How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery (27 page)

‘Okay, Littledick, I’m giving you one last chance. You’re so fucking smart, you come up with a plan. And it better be fool-proof or the deal’s off, and you can kiss good-bye to wifey-poo.’

‘Can I give it some thought and get back to you?’

Frank looked at his watch. ‘I’ll give you five.’

‘Five hours?’

‘Five minutes.’

‘Right.’

Think. Plan. Kill Lucy
. Reuben’s brain froze.

‘So we’re still going with the car bomb?’

Frank gave a heavy, cigar-smoke filled sigh. ‘The good thing about a bomb, Littledick, is that it can be planted to go off at a certain time, which means we’re out of there when it happens. Unless you have any other brilliant suggestions?’

‘No, car bomb is fine.’

Frank looked at his watch again. ‘Four minutes.’

That damn well wasn’t a minute. Think
,
for fuck’s sake
. Reuben glanced at the newspaper folded in Frank’s lap. A paragraph caught his eye.

‘Hackers Cost Millions.’

‘Computer hackers have cost businesses world-wide millions of dollars in fraudulent transactions and damage control...’

An idea appeared like a huge, shining light bulb above him. ‘I know a guy,’ he blurted out, ‘a genius with computers. I’ll get him to hack into Lucy’s Facebook page and suss out her social life.’

‘How do you know she’s got a Facebook page?’

‘Of course she has, they all do. If it’s not Facebook, it’s Myspace or something similar. Whatever it is, he’ll find it. I’m not kidding, this guy could hack into the World Bank.’

‘And then what?’

‘If he can find out where she’s going to be on a certain night, a party or some other do, then we go and do the deed on the car while she’s there, under the cover of darkness.’

Frank leant back and stared at the sky, puffing on his cigar. Reuben could almost hear the cogs turning in his brain.

‘This mate – has he got enough sense to keep his mouth shut? And what’s in it for him?’

‘He wouldn’t be doing what he’s doing if he was the sort who blabbed. And he owes me a favour, a big one. I got him out of a nasty scrape.’

‘What sort of scrape?’

‘It’s a long story – suffice to say it involved a woman, a very stroppy woman.’

‘They always do.’ Frank said. He sat up and stubbed out his cigar on the seat. ‘It needs more work. Get the Facebook thing happening and we’ll go from there.’

‘Just one thing - she’s going on holidays in a couple of days, won’t be back until the New Year.’

‘Bloody hell! Where’s she going?’

‘Scotland.’

‘Scotland? Why the fuck is she going there?’

Reuben shrugged. ‘I don’t know, perhaps she has relatives there. Or maybe she likes men in kilts.’

‘Anyway,’ he added, ‘my mate will need some time. It’s not something he can do in a few hours.’ He had no idea if that were true, but at least it would buy him some time.

‘At this rate she’ll die of old age before we get to her. And just tell your mate as much as he needs to know to do the job. I’m warning you, if there’s a leak, I’ll know exactly where it’s coming from. And then...’

He made a gun with his fingers and pointed it towards Reuben’s head.

CHAPTER 22

Thommo stuffed the fat envelope in his jeans pocket. ‘That’s the easiest three hundred dollars I’ve ever made. You got any more jobs like that?’

Reuben shook his head. ‘Afraid not. How did it go?’

Thommo shovelled a large dollop of cream into his mouth. ‘I decided beforehand to pretend to be a bit simple – some would say, not much pretence. Usually people are more tolerant if you’re handicapped. I raved on about cars and how much I loved them, and he was getting impatient so he got his gear out and started cleaning the windscreen, hoping I s’pose that I’d go away. But instead I grabbed a cloth and started helping him.’

He grinned. ‘That tested his patience because I made a few smears on the windows and he got really agitated then. He was almost bursting with the effort of not telling me to fuck off. Then a woman who’d parked her car near us came back from her shopping and was listening to me, and that made him even more annoyed. Then when the time was up, I said I was meeting my girlfriend and hoped to bump into him again one day. He just sort of smiled through gritted teeth. But I bet he gave the cat a good hard kick when he got home.’

‘That was a good call, doing the simpleton thing.’

‘So, mission accomplished?’

Reuben nodded.

Thommo polished off his iced chocolate with a slurp and a belch. He leaned back in his chair and patted his stomach.

‘I really must lose some weight. Why does food have to be so fucking delicious?’

The tinkling of a mobile phone sounded nearby. The man at the next table dug into his pocket, and two women on the other side scrabbled around in their handbags. Reuben suddenly recognised the ring tone and dragged his phone out of his pocket just in time.

‘Reuben, this is Bruce Berkeley.’

‘Who? ... Oh, hullo.’

‘I have some good news. You have a part in the Becker beer ad.’

‘Really? Wow – I mean, thank you.’

‘It’s not the part you auditioned for, though. I want you to play the barman.’

‘The barman?’

Thommo was looking at him intently.

‘It’s not a speaking part but it’s an important one.’

‘So what do I do?’

‘Look obliging and pull a few beers.’

‘I think I could probably manage that.’

‘Fantastic, I’ll ring you soon with the details of the shoot. Enjoy the rest of your day.’

‘You got a part in the beer ad, didn’t you?’ Thommo said.

Reuben nodded.

Thommo thumped the table. ‘Fuck it, it’s so unfair! I’ve been slaving away for years and the best I can do is an extra in a crowd scene and you score a part at your first audition!’

‘Chill out,’ Reuben said. ‘I got the part of the barman; it’s not even a speaking part. All I get to do is pour beer.’

‘At least you can’t forget your lines. And they might let you drink the beer.’

‘I doubt it. And what’s so good about not having any lines? It’ll be boring as batshit standing there looking – how did he put it? – obliging and not saying a word.’

Thommo considered this. ‘I s’pose it doesn’t sound that good.’

‘Spot-on. And by the end of the day, my face will be aching from all that smiling, and I’ll be so sick of pulling beer that it will put me off it for life. Or at least, a few days.’

‘So really, it’s a crap job, isn’t it?’

‘Totally.’

Thommo blew out a sigh. ‘Thank God for that. For a moment there, I thought you were one up on me.’

He eyed off the chocolate mint beside Reuben’s coffee. ‘Mind if I have that?’

Reuben’s mobile phone rang again. ‘Hi, honey, just reminding you about picking up the milk. Where are you?’

‘I’m in a coffee shop.’

‘By yourself?’

‘No ... I’m with Finn.’

‘You didn’t tell me he was in town again! Why don’t you invite him home for dinner tonight?’

‘He’s busy tonight.’ Reuben watched Thommo as he returned to the table after ordering another iced chocolate. An idea flashed into his mind. Two in one day – he hadn’t lost his touch after all.

‘I tell you what, he’s in town for a few days, I’ll see if he’s free on Saturday night.’

He put his hand over the phone. ‘Are you free on Saturday night?’ he asked Thommo.

‘Let me check my diary.’ He stared into space, frowning. ‘I could have a hot date.’

Reuben drew a dollar sign on the table with his finger.

‘But then again, probably not. What’s the occasion?’

‘I’ll tell you in a minute.’

‘He’s free on Saturday night,’ he said into the phone, ‘so I’ve invited him over. He’s looking forward to meeting you. And I won’t forget the milk.’

He pressed the ‘off’ button and looked at Thommo. ‘How would you like another job?’

***

Reuben went into the study and retrieved his folder of personal documents. Although he’d gone through his effects and thrown out everything pertaining to his old life, it was possible he still had Curly Hansen’s number somewhere. It had been a while since Reuben had last spoken to him. Six years ago, Curly had set up his and Derek’s computer system for the business, to ensure their financial transactions couldn’t be tracked. In the end though, the police cracked it but only because Reuben and Derek confessed all in return for the prospect of a lighter sentence.

A couple of years later, Reuben heard on the grapevine that Curly had married a rich old Chinese woman. It hadn’t surprised him as Curly was a notorious gold-digger, but the price he had to pay was making love to an old woman. Reuben shuddered at the thought.

He flipped through his papers. Birth certificate, Year Twelve exam results, the last letter his mother had written him in her spidery handwriting, a dog-eared faded photo of him and his mother at his Year Seven graduation - Reuben chubby-faced and grinning, his mother tall and proud in her best dress and hat. A sharp pain stabbed his chest. Old computer manual, instructions for a TV he no longer owned, a solicitor’s account for representation in court – had he paid that? He flipped back to the computer manual. Operating instructions for a Dell, top of the range back then. On the back was scribbled in pencil ‘Curly’ and a phone number. It was unlikely he still lived at the same address, but it was worth a try.

He dialled the number. A lazy-voiced female said Curly no longer lived there.

‘What do you want him for?’

‘He’s an old friend, I just want to catch up.’

‘Honey, Curly has no friends; only creditors and complainants. Which one are you?’

‘As a matter of fact, he does owe me money.’

‘Join the queue. I’ll give you his mobile number, but I’m warning you, you’ll get fuck all. That old ‘Chink’ he’s shacked up with is the one with all the dough.’

Reuben wrote down the number and thanked her.

‘Good luck, luv, you’ll need it.’

He rang the number. A male voice answered. ‘Yes?’

The voice was faint against the blaring of a TV.

‘Curly? How are you? It’s Reuben.’

‘Who?’

‘Reuben. Reuben Littlejohn.’

‘Rubie! How the fuck are you? Hang on, I’ll turn the telly down.’

A pause then sudden silence. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure? I thought you were still inside.’

‘I was a good boy so they let me out. I’ve got a favour to ask you.’

‘What sort of favour?’ His tone was instantly wary.

‘A computer-type of favour. You’re still into that, aren’t you?’

‘For a select few. I’m in semi-retirement, mate, got myself an old lady who’s loaded and as much mull as I want.’

‘This is kind of urgent, so I’d like to see you ASAP.’

‘I’m pretty busy at the moment.’

His voice was slow and languid; he was probably smoking a joint as he spoke.

‘I thought you said you were semi-retired.’

‘Doesn’t mean I’m sitting on my arse all day waiting for people to call around and ask me favours. Tell you what, I’m free tonight. Why don’t you come over? The old lady’s doing her specialty; deep-fried pig trotters.’

He and Carlene had been invited to a dinner party at Alec and Nancy’s. He was sure the guests would include at least one local industry bigwig who would profess an interest in finding Reuben a job. Weighed up against the pig trotters, the trotters won hands-down. But there was no hope of weaselling out of the dinner party.

‘Where do you live?’ he asked Curly.

‘Highgate Hill, 34 Wesley Street.’

Not too far. Into the city, over the William Jolly Bridge and another couple of kilometres. He could be there in half an hour. He looked at his watch. A quarter to five. They were expected at her parents’ place at six-thirty. He made some quick calculations. It was tight, but doable.

‘How about I come over now? I’ll have to pass on the pig trotters though.’

‘Suit yourself.’

He left a note for Carlene. ‘Had to go out. Will be home in time to go to the dinner party.’ The traffic was heavy and the Barbiemobile weaved its way through the cars like a small pink missile. Thirty-five minutes later, he arrived at Curly’s house.

It was a sprawling, well-preserved Queenslander, set on a hill amongst a tangle of lush, untamed vegetation. Below it the Brisbane River gleamed a sullen brown in the afternoon sun. The house was set back from the road and by the time Reuben had climbed the steep path to the front door, brushing away ferns that leapt out at him and ducking overhanging branches, he was out of breath. So much for the jogging.

The house was high-set, the underneath built in as a lower storey. At the top of the front steps, a notice on the front door said ‘Xio Changu. Chinese Medicine and

Acupuncture. Monday to Friday 9am to 5pm. After-hours by appointment’.

A door opened from beneath him and a head popped out. ‘Down here, mate.’

Curly hadn’t changed, apart from a few more grey hairs. Contrary to the tradition of Australian nicknames, Curly actually did have curly hair. Along with his cherubic face he’d borne an uncanny resemblance to Leo Sayer in his younger days and he still did so now, if a craggier, wilder Leo. His hair stood up from his head in a halo of frizz, as if he were in a permanent state of electrocution.

‘Come into my den of iniquity.’

He ushered Reuben into an expansive living room – dark panelling, polished wooden floor and expensive furniture. A huge flat screen TV dominated the room; the evening newsreader smiling cheesily. The sweet burnt smell of marijuana lingered in the air.

‘Want a beer?’

Curly was barefoot, in torn jeans and t-shirt, cigarette dangling from his mouth. Without waiting for an answer, he went behind the small bar in the corner and came out with two stubbies of beer.

Reuben sank into the leather couch and Curly stretched out in the recliner chair opposite. ‘So mate, you’re looking well. The Big House treat you okay?’

‘I survived it. But I’m not going back there.’

‘They all say that. And they all end up going back. Even me. But Delores looks after me now, she makes sure I don’t get into any trouble.’

‘Delores?’