Bleeding Hearts. Lindy Cameron
Читать онлайн книгу.
kitchen bench.
"I've been working, sweetie. Where do you think I've been," Kit replied.
"Hello Thistle, you gorgeous thing you," Hector cooed, offering his cheek for a special cat kiss. Thistle obliged, and then showed him her bottom.
"Do you want..." Kit began, as she opened the fridge. Finding it empty, still, she hesitated then looked at the carton in her hand before continuing, "...a glass of milk? Or how about a coffee?"
"Coffee'd be fine. Ta," Hector replied. He put everything Kit had given him on the island bench and then propped himself on one of the stools. "Um, do you ever buy any food, O'Malley?"
"Of course I do," Kit sighed, as she turned on the kettle and grabbed two mugs and the coffee jar from the shelf. "It just so happens that I've eaten out nearly every night since I took on that Traders' Action Group stuff. Those restaurant people, well Adrienne mostly, just kept feeding me."
"What about breakfast?"
"Toast and vegemite, like every good sheila. What do you care, anyway?"
"It's just that I don't want you passing out from hunger when we're out on a stakeout or something together," Hector smiled, pulling the rubber band from his ponytail. He shook his head and ran his fingers through his shoulder-length brown hair.
"Stakeout or something," Kit repeated. "In your dreams, mate."
"But you said..." Hector began. "Are you in a bad mood today?"
"Not especially, why?" she asked, giving him her best perplexed look.
"Just checking," Hector said. "You said, on the phone last night, that you wanted to talk about making my detective aspirations a reality."
"I did?" Kit passed him a cup of coffee.
"Yes, O'Malley," Hector insisted.
"I can't imagine why I would have said that," Kit frowned. "Oh, hang on... delusions. I think 'delusions' was the word I used."
Hector pulled a face. "Whatever! You're a real tease, O'Malley."
"Don't I know it, darling," she grinned, doing a limp-wristed queen-without-the-scream. "But, face it I must: I just can't resist your baby blues."
"Oh yeah. In my dreams again," Hector declared and then looked profoundly embarrassed.
Kit most definitely did not want to know what he meant by that, so a nanosecond was all it took for her to register the words and then turn, casually, to the fridge. She put the milk away.
"OK. What I meant was that we should have some kind of arrangement about the work you've already been doing for me." She turned back to face him. "You know, a commission deal. No, that's not the right word."
"Oh," Hector said, as if he'd had a revelation. "You mean you're going to pay me?"
"Yeah," Kit grinned. "I was thinking of making you an official employee."
"I dunno, O'Malley. I'd have to pay more tax then," Hector mused. "Is there going to be enough stuff to make that a thing worth doing?"
"To be honest, I've no idea," Kit shrugged. "At the moment I can afford to pay you and there is stuff I need sussed out. OK, how about we unofficially make you my official employee. I will fix you up, by the job, for what you do."
"Sounds cool."
"That means, Hector, that you can't work for anyone else - doing this I mean. And you don't advertise the fact that you do do this for me. OK?"
"Fine by me," Hector smiled.
"So the answering machine message gets changed. Yeah?"
"Already done." Hector flashed a thumbs-up. "Um, does that definitely mean no stakeouts?"
"Technically yes, because you are not a licensed PI," Kit said. "But, who knows? Sometimes I may like some company."
"Ace!"
"Yeah, groovy," Kit grinned. "Now, why are you here?" She picked up her coffee, her mail and the bag of books.
"Oh. I found out the wanker's real name, birth date and the place he popped out."
"Already?" Kit motioned to him to follow her into the lounge room.
"It was easy," Hector said. "Even you could have done it."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
Hector placed his mug on the coffee table, dropped into the couch and patted his knee. Kit watched in amazement as Thistle, the tart, leapt off the bench and bounded onto his lap, giving full throttle to her vocal impersonation of a Yamaha motorbike.
Kit shook her head. "Darian Wanker?" she prompted. "I mean Renault."
"He's 34 years old, not 28. He was born in Newcastle, the one 'upon-Tyne' in England not the one in New South Wales. His parents, Mr and Mrs Ferguson, brought him out here when he was four after christening him Todd Ambrose Phillip."
"I knew it," Kit pronounced. "Not that that proves anything else."
"I am still digging," Hector assured her.
"This might help. Or not," Kit said, removing a paperback from the paper bag. "I bought you a copy of Shoot. Let me know what you think. Then, depending on what else you find out, we may do a little job together."
"Like a real 'together' job?" Hector grinned broadly.
"Yep. But don't tell anyone."
Hector drew his finger across his lips. "Sealed," he said. "Why are you into this guy, anyway?"
"For fun," Kit said. "And for choosing such a pretentious name; which, I am aware, does not mean he's a complete fraud."
"No. He might have just hated his real name," Hector suggested.
"That happens," Kit agreed, thinking of Tori Horney.
"Yeah, and I should know."
"What? You've got a problem with your name?"
"Hector?" he sneered. "Are you kidding?"
"What's wrong with Hector?" Kit asked.
"It's um," he said, staring at his wiggling fingers as if they might conjure the words he was looking for. "It's a geriatric or a dweeb's name. It's the name of an unattractive poncy old git."
"You're kidding, right?" Kit tried her best to look only mildly flabbergasted. "Hector is an heroic and honourable name," she said.
The reasonably good-looking young git in front of her looked, a: like he thought Kit was humouring and patronising him; and b: like he'd never believe another word she said.
"Oh yeah, sure O'Malley," he agreed mockingly, and then deepened his voice. "Meet Conan's little brother: Hector - the Herbivorean."
"No," Kit said, with a definite 'der' tone in her laugh. "Hector, tamer of horses."
"Who what?"
"Aagh, you young people," Kit exclaimed in a crone's voice, as she headed over to the wall of shelves at the other end of the room behind the dining table. She scanned the shelves and then dragged a chair over, stood on it and pulled out a paperback from the third top shelf. Reseating herself on the couch she handed the copy of The Iliad to Hector the younger.
"Jesus! This book's older than I am," he snorted.
"Read it. You'll love it," Kit smiled.
"But..."
"No buts. It's got everything: gods, goddesses, warriors, chariots, and lots of blood-and-guts fighting with swords, spears and other pointy things," Kit enthused. "There's Odysseus, the great strategist; brave but sulky Achilles and his boyfriend; Helen, with the ship-launching face; and, most importantly for you, there's Hector, Prince of Troy and tamer of horses."
"But O'Malley," Hector interrupted, holding Shoot