Claire McNab - Wombat Strategy

The doors shut with a well-mannered sigh. The walls here were mirrored too. I imagined many of Dave Deer's patients spent a good part of their lives fighting time's consequences with exercise, diets, and plastic surgery, so constant inspections in mirrors would be automatic. Not to be left out, I checked myself over. Dark hair: short, shiny. Face: the minimum makeup of powder and lipstick. Clothes: a plain, tailored blue dress. Jewelry: a watch and stud opal earrings.

The lift hissed open, DAVID DEER read the black lettering on the highly polished blue door facing me. Inside, someone had gone overboard with an Australian theme. The plush carpeting was the color of red earth; distinctive Aboriginal dot paintings were displayed on ocher walls; a didgeridoo at least two meters long was mounted on a stand; boomerangs somersaulted across a partition separating an alcove from the rest of the room.

There were two fish tanks, each dominating an entire wall. One was full of brightly colored fish. Tiny iridescent ones darted in little packs as larger, garish specimens swam lazily through columns of bubbles. A sign indicated these tropical fish were all natives of the Great Barrier Reef.

The second tank featured sharks, each small but deadly looking. They cruised with graceful menace.

"How may I help you?" The woman behind the rough-hewn slab that served as a desk had smooth dark skin, an elegant neck, and a pouting red mouth. A nameplate revealed her name to be Chantelle.

Someone coughed, and I realized there was a person in the alcove behind the screen.

"G'day. I'm Kylie Kendall. I'm here to see Noreen."

"Of course. You're Noreen's replacement while she's on vacation."

"That's about it," I said. "I'm here to get an idea of how things run." I directed a warm smile at her. "I've heard tell receptionists know everything that's going on in any business, so I reckon you'd be my go-to person."

Chantelle looked gratified. "It's true," she said in a near whisper, "but you'd be the first I've met who realizes it."

There was renewed coughing behind the screen, then the sound of a match flaring, followed by the unmistakable sigh as a smoker exhaled the first stream of smoke.

Chantelle's expression blended irritation and resignation. She clicked her tongue. "There's no smoking allowed in the building. State law." Even so, she made no move to rebuke the smoker.

"A celebrity?" I said, looking toward the dividing screen.

Chantelle's red lips formed themselves into a disapproving line. "Minor only. Major celebrities have their own private entrance."

"And the waiting room?" I indicated the row of chairs awaiting patients.

"Nonentities," she said, "but with money."

She pressed a button set into the surface of the polished slab. "I'll get Noreen to show you around."

After a moment a door, set so well into the wall behind Chantelle it was invisible, suddenly opened. A glossy blond wearing a tight pink dress and very high-heeled sandals appeared, smiling. "Kylie? Come this way." She had a soft, breathy, confiding voice. "I'm Noreen, Dr. Deer's personal assistant."

She took my arm. She only came up to my shoulder, even with her heels. She had blue eyes, a pale version of Ariana's. Her blond hair cascaded in curls down her back.

I said, "Fair dinkum, no offense, but there's an awful lot of blonds in L.A."

"Blonds have more fun," Noreen said, as though no one had ever said this before.

"That explains it, then."

She took me down a corridor, lushly carpeted. All I could hear was the faint hiss of air conditioning. "Every room is soundproofed," she said, "so primal screams cannot disturb other patients."

"Right-oh."

She patted my arm as though we'd been mates for yonks. "I'd show you Dr. Deer's room, but he has a patient with him at the moment."

"Where the fucking hell is Dave Bloody Deer?"

"Aw, shit!" said Noreen under her breath.

Jarrod Perkins, head lowered aggressively, had entered the hall behind us. He was dressed in the same clothes-jeans, T-shirt, and tweed jacket-he'd worn Saturday night.

"I've got a fucking bloody appointment," he snarled. "Where is the son of a bitch, eh?"

Hands fluttering, Noreen tottered on her high heels toward him. "Dr. Deer will be with you in a moment, Mr. Perkins. He wants you to know he has a medical emergency."

"Fuck that for a joke!" Perkins began striding toward us, his arms windmilling. "Get out of my way."

A man I recognized as the doorman materialized. "Anyone here own a Hummer? Yellow one? Parked in the handicapped zone in front of the building?"

Jarrod Perkins swung around. "That's mine. Forget about a bloody parking ticket. I never pay them anyway."

"It's not a parking ticket, sir."

"What then? The fucking bastards aren't trying to tow the rucking thing away, are they?"

"No, sir. Perhaps you'd like to come down. The police are here."

"What are the fucking police here for?"

"It's the Hummer, sir." He paused, and I swear I saw a smile flicker on his lips. "There appears to have been a bomb. Your Hummer's blown up. Completely destroyed."

Jarrod Perkins's misfortune spread through the office like wildfire. Noreen hurried off to find Dave Deer and give him the news, and I joined the mini-rush hastening downstairs to see the exploded Hummer.

Chantelle was on the phone. As I passed her desk I heard her say, "KNX? Have I got a hot news tip for you!"

Outside, quite a few people had already gathered to gaze at the wreck. Fred Mills was on the scene, running around like a chook with its head chopped off, his horrified gaze fixed on the smoking remains of the hulking Hummer. "Happened in a public place," he mumbled. "Not my responsibility. Not my responsibility at all."

Jarrod Perkins was standing by what was left of his vehicle, turning the air blue. One young cop was deadset to shut him up, but I saw an older one say something to him, and he backed off.

I could imagine Ariana saying dryly, "The privileges of celebrity status."

It was quite a scene: Perkins frothing at the mouth, a bunch of cops glaring around as if any minute now the guilty party would spring out of the rapidly collecting crowd and confess, fire engines arriving with sirens screaming. Overhead helicopters were buzzing like blowies scenting dead meat.

And there was the indescribable smell of burnt Hummer. The vehicle was a crumpled, once-yellow shell, its fat tires melted into the roadway. Vehicles parked behind and in front had sustained considerable damage. Broken glass littered the area, and across the road a car alarm had been set off by the blast and was he-hawing fit to bust.

I was having a gander when Dave Deer grabbed my arm, saying urgently, "Kylie, you've got a car?"

I pointed. "Down the street."

His fingers tightened until I gave a yelp. "The exit to our parking garage is blocked. I'm relying on you to get Perkins out of here before the media trucks arrive."

"He won't come with me. Take a look at him."

Hard to believe the bloke hadn't run out of steam: He was still spewing curses at the top of his voice.

"I'll handle Perkins. Start your car and get ready to get him out of here."

Dave Deer was as good as his word. Two minutes later he was bundling Perkins into the passenger seat.

"How'd you do that?" I asked, amazed. The director had even shut up.

"Half price on all future therapy." He looked up as a network TV truck roared up, closely followed by a second media vehicle. Cameras, reporters, and support staff spilled out at a run.

Deer slapped the roof of my car. "Get going!"

I set off sedately, even signaled that I was pulling out, not that anyone was looking. Everyone was hurrying to view the corpse of the Hummer, probably hoping there were other corpses too. Everyone except a lone parking cop, who was methodically writing tickets. I had the bizarre thought that when she worked her way up the row she'd give a ticket to the wrecked Hummer for being blown up while parked illegally in a handicapped zone.