Bleeding Hearts. Lindy Cameron

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      "Friend of yours?" Erin asked, as she, Kit and Del watched Brigit clear the way to the front door for Simmons and his charge. They took a detour via Miranda and escorted her outside as well.

      "Ex-colleague," Kit replied. "Simmo's actually one of the force's finest. He just can't dress himself," she added, shaking her head in ongoing disbelief.

      Erin glanced at her watch, then scowled at the crowd. "I dunno," she said softly. "What's the world coming to when you can't even trust a snitch to turn up for some money?"

      "Is that why you're here?" Kit asked.

      "Yeah. That's also why I'm wearing purple sneakers," Erin stated. "I trust, my dear, that you did not think this was a fashion statement. Nor that I came here to have my artistic tastes challenged, or to be picked up by men half my size."

      "Of course not, " Kit lied.

      "Who would know, in this company?" Del asked, waving her arm about. "About the fashions, I mean."

      "True," Erin said. "But these," she waggled one foot, "were specifically requested by my new and mysterious informant as a condition of us meeting face to face. The jerk is an hour late and I feel ridiculous, so if he turns up now I shall probably shove these shoes up his bottom."

      "What was he going to inform you about?" Kit asked. "Or can't you tell us?"

      Erin hesitated for only a second, said 'shit' and then laughed. "I wish, like yours, my situation was a 'need to know' kind of thing," she added. "But, as I don't know the situation or the guy - hence the variation on the red carnation in the lapel thing - and he is, so far, fifty per cent unreliable, I don't mind telling you that he was going to tell me about the cow shit I mentioned earlier. Actually, I suspect he is Mercury, but seeing as how he hasn't turned up I may never know."

      "Mercury?" Kit asked.

      "The disgruntled doodoo-delivering ratepayer," Erin smiled. "For some reason, known only to himself, he calls himself 'Mercury'. My so-called informant, who may or may not be Mercury, rang for the first time on Wednesday and told me that 'shit was going down at Cr Higgins' joint' - literally; which is how we got the photo opportunity. Jack himself certainly wouldn't have wanted anyone to know about it. When Mr Deep-Throat-He-Ain't rang again this morning, saying he had info on Mercury's next offensive, I asked to meet him. So here I am, and he isn't."

      "Maybe he was Stuart," Kit suggested. "Or should that be: maybe Stuart was he?" Kit looked questioningly at Del. "Him?"

      "Don't look at me," Del said. "I've only just worked out what split infinitives really are, and why we shouldn't get our nickers in a twist over them."

      "I don't think so," Erin was saying emphatically. "Stuart was definitely working his way around, very bloody tediously I might add, to the subject of human fluid exchange - his and mine. He was not here to discuss bovine dung delivery schedules."

      "Well, that is a perfect note on which to take my leave," Kit announced. "I think I've had more than enough excitement for one night."

      "It's only a little after ten," Erin stated.

      "That's probably true," Kit nodded. "But if I go home now, I might be able to take my muse by surprise. If I can coax it out of the microwave, or wherever it's hiding, I might just get some writing done tonight."

      "So you are still working on your book." Del sounded pleased.

      "Yeah," Kit shrugged. "I are, in between not."

      "Not what?"

      "Not writing," Kit replied.

      "What are you not writing?" Erin asked, looking only slightly confused.

      "I'm not writing a detective novel," Kit said. "I'm up to chapter nine."

      "That's great news Kit, really," Del said, raising her voice over the band, which had just started up a very loud and rambunctious blues number. "I thought you might have given up on it, seeing there was all that real lust and love, not to mention mystery, in the air."

      Kit shrugged.

      "Hair? Whose hair?" Erin queried. "What?"

      "Mine," Kit shouted. "I've got mysterious lust in my hair, but I do not wish to talk about it."

      "How about tomorrow arvo, after the lust returns home?" Del raised her eyebrows suggestively.

      "Are you making sense?" Erin asked.

      "Not really," Kit admitted.

      "Seldom," Del stated.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      Boardwalk was the latest thing in cool soaps: a cross between the classic trashiness of Number 96, from the good old days of Aussie-TV for-grown-ups, and the seemingly never-ending dilemmas of the occasionally topical Blue Heelers. It was a Melrose Place wannabe, without the underlying spite, in fact without the underlying cleverness, but with a marketable-as-a-CD-compilation soundtrack of homegrown music.

      The show was also controversial, and therefore top rating, and littered with the mandatory jumpcut shots of an exotic-looking city - a.k.a. Melbourne. Used only as scene-changers, because the show was filmed almost entirely in the Docklands studio lot, the location-montages were instantly recognisable to Melbournians, but were also non-specific enough to be any exotic-looking city anywhere in the world.

      Which proved, Kit thought, that any old city, especially one with a beach, could be made to look exotic if the cinematographer shoots the right shots: this St Kilda palm tree, that flash of boat-on-Port-Phillip-Bay, this vibrant cityscape-at-night reflected on that section of the Yarra River, any tram flashing by Luna Park, and just a glimpse of a rollicking Chinese dragon in Little Burke St - and all done with the camera on an angle and later synchronised to a really catchy tune.

      Boardwalk was also filled with young Australian 'stars of the future' as well as quite a few older actual actors. One of the stars who, according to Rebecca Jones, apparently had enough talent to be an actor - one day - was the reason why Kit was standing beside a catering van on the studio back lot, watching three blokes having a very unconvincing punch-up - for the seventh time.

      "Cut! That's bloody awful," yelled the man wearing the jacket that said 'Director'. "One more time guys, come on, and then we'll take a break for lunch - if you can get it right."

      Kit finished eating the best hot dog she'd ever had, as she watched the soapie-star with a future, Dylan Thomas (yes) raise his fists at the two thugs who had just insulted his 'girlfriend'. While she, the girlfriend, yelled "Hit them Cody" (again yes), he ducked and weaved and generally threw his weight around badly. If he'd been in a real fight, he'd have been decked several times over.

      "Cut!" the director growled again. "For Christ's sake Dylan, stop with the 'float like a butterfly' crap and take a swing. Try it again! Places, everybody."

      "Dylan is worried about actually connecting; them with him, I mean. He doesn't want to mess up his pretty face," someone said in Kit's ear, which startled her because a second before she'd been standing on her own. Kit turned to face Angela Collier, Boardwalk's PR person, who had just СКАЧАТЬ