Chapter 4

Michele blinked as the flash went off in her eyes.

"Ok; one more photo, and this time keep your eyes open for me luv ok?" the man behind the camera said.

Mike had done some research before he had ripped off Tony Leonardo and he had located a man named Harold Brown who could produce good quality counterfeit identity documents. Harold had agreed to provide Michele with a passport and a driver's licence in the name of 'Michele Nylons' using a fake address. Michele was having her picture taken so that the documents could be prepared and be ready in about five days as promised by Harold. Michele wanted to get out of the country as fast as she could.

"One hundred thousand now; the rest on delivery ok?" Michele said to Harold, handing him a thick envelope.

"No worries luv; see ya in few days," he winked at Michele.

Michele left Harold with the number of a pre-paid cell phone she had purchased the day before and let herself out and made her way out onto the streets of Kings Cross. She had been in Sydney for two days and was anxious to leave. Although she had no trouble fitting in with the eclectic and often bizarre inhabitants of Sydney's most disparate suburb, she had the feeling that Tony was hot on her trail.

She had spent most of the last two days in her hotel room, only venturing out at night to get something to eat and drink. Last night she had ventured into one of the many gaming parlours and dropped nearly a thousand dollars on the poker machines. Of course she could afford the money, but she was concerned that her gambling addiction was returning. She had rationalised playing the slot machines as a form of amusement that did not involve interacting with others; but she was smart enough to know a rationalisation from the truth.

She stopped at a liquor store and bought a bottle of scotch and two packets of cigarettes and then headed back to the Crest hotel vowing that tonight she would only go out for a meal and would stay clear of the gaming rooms.

Steve had lost Michele's trail at Central Station and by the time he got there, the XPT had been at the platform for over four hours and Michele was long gone. A porter told him that he had seen a woman matching Michele's description get into a taxi. Steve had been unable to locate the taxi driver but he had one of his contacts working through all of the taxi companies' computer systems looking for taxis leaving Central Station around that time. The problem was there were hundreds of them.

He had prowled the streets for a while, but Sydney was a huge city and it was hard to know where to start; besides she might have moved on already, but there was still no signs of activity on Mike Harris's credit cards and if his passport or other identity documents had been used to hire a car or purchase a plane ticket he would have known about it immediately.

Steve was sitting in the hotel lobby drinking a cup of coffee when a brainstorm hit him. How could he be so stupid? Mike couldn't use any of his identity documents without triggering off any number of alerts so he would need to get new ones. But now that Mike was getting around as a transvestite would he get male or female identity documents; or would he perhaps get a set of each?

It didn't matter; Steve now had a lead. He went back to his hotel room and started working the phones and fired off a string of emails. By late afternoon he had list of forgers and counterfeiters who worked out of Sydney. Working methodically through the list, it took him three days before he knocked on the apartment door of Mr Harold Brown. Steve introduced himself at the door and explained that he was working for Tony Leonardo.

Harold let Steve into his apartment with trepidation; he'd never met Steve Marshall before, but he knew his reputation. He offered him a drink and they both sat down and lit cigarettes and sipped at their beers.

"So how's business?" Steve smiled at Harold; the sort of smile a crocodile gives a wallaby.

"Well you know; so-so," Harold replied.

"What can I do for you?"

Steve had enlarged the best frame out of the video stream that had been taken of Michele getting into her car at the service station outside of Wodonga by the surveillance camera and had printed off a few copies. He slid one across the coffee table to Harold and watched his face intently for any expression of recognition.

Harold had been in the game too long to give away any facial expressions and he kept a poker face as he picked up the print and looked at it intently. He recognised Michele immediately and although he had not asked Michele anything about who she really was or why a transvestite would want counterfeit identity documents; he knew that if Steve Marshall was after her she was in serious trouble.

"Who is she?" he asked.

Steve stared at Harold for about thirty seconds, holding him in a steely gaze before taking a sip of his beer and answering.

"Doesn't matter mate; have you seen her?"

"Nah; nice looking woman though. Bit heavy on the makeup if you ask me; but if you like that sort of thing?" Harold left the question hanging.

"What sort of thing?" Steve inquired.

"Never mind; sorry I can't be of assistance," Harold said.

"What about this guy?" Steve asked, sliding a picture of Mike Harris across the table.

Harold picked up the picture and looked at it briefly.

"Nah; ain't seen him either."

Steve stood up and stretched but made no indication that he was leaving.

"Can I use your shit-house?" he asked.

"Sure down the hall; second door on the right," Harold said, smiling.

When Steve went into the toilet Harold began frantically searching for the telephone number that Michele had left with him. Steve ducked out of the toilet and went into Harold's studio and began searching through the documents Harold had left out on a desk. Meanwhile Harold had found the card with Michele's phone number on it and was punching the number into his mobile phone when Steve returned, pointing an evil looking small calibre pistol at him and holding up Michele's passport and driver's licence with his other hand. Harold turned off the phone and put it down on the table and raised his hands.

"She's a tranny; nice sort. A bit big; but she carries it off; you know," Harold said matter of factly.

"Her mobile number's on that card there; don't know where she's staying though."

Steve held up the passport and drivers licence for Michele Nylons.

"You made these for her?"

"Yeah; I just have to rough em up a bit; you know, make them look used, not new."

"I was going to call her tomorrow to tell her to pick them up." Harold saw no point in lying now that his life depended on his answers.

"We can do this two ways Harold; you help me and I let you go; or you can fuck me around and I kill you." Steve pointed the pistol at Harold's head.

Harold nodded his compliance.

"Ok; you get the fuck out of town, take a holiday in Bali; go get a t-shirt or whatever. I don't care; but you get the fuck out of town tonight and you stay away for a week. If you try to contact or warn her I'll find you and cut yer nuts off and feed them to you! Deal?"

"Well Mister Marshall you seem to be under the misunderstanding that I give a fuck about this tranny; please get out of my way; I need to pack for a plane flight I'm taking tonight," Harold smiled.

"I like a man who knows what's best for him; have a nice trip Harold." Steve smiled back and put away the pistol.

He picked up the card with Michele's phone number written on it, put the passport and driver's licence in his jacket pocket and let himself out.

Steve sat in his hotel room looking at Michele's passport and driver's licence. He glanced over at the bedside table where Michele's pantyhose lay in a tangled heap. They were now a sperm encrusted mess; he had been unable to control himself and had been masturbating into them for days and smelling the perfume she had left on them whilst he watched the video stream of her flashing her legs and panties. He wouldn't wash them because he wanted to keep her fragrance on the pantyhose.

He started to harden as a plan formulated in his mind; he smiled to himself and then flipped up the screen on his laptop and reached for the nylons again as he opened his flies.

Michele's mobile phone rang.

"I have your passport and driver's licence," a voice said when she answered.

"Who is this?" Michele answered immediately suspicious.

"I'm a friend of Harold's; he had to get out of town in a hurry and he gave me your passport and driver's licence and your phone number," Steve said, not really lying.

"How do I know you're not setting me up?" she answered.

"Easy luv; here's how we do this, you decide where and when we meet and I will be there. You can control the meeting; all I want is the money that you owe Harold."

Michele thought about it for a few seconds and then she responded.

"Crest hotel; ten o'clock tonight; call me when you're in the lobby and I'll give you my room number."

At precisely ten o'clock that night Michele's phone rang and she gave her room number to Steve Marshall and waited nervously for him to come up to her room.

She had hatched a plan earlier in the afternoon and had then gone out shopping. She was now dressed in the clothes that she had purchased during the afternoon. She wore a bright-red leather miniskirt, a white satin blouse and four-inch, bright-red, open toe, high heels. Underneath she wore a black satin and lace Basque with attached suspender straps and see-through white nylon panties. She wore lashings of makeup, jewellery and perfume and a black bob wig; she completed the ensemble with black, fifteen-denier, fully-fashioned seamed stockings.