Claire McNab: Kookaburra Gambit

I looked around. The room wasn't all that large, but it was crammed with people dancing. Around the sides other patrons perched at rickety tables and shouted conversations at each other. Built into one wall was a bar, crowded with individuals fighting each other to get to the front so they could catch the eye of the lone barman.

With an earsplitting crescendo, the band ended what had to be a song, although I hadn't recognized any melody to speak of or made out a single word. People clapped and called out approvingly, possibly because the racket had stopped. In the comparative quiet, I realized my ears were ringing. "Loud, aren't they?" I said to Chantelle.

"Makes up for talent," she said. "Look, there's Quip."

Quip glanced our way at the same time and beckoned eagerly for us to join him at his little table. We had to make our way around the perimeter, as the sound system had started blasting out a dancing beat, galvanizing those hanging around on the floor into frenzied action again.

I like dancing. Not the sort I learned at Madame Syke's Ballroom Dancing Academy when I was attending Wollegudgerie High. At that time my main claim to fame was how consistently I mashed my partner's toes. What I really liked was the fling-yourself-around type of dancing, where partners are optional. Although, when I thought of it, I'd had some awfully nice slow dances with Raylene…

Don't go there, I said to myself, feeling the dismals coming on. Fortunately the dance track drowned out my words.

When we finally got to Quip, he leapt up and gave each of us a hug. He really was the nicest bloke. I was sure I wasn't the first to wonder how he ever got himself married to Fran. Apart from the fact that he was clearly so totally gay, how someone with such a sunny nature could put up with Fran's bleak view of the world was a bit of a puzzle.

Quip wasn't his real name, though I wouldn't have been surprised if it had been. I'd come across some very strange monikers since I'd hit L.A… Melodie had explained to me that Quip believed "Quip Trent" on the front page of a script promised more than "Bruce Trent." He could be right. I've never liked the name Bruce, although that may be because of my revolting cousin Brucie.

"Kylie! How's it going?" Quip asked, grabbing two chairs from a table next to us someone had momentarily deserted.

"Pretty good," I said. "I've got my first case."

Quip squeezed the chairs between the wall and the table, which I saw was fastened to the floor so it couldn't be moved. Chantelle and I managed to wriggle onto our seats, although everything was so crammed together, you had to practically breathe sideways to get any air.

"Where's Fran?" I asked, raising my voice to be heard above the din.

Quip pointed at the mass of people dancing. "In there, somewhere."

I caught sight of Fran almost immediately. "She's a ripper dancer, isn't she?" I said, astonished. Somehow the thought of Fran being expert in this area had never occurred to me. But then, why would it? She was anything but light-footed around the office.

"I can't keep up with her," said Quip, grinning as he watched Fran gyrate by us. "That gal was born to dance." He switched his attention to Chantelle and me. "What do you want to drink?"

Given the crush at the bar, I don't know how he did it, but a few minutes later Quip was back with beers for all of us, and one for Fran, when she eventually made it back to the table.

We clinked cans and glugged a mouthful or two. It felt good. Carrying on a shouted conversation had made me thirsty.

"Fran told me about your very first clients," Quip said to me. "Twins, aren't they? I don't remember their names."

"Alf and Chicka Hartnidge," announced Chantelle with the satisfied smile of one who has access to sources of information denied to many. I hadn't told her a thing yet about the Hartnidges, but I knew who had.

Chantelle confirmed her source by saying, "Melodie has a date with Chicka tonight. Can't wait to hear about it." I had a bet with myself the receptionist network would be humming tomorrow.

She hadn't finished. Leaning forward to speak confidentially, which was ridiculous, because everyone had to yell to be heard, Chantelle said, "Would you believe it? The Hartnidge brothers have Marty-O as their agent. And he's got Lamb White committed to a movie deal."

"Oh, God," said Quip, his handsome face showing deep disgust. "You know what doing business with Lamb White means, don't you? That creep Brother Owen and his off-the-planet Church of Possibilities will get involved. That sucks."

"Who's Marty-O? Who's Brother Owen, and what is the Church of Possibilities?" I asked.

Quip and Chantelle looked at each other, then switched their combined stares to me.

" What ?" I said.

"You've never heard of Marty O. Ziema?"

"Not a sausage." From their expressions, they needed more. "I know nothing about him. Wouldn't know the bloke if I fell over him. Who is he?"

"Uber-agent," said Quip.

"Known throughout the biz as Marty-O," said Chantelle.

"Industry," said Quip.

Chantelle blinked at him.

"Those in the know," said Quip, "call it the industry, not the biz."

"Oh," said Chantelle. She seemed to be blushing. "I knew that."

Early the next morning, I was walking briskly home from Chantelle's apartment in West Hollywood. I'd planned this yesterday; I'd put a sports bag with shorts, a T-shirt, and running shoes in Chantelle's Jeep when she'd picked me up last night.

I'd discovered that even at the best of times, Chantelle was not what you'd call an early riser. Besides, this morning she'd be in a rush to get to her new job on time, so it was easier for me to get myself back to Kendall & Creeling. It wasn't that far, a couple of kilometers or so, but it was mostly uphill, so I was getting a good workout.

As I walked, I mused about Chantelle and me. Last night had been lovely. Chantelle was a warm and considerate lover, no strings attached, so at the moment I didn't have to worry where our relationship might go-I could just enjoy it.

So far we'd always ended up at her place, never mine. I used the excuse that her bed was king-size and so much more comfortable for two, but I knew that wasn't the real reason I never suggested we go back to my room at Kendall & Creeling.

That was it: Creeling.

Although technically I owned one percent more of the business than she did, in essence the building was home to Ariana Creeling's private eye company. Even when she wasn't there, Ariana was always present in some way, her personality palpable in her empty office. I just wouldn't be comfortable having Chantelle stay the night.

That got me wondering if I'd ever look at Ariana as just a person who happened to be my business partner. I couldn't imagine it would ever happen-not after that kiss.

How many different people had I kissed in my romantic career? Quite a few. Some of those kisses had been dynamite, some merely pleasant, some frankly yuck. I recalled sloppy kisses and cool kisses and swallow-your-tongue kisses and kisses that made my knees go weak…

And then there was Ariana.

One kiss, that's all we'd had, in a highly charged moment of danger. If I shut my eyes I could still feel her lips on mine, her arms around me. Not to be too fanciful, but that moment had been like being struck by lightning. So this is what it is, I remember thinking. This is the person. This is the connection I've been looking for my whole life.

Unfortunately, Ariana didn't share this earthshaking insight of mine. She'd backed off, apologized. A spur-of-the-moment kiss of little significance was the message. "I'm sure you'll agree," she'd said, quite kindly, "that close personal relationships in the workplace should be avoided. They just cause complications."