Sharp Turn - Marianne Delacourt [53]
Johnny Viaspa stood silhouetted against the light, hair untied and loose around his shoulders. An overweight retriever sniffed around his feet.
I could smell his sulphurous aura even from across the yard and it brought back memories of his viciousness that got me shivering. I held my breath, praying he didn’t come outside. Thankfully, he shoved the retriever out with his foot, and shut the door again.
This action also had its pros and cons. On the positive side, I got a better look at the car, the numberplate and the Hertz rental sticker on the front window. On the down side, the dog was now sniffing along the bottom of the wall, looking for a good spot to do its business.
I waited until it started to dig, then wriggled the last section along the wall, trying to ignore the brick-burn on my stomach.
The dog looked up and growled.
I swiped for the iron upright, overstretched and missed it. The momentum caught me and I started to fall. A last desperate lunge brought me in contact with the gate. The next sensation should have been the smack of my face meeting the pavement but a rough jerk brought me up short. My tee-shirt had hooked on the crown-tip of one of the iron poles.
I was hanging from the gate, staring out to the street.
Thank God it was 3.30 am.
The dog growled again and began tugging at the back of my jeans. It could smell the muesli bar I had crumpled in my back pocket. I prised it out and threw it to the dog. Then I swung my feet forward and fumbled in my front pocket for my phone to speed dial Bok. It went to message bank.
I couldn’t ring Ed – not after the Wal sleep-tackling episode.
Smitty couldn’t shift my weight.
Wal might be able to help out, but he was protecting Bolo, and I didn’t want my most lucrative client yet seeing me in this situation.
That left only one alternative – Tozzi.
He answered in a few rings with only a slight croak in his throat. ‘Tar-ah?’
‘Nick,’ I whispered. ‘I’ve got a problem.’
Chapter 17
‘WHAT’S GOING ON?’ Tozzi said.
‘I’m stuck on the front gate at Viaspa’s place.’
‘Stuck?’
‘Hanging. I fell off the wall and the iron post has hooked up my pyjamas.’
‘Your pyjamas? What the –’ ‘Please. Come and help me off before someone sees me. The dog’s been let out to pee.’
If it hadn’t been Johnny Viaspa’s place, Tozzi might have laughed at me, possibly even told me it served me right. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. Do you have any protection?’
‘Only my olive oil spray,’ I whispered.
‘What are you planning to do with that? Cook them?’ His voice was muffled.
‘I couldn’t afford pepper spray,’ I snapped. ‘Olive oil in the eye makes everything blurry.’
‘Listen. If they find you, start screaming. Better the neighbours hear and come out to see than you ending up at the bottom of the Swan in concrete boots.’
‘Please hurry.’
He hung up.
The dog growled again and gave a short bark. It was up on its front paws, dangerously close to my butt, like it was building up to bite right through my butt cheek. I wiggled one way and then the other, trying to get out of reach. But that got it antsy and it gave a loud yip.
‘Shhhh, doggy,’ I said.
The only other consumable thing around – other than me – was the olive oil.
Keeping my legs out of reach, I unscrewed the nozzle and reached behind me to drip some out. The yip stopped in favour of a snuffle and some noisy licking at my ankles.
I kept the drip, drip going until a pair of headlights turned onto the street and drove past.
Please let it be Nick. Please let it be Nick.
Finally, I caught a break. Tozzi parked the Lambo out of sight of the gate and came back for me. He tossed something over the fence.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘Dog biscuits.’
In a matter of a few seconds, he’d lifted me bodily off the two-and-a-half metre high pole. Not many men could do that. I weigh eighty kilos for a start. But Tozzi’s a two-metre giant who once played in the