How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery (23 page)

‘All right, Littledick, I’m giving you another chance to prove yourself. And this time there’ll be no room for error. Does she park her car behind the parole office?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do the windows of the parole office overlook the car park?’

Reuben hesitated. No point in lying – Frank could easily find out the truth.

‘No. The parole office is at the front of the building; there are financial planners at the back.’

‘Perfect. When’s your next appointment?’

‘Not next Tuesday, the one after. Three-thirty.’

Frank looked at Bomber.

‘I’ll check with me travel agent,’ Bomber said. ‘Should be okay though. I’ve got somewhere offshore I can hole up until the next ship sails.’

‘Good,’ Frank said. ‘You do the car while Littledick is smooching with Loose-Lips.’

‘That’s a bit risky, isn’t it?’ Reuben said. ‘An open car park in broad daylight?’

‘That’s where Plan B comes in,’ Bomber said.

‘Breakdown Bob, again?’

‘You never use the same get-up twice, mate. You should know that.’

‘Of course,’ Reuben said.

‘Different modus operandi,’ said Frank. He pronounced it ‘operandy.’ ‘You ring Bomber’s phone just before you go into the interview room – two rings, then hang up, that’s the signal. Bomber will be in the car park, he’ll unlock the car, plant the bomb under the driver’s seat and be gone in the space of a few minutes.’

‘What excuse are you going to have this time for breaking into her car?’ Reuben said.

‘Dan’s Detailing Service,’ Bomber said. ‘Leaves your car fresh as a daisy.’

‘Make sure you string the interview out for as long as possible,’ Frank said, ‘because while she’s talking to you she’s not going to her car for any reason. And if someone from the financial planners happens to look out the window and see Dan’s Detailing at her car, there’s no reason for them to think it’s not legit – they probably won’t even know whose car it is.’

The hooter sounded for half-time and the players straggled off the field, panting and red-faced.

‘Frank, you’re not on orange duty, are you?’ Bomber said.

Frank ignored him. ‘Are you both clear on your instructions?’

‘Yep,’ said Bomber. Reuben nodded.

Frank reached into his shorts pocket and pulled out two mobile phones. He handed them one each. ‘Not to be used until the day. Same deal – after the job’s done, wait for me to call then get rid of them.’

The players huddled in their respective teams, swigging on water as their coaches talked them up for the second half. A tall, lanky boy broke away and sauntered towards them. His restless eyes took in the group.

‘You made it, Dad,’ he said. ‘Were you watching?’

‘Of course I was,’ Frank said. ‘You were great.’

The boy looked down at his feet and kicked at a tuft of grass. ‘No I wasn’t, I was shit.’

‘We all have our off days, mate,’ Bomber said, ‘even your dad, believe it or not.’

‘Shut up,’ Frank said. Then, to the boy, ‘You did good, kid.’

The boy looked up at Frank from under his eyebrows.

‘Did you see the goal I kicked?’

‘Sure did, mate, it was a beauty!’

The boy’s head jerked up. His eyes blazed.

‘I didn’t score a goal. You’re so full of shit. Why do you even bother coming?’

He turned and strode back to his team, shoulders squared and head high.

‘Bloody kids,’ Frank muttered. ‘You give them the world and they’re still not happy.’

‘You got kids?’ Bomber asked Reuben.

Reuben shook his head.

‘I got five,’ he said.

‘Five!’ If it was hard to imagine Frank as a father, it was impossible to imagine Bomber in that role. ‘Where are they all?’

Bomber shrugged. ‘Dunno. Haven’t seen any of them for years. Five different mothers, I’ve lost track of them.’

Reuben tried not to look incredulous. Was Bomber having him on? It was hard enough believing that one woman had found him attractive enough to sleep with, but five? If he was using marijuana to seduce them, it must be powerful stuff.

Bomber grinned. ‘I had a hard time keeping it in my pants when I was a young fella.’

‘And you can fucking well keep it in your pants until this job is over,’ Frank said. ‘I need your mind on the job, not on your next piece of pussy.’

The whistle blew for the game to recommence. The players trailed back to the field. Shouts of encouragement echoed from the grandstand. Frank’s son looked pointedly away from the spectators and in a show of bravado, shadow-boxed a teammate back on to the field.

‘Gotta go and watch the star player,’ Frank said. ‘Remember, Littledick, keep her occupied for as long as you can. Have it off with her on the desk, if you have to.’

***

Holy fucking hell. How was he going to get Lucy out of this one alive?
A dozen ideas bounced around in his head as he rode home: ring her up and reschedule the appointment to play for time; tell Frank she was sick; had gone on holidays; had resigned even. But it would be easy enough for him to check if Reuben was telling the truth.

He had ten days to come up with something. Even if he could think of a way to foil Frank’s plan, he’d be furious at another failure and even more suspicious of Reuben. The only way out was to alert the police so they could set up surveillance and subvert the operation. But in the event they managed to do that without bungling it, there were so many other things that could go wrong. What if they arrested Bomber, being the man on the ground, but not Frank? What if Bomber refused to dob Frank in, and the police couldn’t find any evidence to link Frank with the operation? Even Reuben’s testimony was just his word against Frank’s, and both Frank and Bomber could deny having any contact with him. Frank at large and on the warpath seeking revenge didn’t bear thinking about. If it was a choice between his and Lucy’s death ...
Much as I adore you, Lucy, I’m not prepared to die for you.
He would never have made it as a medieval knight.

As he walked through the front door, voices floated out to him from the back patio. He recognized Nancy’s imperious tones and Alec’s quiet acquiescence. That was all he needed to ramp up his stress levels. Why the hell couldn’t he and Carlene have just one weekend without a visit from them, or even a whole week without their ‘popping round for a cuppa’?

‘Hi honey,’ Carlene said, jumping up and flinging her arms around his neck. ‘How did your shopping go?’

‘Oh … good.’

‘Obviously,’ Nancy said, staring pointedly at his non-existent parcels.

‘I was just looking around to get ideas,’ Reuben said.

‘Just go to the jewellery store,’ said Alec. ‘Any woman will tell you it’s full of ideas. You’ve had some of your most creative thoughts there, haven’t you, dear?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Alec,’ Nancy said.

Reuben looked at her pearl necklace and the diamond rings jostling for prominence on her fingers. Was she going to pronounce them to be fake in keeping with the principles of the nouveau poor? Maybe it didn’t extend to jewellery. If Carlene was expecting something sparkly in a tiny box for Christmas, she’d be sorely disappointed.

‘By the way, Posie rang,’ Carlene said. ‘She asked could you phone her back, something about an audition. She tried your mobile but you didn’t answer.’

Nancy pursed her lips. It was obvious she wanted to ask who Posie was, but good manners prevented her. Reuben stepped back into the living room and dialled Posie’s number.

‘Reuben! I’m so glad you called back! A film company called New Wave Productions is calling for auditions for a beer commercial. I thought you might be interested.’

‘What do I have to do?’

‘They’ll tell you when you get there. All I know is that you have to be the quintessential Aussie male in his thirties who drinks beer. And who has film presence.’

‘I fit the first category, anyway,’ Reuben said.

‘That’s false modesty and you know it,’ Posie said reprovingly. ‘Get out there and show them what you’ve got. Monday morning, nine am.’

Shit. Another day off work. Joe would kill him. Or fire him. Reuben wrote down the address she gave him. It sounded promising, much more up his alley than modelling. Could he give up jogging now?

‘Oh, and keep up the jogging,’ Posie said. ‘The quintessential Aussie male likes his beer but still likes to keep fit and look good.’

‘What was that about an audition?’ Carlene said as Reuben returned to the patio.

Reuben told her.

‘A beer commercial? For TV?’

‘I presume so.’

‘An audition, eh? Sounds interesting,’ Alec said.

Nancy looked unimpressed.

Reuben could see Carlene weighing up its long-term career prospects and finding it light on.

‘From what I’ve heard, the money’s pretty good. You stand around all day, say a few words for your six seconds of fame and get paid a few hundred for your efforts.’

He had no idea if that were true – at least the bit about the pay – but hope imbued his comments with conviction.

‘So we might have a TV star in the family,’ Alec said. ‘Bit of a step-up from swimwear, eh?’

Nancy made a noise between a snort and a grunt, though it was unclear whether it was due to the possibility of Reuben being a TV star or the thought of him modelling swimwear. Contrary to Carlene’s wish for the rest of the family not to know about his modelling, she hadn’t been able to stop them from reading the
City News
, which was delivered free to homes within a certain inner city radius.

‘I suppose we’ll have to wait and see how he goes in the audition,’ Carlene said. ‘Anyone for more coffee?’

Fortunately, Nancy and Alec left shortly afterwards to go home and get ready for a charity cocktail party in aid of homeless orangutans in South Africa. Reuben went into the bedroom and checked himself from all angles in the full-length mirror. He was sure his stomach was flatter, but he’d give it one last-ditch effort. Digging deep into his reserves of motivation, he donned his shorts, t-shirt and joggers.

CHAPTER 19

Reuben phoned Joe at six forty-five. ‘I’m sorry to let you down again, but this gastric bug’s come back.’

He steeled himself for Joe’s outburst. It didn’t happen – just a noisy sigh like an elephant farting. ‘Boy, you’re not worth wasting my breath on. Just be here at seven am, sharp, tomorrow.’

Reuben didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that he hadn’t been fired. It would be just like Joe not to fire him because he knew that was what Reuben was secretly hoping for. Not that he was going out of his way to be fired, but if he was, he wouldn’t be beating down the door begging for his job back.

New Wave Productions was also in Spring Hill, a couple of blocks from Pizzazz, on the ground floor of a towering concrete and glass building. The receptionist’s generous smile matched her breasts. For once, both were real.

‘Mr Littlejohn?’ She studied the list. ‘Here you are, right at the bottom.’

She pointed down the hallway. ‘First door on your left.’

Reuben opened the door and reeled back in surprise. It was five to nine, but already the room was crowded. The chairs lined up against the walls were occupied, and the rest of the hopefuls were standing, some alone with their arms folded, others in pairs or groups. In the centre of the room was a long table on which stood two jugs of water, two towers of plastic cups and a huge platter of cream biscuits. Two youths, tanned and clear-eyed, biceps bulging out of their t-shirts, sat on the edge of the table; chatting, laughing and radiating self-confidence.

‘Come and join the party,’ said a man standing by himself near the biscuits. He picked up a Monte Carlo, shoved it in his mouth, and held out his hand.

‘Tom, but everyone calls me Thommo.’ Biscuit crumbs sprayed out from his mouth.

Reuben, dodging the crumbs, shook his hand and introduced himself.

‘Your surname’s not James, by any chance?’ Thommo asked.

Reuben returned his grin as if he hadn’t been asked that question a thousand times before. There’d been many occasions when he’d wished it
was
James – anything but Littlejohn.

Thommo took another biscuit, a chocolate cream. He was of solid build, with a thatch of dark hair that flopped over his eyes. His facial features were too coarse for conventional good looks but in his jeans, boots and checked shirt, he exuded an air of beefy ruggedness.

‘I haven’t had any breakfast,’ he confided,’ and by the look of it, these will be lunch too.’

Reuben looked around the room. Apparently the quintessential Aussie male was buff and tanned, t-shirt sculpted on to his chest and jeans so tight you could tell his religion. Thommo was one of the few who’d come from a different mould. Reuben had opted for his best black jeans and a polo t-shirt. He wished now that he hadn’t – it made him look like a Young Liberal member about to play golf. He sucked in his stomach.

‘Looks like there’s a lot of competition.’

‘Don’t worry, most of them are just pretty faces. You have to be able to look like you’re having fun, not like you’ve got your head stuck up your arse.’

He patted his stomach, showing the beginnings of a paunch. ‘I thought they might want someone who looked like they actually drank beer and didn’t spend all day posing in front of the mirror at the gym.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ Reuben said. ‘Have you been to many of these?’

‘Thousands. Beer, cat food, toilet rolls, I’ve even done one for tampons.’

‘Not to use them myself,’ he added, ‘I was to be the husband who wanted to sleep in while she bounded out of bed and went horse riding and water skiing, all because of her super slimline tampons.’

‘So, how many ads have you been in?’

‘Actually … none.’

He scooped up another biscuit. ‘I’m an expert on auditions because I’ve been to so many. I’m thinking of writing a book – Auditioning for Dummies.’

Reuben wondered how many of the others were novices. Some stared vacantly into the distance as if this were just another daily chore; others looked expectant or hopeful, then tried to look blasé if they caught someone’s eye. A few gazed around with an amused expression, as if they were there just for the fun of it, so they could impress their girlfriends or recount it to their mates at the pub. Three men standing in the corner laughed loudly at something one of them had said, glancing around to see if they were being noticed. They were overdoing it – obviously first-timers.