Defending Pacer - Hamilton T. J. (читать книги онлайн бесплатно без сокращение бесплатно txt) 📗

We walk straight past her terrace and she doesn’t stop.

Predictable.

I follow in her little charade, and cross the street with her. I’m definitely watching her tonight. All my movements will be monitored from tomorrow so this is one of the last opportunities that I get to just see her, undetected. The rest of my work can wait until the morning.

“Well, this is me,” she says at the apartment block across the road from her terrace.

“See? It wasn’t that far to walk after all.” I smile.

She giggles. She must think I’m an idiot.

I lean in to kiss her on either cheek. Her nose collides awkwardly with mine as I kiss her on the other side.

Smiling, I let go of her arm and just watch, waiting for her to go inside. She stares back, but her drunken glaze looks straight past me.

She blows out a puff of air, “Okay. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Another moment passes as she waits for me to move. But I don’t.

“Alright, so I’m actually across the street. Just wanted to see if you knew.”

I puff on my cigar. She really didn’t think this through. I nod once.

She doesn’t need any more than that. A nod will do.

“Nice terrace. Is it yours?”

“Pffffft. No. It’s part of my family’s estate. I think my great-grandma owned it. I couldn’t afford a terrace like this here. I’d be struggling to own an apartment in that building across the road.” She laughs.

It’s such bullshit, but I like her attitude. She’s got old money, but she’s still down to earth. That’s a rare quality from someone who grew up around here.

“You must be on a pretty penny, doing what you do.”

She shrugs. “It’s all right. But why spend it if I don’t have to? Wasting a few million dollars on a terrace in the city is not on my list of priorities. Not when I can save it to buy what I really want later in life, once I’ve settled down.”

“Settled down?” I laugh, “Girls like you never settle down.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean girls with careers like yours. You’ll never walk away from it. You can’t. It’s in your blood.”

She stares into the distance again, but this time her cogs are ticking.

“Bit like being in a gang, really.”

Touche.

She smiles and opens the little iron gate to her terrace. Unlocking her front door, she turns. “Thanks for walking me home.”

“Anytime.” I stand on the footpath, continue smoking my cigar and watch her as she closes the door.

The lights flick on inside and I turn and walk back along from where I just came. I don’t want to turn back and look, but I know she’s checking to see where I go.

***

Two hours later, I make my way from Uncle Carlo’s to watch Chelsea for just a bit longer. I left through the hidden doorway that leads out of the back entrance of a restaurant, six doors up. We use it all the time if we think the dogs are on our tail again, and I’m still hot until I get this shit strapped to me tomorrow.

I get to her terrace and she’s left her curtains slightly open again. She should be more careful. You never know who’s out in the street, watching. My cousin’s BMW unlocks in front of me. I get into the backseat and get myself comfortable again. The binoculars are right where I left them in the pocket of the seat in front of me.

I’m going to have to think of another way to watch her. I’m not going to be able to park a different car here each week, like I had planned. She wondered why I got pissed off about having the fucking ankle bracelet. This is why. It fucks up something that was working just nicely.

I look over at the apartment block, and wonder if I should buy one of the apartments that face her terrace? She might not have the spare millions like she says, but I do. To me, this wouldn’t be a waste. This is definitely an investment—an investment in this interesting creature.

The problem is staying there. No matter how many of these buildings I buy, they will always know where I am.

There’s only one solution. She will just have to come to me.

CHAPTER FIVE

Groggy, heavy eyelids … struggle to open. Fuck Pacer’s red wine voodoo yesterday. Holding my head and moaning, I stumble my way to the shower, bouncing off the walls along the way like a Hollywood zombie in a Brad Pitt movie.

I had to drink yesterday. Yes I did. It was necessary! It was the only way to loosen up, and not be so fixated on Pacer. Running over the sequence of events from the afternoon, I pray I didn’t say anything that sounded too much like a teenage girl with a crush on her idol, because that’s what this feels like. It’s bullshit! I’ve worked so hard to get to the position I’m in, and now I feel totally out of control with it.

Finally making it to the bathroom, I grip onto the porcelain of the vanity sink and slowly raise my head, daring to look at myself in the mirror.

“You are a mess, girl.”

I have one job to do, and that’s keep Pacer Fratelli out of prison. That’s right; keep saying his full name. It keeps it professional. Because … “Heez aaaay cl-iiiii-ent,” I groan.

I sound like a puppet from Sesame Street.

He’s a client. He’s a client.

Repeating those words over and over, I turn the shower on, ready to wash away the layer of Fratelli filth that’s come to a rest on my skin.

It takes me a little longer to function this morning. Washing and blow-drying my hair, then meticulously smoothing it all back into a bun, feels as if it’s done in slow motion.

A coffee from Lou’s will fix everything. It always does.

The twenty-minute walk to work starts just as slowly. I still have two hours before I meet with Pacer, so this morning can be slow for once. I might even try and eat a bacon and egg roll at Lou’s, to absorb the alcohol still remaining in my system.

“Chelsea, you look a bit rough this morning, love. You got a fella keeping you up all night or somthin’?” A toothless smile greets me just before I get to my favourite coffee shop.

“Hi Larry. No, no man in my life. I’m still waiting for you, remember?”

Larry, one of my many homeless friends in the neighbourhood, laughs loudly. I take a step sideways, trying to avoid the spit that usually flies from his mouth whenever he laughs. I really don’t need that this morning.

“Better clean me act up then, aye?” he bellows as I walk into the coffee shop.

“I’ll be back with your roll. I just need to get some caffeine into me before I die. Where’s Don and Mick?”

“They’re comin’. Just had to get their dose the s’mornin’.”

Dose. Done. Methadone. There are a few names for the program that helps with the majority of the homeless people’s addiction to heroine. Most of them are on it. There are a few, like Larry, who aren’t addicts, but he’s got a whole barrel of mental health issues to deal with instead. Until our government and the medical departments decide to do something about both the drug and mental health issues of our nation, we’ll always have this problem in the city. The methadone program is an out-dated way to fix heroine addiction, and most of the users stay on it longer than they were on heroine. It’s not until you scratch the surface of a city like Sydney that you see where the real issues are.

The screeching sound of milk being heated is almost unbearable this morning.

“Morning, Chels.” Tahnee, daughter of the shop’s owner strains her voice so that she can be heard over the milk, “The bacon rolls are just being made for the boys.”

“Could you make an extra one for me, please?”

“Big night?” She winks.

What’s with everyone thinking I’ve been fucking someone all night? Do they all know how long it’s been too?

I shrug off the suggestion. “Just work.”