ThornyDevils (12 page)

‘He’s not interested,’ one of policemen joked, as the others laughed as the door swung shut between them.

Shazza was sitting bolt upright looking studious, a pair of reading glasses perched at the end of her freckled nose and typing as if her life depended on it. Peter banged on the counter bell several times. She ceased typing and peered over the rim of her spectacles.

‘You’re really annoying me.’ Peter grinned. ‘Where have those long and painful hangovers of yours gone? I miss them.’

‘You’re a sadist, Peter Clancy. Why would you want to see a sweet innocent girl like me in such a position?’ she snapped back. ‘I don’t have any intention of ever having one again, unlike yourself.’

‘We’ll see,’ he smiled and gave a wink.

‘I’m not going to break, Clancy.’

‘There’s a big piss up at the press club on Friday. Drinks are half price. I’ll even pay.’

Shazza looked uncomfortable and squirmed in her chair. He could see beads of sweat gathering on her forehead.

‘No,’ she stammered as she removed her glasses, ‘I won’t. I’m not giving in.’

‘Admit it,’ he laughed, ‘you nearly broke.’

‘You’re an evil bastard aren’t you?’

‘I just hate to see a great relationship between you and the bottle break up.’

‘Piss off,’ she retorted, as she pushed her glasses back on and resumed typing furiously.

The office was eerily quiet and empty, except for the hissing sounds of the coffee machine and the presence of Mad Dog, who was standing over it stabbing randomly at the buttons.

If the coffee machine is broken and Mad Dog sees me, he’ll come after me.
Mad Dog turned around.
Too bloody late.
‘Is it running okay?’ Peter said tentatively.

‘Running like a dream,’ Mad Dog whispered as he stroked the coffee machine. ‘It’s a real work of art. You know you can get better coffee if you show it some love.’

Peter wondered what Mad Dog had been finding in the pantry lately. ‘I suppose,’ he replied vaguely, and moved past Mad Dog into his cubicle. He flopped into his chair and after gathering his thoughts he began to type. Then he looked up with a start. Mad Dog was hovering over him like a vulture over a carcass.

‘The other morning was full-on, wasn’t it? Lock and load all the way, baby,’ Mad Dog chuckled. ‘Haven’t seen that much bloodshed since the Tet Offensive.’

‘It was crazy. Part of the job, I guess.’ Mad Dog grabbed Peter in a bear hug and squeezed. He could feel and smell Mad Dog’s rancid, canine breath on his face. He sat rigid, too afraid to move, attempting to overcome the nausea that was rearing up into his mouth.
Help! I’m being attacked by a Mad Dog. I’ll get rabies
.

‘If you need to cry, need to scream, I’m here. Just let it out. Let it out, man.’ Mad Dog shook Peter several times.
Not the brown acid, Mad Dog. Not the brown acid
.

‘I’m fine.’ Peter was able to squirm away from Mad Dog. ‘I don’t need to cry or scream, but if I do, I’ll let you know.’

Mad Dog stood back and adjusted his bandana, which had slid off his head onto his neck. ‘We’re a team, baby. The lock and load team.’ He adopted a kung fu stance and snapped off several punches and kicks into the air. At the same time, Bob was calling out from his office.

‘Got to go!’ Peter bounced out of his chair and dashed to the safety of Bob’s office like a hundred metres sprinter.

Bob was screwing the cap off a new bottle of Jameson’s just as Peter flew into the office. ‘You’re keen, Clancy. I don’t think I’ve seen that kind of response from someone since I waved five hundred in front of a hooker,’ he said dryly, pouring a measure into two glasses.

‘No, it’s Mad Dog,’ Peter puffed as he lowered himself into the chair. He reached for the whiskey glass and downed the contents in one gulp.

‘What about Mad Dog?’

‘He’s getting madder. If that’s even possible.’ Peter motioned Bob to pour him a refill.

‘I noticed,’ Bob replied. ‘He was singing to the coffee machine before you came in. I think it was
War Pigs
.’

‘Does this have anything to do with what happened yesterday?’ Peter asked, taking measured sips this time. ‘Maybe he’s getting combat fatigue. The other day might have set him off.’

‘Probably. I’ve seen it before.’ Bob paused to light a cigarette. ‘Not only soldiers get it. I’ve seen a few correspondents lose it over my time. I saw an American bloke when I was in Saigon jump out of a window at the Hilton Hotel screaming he couldn’t take this anymore. Right in front of me.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Peter ventured. ‘He might hurt someone. Especially me, if that coffee machine shits itself. I’m the coffee machine mechanic, remember.’

Bob leaned back on his chair. ‘I’ll give him a week off,’ he said. ‘He just needs a rest.’

‘I frigging hope so.’

‘Progress?’ Bob changed the conversation and put his hands behind his head. ‘What’s the latest?’

‘I was over at Slugger’s last night,’ Peter explained. ‘The Widow O’Leary is staying with Slugger Douglas. She wanted to talk to me.’

‘What was she doing there?’

‘It seems that they go back a very long way. Let’s call them “friends”.’

‘Bloody excellent, Clancy,’ Bob bellowed as he shot forward in his chair.

‘She didn’t know much, or at least that’s what she told me,’ he began. ‘She didn’t seem all there, as expected. She said that the old fella had gone to Thailand to do business for two years.’ Peter wasn’t going to mention what Slugger had confessed to him.
Never rat on your sources.

‘Still great stuff,’ Bob added. ‘
Years of Anguish for Widow as She Waits
. Then he returns and is gunned down in a hail of bullets. The human angle. Now a grieving widow. Again,’ he rattled off. ‘Ask Mad Dog for a photo from the other day. A nice emotional one.’ He picked up his glass and drained it.

Peter rose from his chair. ‘Okay,’ he said slowly.

‘By the way, the police commissioner rang me. I believe you know him: Jack Stapelton.’

‘That was quick. And?’ Peter felt his blood pressure rise as he sat down again to listen.

‘Full of frigging piss and vinegar,’ Bob spat, his face growing crimson. ‘The stupid bastard thinks he can dictate to us what we write—well, bugger him. I’ve dealt with tougher cops than this silly bastard. And New York cops are the toughest. If he thinks they can feed us information and we cheerfully print it…Those days are over because
The Truth
has just entered the ring.’

‘Let’s brawl, then.’

There was a sudden crash from outside Bob’s office. Peter threw open the door and ran up the corridor towards the kitchen, as Bob waddled behind. He found Mad Dog clutching the broken remnants of the coffee machine. Broken shards from the jug were scattered nearby. Shazza had leapt up from her desk and was watching the scene unfold from a safe distance.

‘She’s dead,’ Mad Dog said. ‘I’ve had enough of this shit.’

‘Settle down,’ Bob soothed him. ‘We’ll get another. A better one.’

‘Can’t do this anymore, Bob.’

‘I told you, Mad Dog, we’ll get a new coffee machine.’

Peter watched Bob placating Mad Dog as if he were a child.

Mad Dog leaned against the kitchen bench, fatigue and resignation written all over his face. ‘Not just the coffee machine. All of this.’ He waved his hands around.

‘I was about to suggest that you should take a week off.’

‘A week’s not enough,’ Mad Dog replied. ‘I’m going home.’

What do you want me to do for you?’ Bob stubbed out his cigarette and tossed it in the sink.

‘You, Bob? Nothing. Mad Dog is going home,’ he announced. He pulled himself up and glanced around, as if playing to a crowd. ‘Mad Dog is going home,’ he repeated. ‘Never to return. Carol Comely has just left the building.’ He put down the coffee machine, strode past his desk and out the door.

‘Carol Comely?’ Peter said.

‘That’s not the full horror. Carol Sisyphus Comely. Maybe his parents wanted to raise a tough boy. Or a girl. I promised him I wouldn’t tell anyone.’ Bob gazed at the door, looking as if he half hoped Carol might change his mind and return. ‘I’ll ask one of the lads to check up on him later. See if he’s all right.’

The incident had shaken Peter.

‘You all right, Clancy?’ asked Bob. Losing one was bad enough, but
The Truth
couldn’t afford to lose Peter too. ‘Go home. Rest. Come back tomorrow.’

Peter nodded. A double murder. A crazy photographer. The police on his back. And now there was no coffee. It had been a rough week thus far.

If there was a time to have a drink, this was it. This was condition critical. Mad Dog’s derangement was to blame. It was unsettling. Peter almost tripped with anticipation as he entered the door of the Tote. The barman was pouring his first VB as he slipped onto the barstool in his favourite corner of the bar.
I’ll only have five pots,
Peter told himself as the barman placed it in front of him.
I really need it today
.

Peter lifted the glass and sipped eagerly at the froth. Much better. All stress is floating away. Who needs meditation when you can have a hard-earned Vic. Vic Bitter. The Victoria Bitter ad jumped into Peter’s mind. Hard men quenching their dusty throats after a day on the station or down the mine.
That’s me. A hard man and a pretty bloody stressed one at the moment.

‘There’ve been people here asking for you,’ the barman said.

‘What’s that?’ Peter murmured, snapped back to reality.

‘Two blokes,’ the barman continued. ‘One’s wearing a cowboy hat.’

‘Slugger?’ Peter reasoned aloud. ‘But he doesn’t wear a cowboy hat.’

‘No. No.’ The barman replied and pointed to the other side of the bar, near the juke box. ‘Those two blokes. The Abor…’

Peter caught sight of Sam and Dave waving at him. ‘Bloody hell!’ he called out as he leapt off his stool. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’ Peter hugged Sam and then moved onto Dave.

‘Settle down. We only saw you two weeks ago,’ Sam laughed. ‘We thought we’d take a look at the big smoke,’ he added. ‘See how the other half live.’

‘It’s such a surprise. How did you know I’d be here?’ Peter asked.

‘We just asked the taxi driver. Do you know where Peter Clancy camps?’ Sam laughed.

‘Sure.’

‘You’re always talking about the Tote Hotel,’ said Dave.

‘Sounds like your second home,’ Sam observed.

‘It’s where I come to relax. Drinks? My shout.’ Peter waved to the barman.

‘Lemonade for me, thanks,’ said Dave.

‘Small shandy, barman,’ said Sam.

‘Okay. I’m celebrating with two old ladies, but I’m going to still enjoy it.’ Peter was just happy to surround himself with his mates. Friends he could count on.

Two hours later, with Peter increasingly merry and relaxed, Sam began trying to persuade him that they should get something to eat.

He reluctantly agreed. ‘We’ll have the usual home cooked meal. How about that?’ he slurred back at Sam, as he gathered his change off the bar.

‘Do you cook?’ Sam asked, a little perplexed. ‘Only, I don’t imagine you being able to boil an egg.’

Dave appeared equally puzzled.

‘Sam was right,’ Peter joked as he led them down the road, then darted across Johnston Street between the traffic with Sam and Dave in his wake. ‘I’m flat out opening a can of baked beans. It’ll be home cooked. At my real home, The Apollo Café.’

Roula must have glimpsed Peter from the corner of her eye as he entered. Without looking up, she said, ‘You having guests tonight, Peter?’ as she wrapped a bundle of fish and chips for an elderly man.

Con wiped his hands on a towel hanging over his shoulder and came out from behind the counter. ‘Hey, Peter,’ he said, slapping him on the back, ‘you bring in new customers?’

‘They’re friends of mine, Con. From up north.’ He turned towards Dave and Sam, adding, ‘Con and Roula are my Melbourne family. They’ve adopted me. Without them, I’d starve. And I’d miss Easter and Christmas entirely.’

‘He come and eat with us every Greek Easter. I make the
yiros
and Peter, he bring the beer and a big appetite,’ Con chuckled. ‘Is good to meet you. I am Constantinos.’ He pumped Sam’s and then Dave’s hand. ‘And she is my wife, Roula.’

‘Samson Clancy,’ Sam replied, ‘but everyone calls me Sam.’

‘Dave Tindall.’

‘Very good,’ Con said. ‘So, you both family of Peter? From up north?’

‘Not really,’ Sam ventured. ‘We’re more old friends from way back who have come for a visit. See the big smoke.’

‘Oh,’ Roula said. ‘Plenty to do in Melbourne. Lots of Greeks here. Almost as many Greeks here as in Athens. Must be a good place.’

‘You staying long?’ Con asked as he returned to his place behind the counter.

‘Until Peter kicks us out,’ Sam winked at Peter.

‘Then, one day you must come to our place. We’ll have Roula’s
arni me patates
—roast lamb with potatoes—a little
rigani
on them, they melt in the mouth. Okay?’

‘Only if we’re not imposing,’ Dave replied, looking at Peter.

‘No. No. Peter like family. He comes to our place to eat sometimes, when Roula thinks he get too skinny,’ Con joked. ‘Any Sunday, Peter,’ he continued. ‘You bring them for lunch?’

Peter was embarrassed by the extent of their hospitality. He’d never reciprocated. He never could. ‘All right, but it’s my turn this time.’ He couldn’t cook, but he could char a sausage as well as anyone. ‘Next weekend, a barbecue at Yarra Bend, all right? All you have to bring is yourselves.’

‘You sure?’ said Con doubtfully.

‘Of course I’m sure. Bring the family. We’ll all be there,’ he glanced at the boys.

‘Okay. We be there. Twelve o’clock, Greek time.’ Con laughed. ‘Which is mean one, maybe two…’

‘One o’clock. Aussie time.’

Roula shrugged. Sam and Dave looked equally surprised. ‘So, I get you a big meal tonight? Something extra nice for your guests,’ she laughed.

‘They’re country boys so they want to eat lots of meat.’

‘Or fish and chips. They look good,’ Sam interrupted. ‘I’m not fussed. I’ll eat anything right now. Even the backside off a dead cow.’

Peter squirmed.