nose, smoothing his hair and twiddling his jewellery. I pushed myself right up against him. The salary-men cringed back and averted their eyes. ‘Persistent bastard, aren’t you?’ Spider muttered, craning over the heads of the seated passengers, monitoring the passing cars on the road outside.
‘You’d better believe it,’ I warned. ‘And until I get some answers, I’m sticking to you like shit to a blanket.’
Spider shrank back, but he started talking. ‘Eastlake’s been tickling the till,’ he said. ‘He syphoned Obelisk Trust funds into his own account and used them to play the stock market. It worked okay for a while. But when the crash happened in October ’87 he lost the lot. Ever since then, he’s been running a round-robin, paying Obelisk depositors their dividends out of their own capital. Karlcraft Developments was his only hope for a big win, a way to cover his losses. He lent the project every penny he could raise. As long as Karlin stayed afloat, he had a chance of survival. Now that Karlin’s folded, the whole Obelisk house of cards will fall over. Eastlake’s looking not only at personal financial ruin but prison time for fraud.’
‘He’s also been selling forged art,’ I said, not to be entirely outdone. ‘He’s been using a front called Austral Fine Art.’ The guy had just tried to kill me, so I was keen to sink the boot in.
Spider pushed my head aside, tracking a stream of passing cars. ‘We know all about Austral,’ he said. ‘That’s why we suspect he killed Taylor.’
Spider’s metamorphosis was happening a bit fast for me. ‘What do you mean “we”? Who’s “we”?’
The tram was hurtling down St Kilda Road at a steady clip, approaching the war memorial. The greenery of the parkland raced along beside us. It wasn’t the only thing. As we slowed to disgorge passengers one stop short of the turn into Domain Road, a blue Mercedes sped by, a grim-faced Lloyd Eastlake at the wheel. Spider began elbowing his way to the door, me right behind him. The conductor blocked our way. ‘Fez please.’
I fumbled in my pocket. Spider pulled out a wallet and flipped it in her face. She was looking at it sceptically when I reached past and dumped a fistful of change in her palm. ‘Two all-day travel cards, please,’ I said. The tram rounded the corner and accelerated up the slight incline of Domain Road. As the connie punched our tickets, I reached up and jerked the communication cord. The tram’s clicketty-clack crescendo reached its peak and it began to decelerate. The door slid open.
Eastlake’s Mercedes was pulled up on the park side of the road. It was empty, its boot open. Spider hit the bitumen running. Me too.
I ran around the back of the tram and narrowly beat a stream of oncoming traffic to the footpath in front of Lambert’s block of flats. When I looked back, Spider was still on the far side of the road. He’d thrown open the Merc’s driver-side door and was reaching across to the glove compartment.
Fiona Lambert was not a nice person. But if Eastlake did anything violent to her, it would be because of what I’d told him. I turned and started into the flats, almost colliding with the old chook with the schnauzer. ‘Well I never!’ she exclaimed, clutching the hapless pooch to her bosom.
‘Me neither,’ I said, and started running up the stairs.
The door of Fiona Lambert’s flat sat carelessly half-open. Behind it, bananas were being gone in no uncertain terms. The sound was coming from the direction of the bedroom. ‘Bitch!’ Eastlake’s voice was shrill with indignation. ‘To think that I killed for you.’
The spare key was in the lock. Fiona Lambert’s security consciousness was appalling. ‘You’re crazy,’ she was saying, over and over, sounding very convincing.
I was all ears, panting, imagining the scenario, figuring the options. Shivers were running up and down my spine. Eastlake had a lead of, what, five minutes. Time enough to burst in, launch into a truth and consequences
