Sharp Turn - Marianne Delacourt [7]
‘Someone who’s curious and . . . smart and . . .’
I straightened up. ‘And?’
‘Left field,’ he finished.
My smile turned to a scowl. ‘You mean like . . . flaky?’
He took a sip of his coffee to give himself thinking time. ‘What I mean is . . . someone with a fresh, unique perspective.’
I stared at him suspiciously. He was way too practised at tiptoeing around a woman’s sensitive spots. I sighed. Well, he was married.
‘And the deal is?’
‘He owns a motorbike racing team.’
‘Cool!’
Next to basketball and fast cars, fast motorbikes were the thing I loved the most. I wasn’t stupid enough (or wealthy enough) to own a bike, given my lead-foot tendencies, but I did know how to ride. It was the one useful thing my crazy, bike-obsessed cousin, Crack, had taught me. He owned thirteen bikes in various stages of rebuild and used to sleep on a mattress in amongst crankshafts and a pile of slicks.
‘Not so cool at the moment. He has a decent rider who’s on track for the Superbike Moto-GP class – but some things have been happening around the pits: little accidents, delays, parts getting mixed up and putting them behind on their maintenance schedule. Last week, their new tyre order went to Adelaide . . . twice. Somehow the paperwork got mixed up.’
‘Could just be a run of bad luck.’
‘My acquaintance thinks it’s meant to look like that – enough to be disruptive, but not enough to pinpoint.’
‘Does he have any ideas on who it might be? Or why they’re doing it?’
‘I think the “why” bit is simple. He’s got the final race for the season coming up on Sunday. Someone wants to stop him winning it. As for the rest . . . you’ll have to talk to Bolo.’
I watched Tozzi take the sugar sachets out of their holder and attempt to throw them back in one by one. Old hoopers never die; their rings just get lower.
‘Well?’ He stopped playing with the sugar and took another sip of his coffee.
It sounded okay and, frankly, Tara Sharp’s Paralanguage and Kinesics Agency was in the market for anything investigative that paid, on the basis that I needed to eat, put petrol in Mona and quit living in my parents’ garage. Anything except pretending that I worked for Madame Vine!
I’d met Tozzi on a job. He was the good guy, and I’d switched sides away from consulting for the baddies to try to help him save his business and his reputation. Tozzi kind of owed me, and he knew I wasn’t one to take unearned money. Finding this job was probably his way of saying thank you.
‘Did you discuss payment?’ I asked baldly. Some things weren’t worth beating around the bush about.
Tozzi’s caramel aura warmed a little. I’d noticed before that the mention of money did that.
‘I believe he’s offering fifty bucks an hour spent on the job. Or a retainer of two hundred a day for a week, plus expenses.’
‘Which would you take?’
‘Both can work for you. I prefer the by-the-hour rate, but then you’ve usually got to justify it with a lot more paperwork.’
He had a point. Paperwork and I were like oil and water.
‘How do I get in touch with him?’ I asked.
‘I’ll have Janelle get him to contact you.’
Janelle was Tozzi’s red-headed PA who had even more of a lead foot than I did.
‘Thanks.’
‘No problem.’
He gave me one of those mouth-watering grins that he doled out sparingly. When he smiled like that and his aura went liquid caramel, I seemed to lose my spine.
‘How’s Antonia?’ I asked, deliberately dampening his mood – and mine.
His aura blanched and a dark spot, which had been barely visible, enlarged. He frowned, opening his mouth to give me the usual fine-and-mind-your-own-business spiel. Then he seemed to change his mind. ‘Actually, she’s in rehab.’
‘Terrific!’ I said, feeling nothing of the sort. Tozzi’s wife had an A-plus cocaine habit and an even worse case of Material Girl. It was my secret wish that he’d ditch her and drive off with me (and the Reventon) into the sunset.
Nobody, NOBODY, knew about that particular fantasy, especially the man himself. I knew he found me attractive in an opposites-attract or a boy-you