ThornyDevils (11 page)

‘Did she have the child?’

‘He’s an O’Leary now.’ Slugger flopped onto his backside, supported by his arms.

‘An O’Leary?’

‘Yeah,’ Slugger whispered painfully. ‘If I hadn’t been knocked out that night, it would have been all different. All different.’ He slumped forward as his voice trailed away.

‘The fight that nearly killed you?’

Slugger nodded. ‘When I woke up everything was different,’ he continued. ‘My brain wasn’t what it was and I couldn’t fight anymore. Then the money ran out. The house went, the car, the friends. The missus left. That didn’t worry me at all. It was not having any bloody money.’ He wiped his eyes.

‘What about Ivy?’

‘Ivy stuck by me all the way.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Pat didn’t catch on that the boy wasn’t his. In fact he got me a job at the docks. I became his trusty sidekick, you might say. Funny that, when I’d been sleeping with his missus.’

‘She gave up thinking about leaving Pat O’Leary?’

‘Ivy’s a good woman,’ he bristled. ‘She would never leave Pat. Not with kids and a growing business.’

‘I don’t understand. You loved each other.’

‘I told her to stick with Pat. What could I give her? Only barely function when I’m loaded up on bloody pills.’ He began to sob. Peter placed an arm around him.
This is one of the saddest stories I’ve ever heard
, he thought.
In the top ten. And I’ve heard it all.

‘You gave her up?’

Slugger pulled out a long, white handkerchief and blew his nose vigorously.

‘What about the boy?’ Peter continued.

‘Tommy’s an O’Leary now,’ Slugger continued. ‘He’s the eldest. Turned out to be a real go-getter, you know. Head of the family. It would have been different if he’d stayed with me. No future there.’

‘Does he know you’re his father?’

‘No. I’m Uncle Slugger,’ he replied through gritted teeth, ‘and he is never to know. Get it?’

Peter stiffened as he watched Slugger clench and unclench his fists.

‘Between you and me,’ Peter nodded.

‘I’m telling you as a mate. Off the record.’

‘I know. I know. He wasn’t the one that got…’

‘No, that was Mickey.’ Slugger paused. ‘Poor bloody kid. He’s the youngest. What a horrible way to go. Tommy’s the red haired boy. ’

‘So why did Pat and Mickey get knocked over, Slugger? You’ll remain anonymous,’ Peter questioned. ‘You hang around them. You must know something.’

With that statement, Slugger leapt up and headed towards the front entrance. Peter followed suit, only more slowly, at a safe distance, until the entry door.

‘How should I know?’ Slugger tossed over his shoulder as he opened the door. ‘I’ve got a scrambled brain remember?’

‘I’ll see you at the Tote sometime,’ Peter replied, as the door swung open. Next to the lift stood Ivy, now dressed in a fresh nightgown.

‘Take care, Jack. Could be a chilly wind,’ Slugger said as he and Ivy got into the lift and the door, with sign still affixed, closed after them.

Peter eased the Stag away from the kerb and headed back around the corner into Johnston Street, his sleep-deprived mind racing with every scenario he could conjure up at twelve-thirty at night. So close to home, it was hardly worth starting the engine.
Pat O’Leary returns from his suck–fuck paradise in Thailand, only to be gunned down by Ivy O’Leary, Thomas O’Leary, an unknown other party, or even Slugger. Take your pick. It’s become an Agatha Christie novel without the poison or the butler.
Peter wondered if Slugger could operate a gun in his state of mind and with his shaky hands. In his state of mind? What were Slugger’s parting words?
Could be a chilly wind.
And was that a wink just before the lift door closed? Peter was sure Slugger had winked as he said it.
Wink
? Peter stopped the car and threw it into neutral. What was Slugger trying to say? Suddenly a chill came over Peter, as if he had been lowered slowly into a pool of freezing water.

St Kilda Road Police Station. Next Day

The press conference room was already swarming with journalists from all the television channels and the dailies by the time Peter stepped nonchalantly through the door and pushed his way to the front. He hadn’t seen so many journos gathered in one place since the last happy hour at the press club. Now they were all turning up to try and get the best scoop since the Hoddle Street massacre.
Swim in my wake
, Peter thought,
Peter Clancy has just entered the building. Remember, I am the headline. Woodward and Bernstein. I’m both. All rolled into one. Eat my runny shit
. Sure, it was arrogant but you had to be to deal with these fuckers. A pack of starving, worm-ridden dogs. They’d eat their offspring or sell their grandmothers for a story.

Peter noticed the stares, heard the snide comments as he elbowed his way to the podium.
How could Clancy scoop us? He’s from that pornography rag. A hack for a porno rag. Clancy should stick to what he knows. Tits and bums. It won’t last. Clancy’s pissed more times than sober. Lives at the Tote.
Peter smirked as he looked left and right. At last. He had recognition from his esteemed colleagues, even if it was begrudging. At that moment, it felt better than a Walkley.

Some well-known journalists gathered close to him and even Gavin, his long-estranged ex-friend, stood nearby. Peter wanted to yell out,
I thought you were going to become editor of The Age. What happened?
His musings were soon interrupted by the arrival of an entourage of police through a side door. They were packing heat
today. Police Commissioner Stapelton led an ensemble of detectives, including Dale McCracken, who looked sharp and self-important in a silver grey suit. No matter what rank they were, uniformed or not, you could always pick a copper, like you could always pick a nun. Apart from the cropped hair, coppers had battle-hardened stares, eyes devoid of emotion. As a result, Peter had always found it difficult to read a copper. They were all hard bastards, nearly as hard as an old journo. The commissioner wasted no time getting down to business. He tapped the microphone several times.

‘A heinous crime was committed two days ago in Clifton Hill,’ he began, ‘but before I speak more about the victims and the circumstances of their deaths, I would like to warn you that attempting to gather the names of the victims or speculating on what occurred before the police have released the details will not be tolerated. I repeat: Will not be tolerated.’

Peter could feel Stapelton’s gimlet eyes piercing him from the lectern. Their eyes met.
Fuck you,
Peter thought,
we both have a job to do
. He grinned back.

‘I’m not naming the newspaper in question here today, but its editor will be receiving a terse warning directly from me as soon as I leave this press conference.’

The commissioner’s gaze moved from Peter to Dale McCracken. McCracken stepped forward and stood at the commissioner’s right side. Peter felt all the eyes in the room fixing on him. He looked over at Gavin, who had his best sneer on for the occasion. The journos could sense weakness; one of the pack about to succumb. Let’s finish him off. So they thought.
I’m ahead of the pack
. Peter smirked at Gavin, who looked away.
Or should I say, I’m the pack and they’re the mob of sheep
.

Commissioner Stapelton continued. ‘Detective Senior Sergeant Dale McCracken has extensive experience in homicide and organised crime and will be heading up the investigation. As you probably know, he led the investigation into organised crime on the docks five years ago.’

The commissioner tapped McCracken on the shoulder and stepped away. McCracken preened, running his hand through his hair and adjusting his tie, before approaching the microphone. McCracken looked confident. McCracken was an organised crime expert.
Maybe these were no ordinary murders?
Peter pencilled his thoughts into his notepad.

McCracken spoke without using notes. ‘It appears that Patrick O’Leary and Michael O’Leary, his son, were victims of a crime committed two days ago at their home in Clifton Hill. Both victims appear to have been shot at close range as they were leaving for work. Both were taken to hospital where they were pronounced dead. We suspect they were shot multiple times by an unknown assailant or assailants. We are attempting to ascertain whether it was a random killing or if it was organised. At this stage, there are no suspects and no one is assisting us with our enquiries. We would urge the public to come forward with any information that is relevant to this case.’ He paused to take a sip of water.

McCracken was right to the point. Peter speculated that he probably wanted to answer as few questions as possible. And no hard ones.

‘I will be heading up the investigation team, which will consist of detectives and uniformed officers and based at St Kilda Road. I would be grateful if you would pass on any information you gather directly to me before publication. Time is of the essence in this case, and I don’t want the investigation hampered by press interference and speculation. Questions? Briefly…’

Peter waved his arm furiously. ‘Detective Senior Sergeant McCracken,’ he began.

‘Mister Peter Clancy—we meet again,’ McCracken leered as he pointed his finger towards Peter. His comment was greeted by chuckles. ‘You have a question?’

Cockhead,
Peter thought.
Well, I’m not here to admire your suit
. ‘Will you be largely concentrating on organised crime because of your extensive experience in that field?’

‘That was only my resume, Mister Clancy,’ McCracken bit back. ‘Don’t get this case and my resume mixed up.’

He smoothed his moustache. Another opportunity for everyone to laugh at Peter’s expense. Before Peter could follow up with another question, someone else cut in. It was an inane query about when the case would be solved.
Dumb,
Peter thought.
It’s amateur hour here in Smallsville
. He threw up his hand.

‘Question,’ Peter called out.

‘Mister Clancy,’ McCracken laughed. ‘Looks like someone had a good liquid breakfast this morning.’ The journos sniggered.

‘Patrick O’Leary disappeared two years ago. It was assumed that
he was dead. There were theories then that he was murdered due to his evidence to the Costigan Royal Commission. Any reason why he suddenly returned from the dead?’

McCracken’s lips started to move but nothing was coming out as he searched for an appropriate reply. He looked down and shuffled some papers on the lectern.

Got you, smart arse
.

‘You can’t answer the question, Detective Senior Sergeant, or you don’t want to?’ Peter interrogated.

McCracken’s head shot up. His eyes were slitted, his face sanguine. ‘That information is confidential.’ McCracken was fuming. ‘I will not be disclosing any information about Patrick O’Leary at this conference. No further questions. Thank you.’

He gathered his papers and stormed from the podium, but not before throwing a final menacing glare at Peter. With McCracken’s and his team’s departure, the journalists quickly began to dissipate. Peter scribbled some notes into his pad before closing it and slipping it into his coat pocket. A familiar throat clearing alerted Peter that Gavin was standing directly behind him. He turned around slowly.

‘How to win friends and influence people. Looks like the Detective Senior Sergeant and you are old friends.’ Gavin was ever the cynic.

Peter wondered why he and Gavin had ever been mates at university. Once the fun-loving, bohemian savant, Gavin had now reinvented himself as a caricature of Roger Moore, resplendent in a tailored woollen suit, leather shoes, and an acquired posh accent. Where was the martini? Obviously he was having trouble losing his throat-clearing habit.
Gavin Jenkins, you’re a long way from the working class government housing shithole of Inala in Brisbane
.

‘Gavin,’ Peter began, holding out his hand but dropping it quickly when he noticed that Gavin wasn’t going to reciprocate. In a single, fluid motion, he tucked the hand into his trouser pocket. ‘What’s with the accent?’ He turned away and began to walk towards the exit with Gavin close behind. ‘Are you turning into James Bond?’

‘Well, I do work for
The Age
,’ Gavin replied. ‘I’m a sub-editor now.’

‘You’re nearly there,’ Peter increased his walking pace from leisurely to brisk as he left the press room in an attempt to pull away from Gavin. Gavin kept following closely.

‘Is this how you treat old friends, Peter?’

Peter stopped and swung himself around. Gavin hovered between him and the exit, preventing Peter from pushing open the
get the fuck out of here
door.

‘Friends?’ he said. ‘That wasn’t how we left each other at the wine bar, as I remember. How are the English lords by the way?’

‘Okay,’ Gavin began, ‘we didn’t part on good terms. I accept that, but because we’re old mates I have a proposal.’

‘Oh yes, and what’s that, Gav?’ Peter shot back. ‘You’ll teach me how to speak like Alec Guinness so I’ll get a job at
The Toff
. I mean
The Age
.’

‘Still caustic, embittered and bolshie, I see,’ Gavin sighed, placing his hand on Peter’s shoulder. ‘I’ve been following your crime column closely. It’s very good. You’ve finally hit your stride after all these years.’ Gavin cleared his throat. Again. ‘Here’s my proposal…’

Peter removed Gavin’s hand from his shoulder. ‘If you’re offering me a job, I’m not interested, Gav. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to get back to the office. I can feel another scoop in me waters.’

‘A twenty-five per cent pay rise if you come and work for us. How’s that sound?’ Two uniformed policewomen eating their lunch were trying to pass. Gavin blocked the doorway.

‘I’m not interested.’ Peter pushed Gavin aside so the women could enter, and smiled at the officers.

‘You’re a fool if you stay at
The Truth
. Everyone knows it’s going broke. You’ll be out of work in six months.’

‘Still not interested,’ Peter shouted as a herd of policemen approached.

‘I’ll be at the wine bar in Hardware Lane at five,’ Gavin managed to call out, as he was swept up in the group.