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…
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.
'
'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.'
