ThornyDevils (14 page)

‘That old bloke’s a friend of mine,’ Peter remarked to Dave as he pointed out Slugger to him.

Dave left the footpath to take a few shots from closer in. Peter grabbed him on the arm when he noticed Ivy O’Leary getting slowly out of the first limousine, assisted by one of the funeral attendants. ‘That’s the widow, in the veil,’ Peter instructed Dave. ‘Get a picture of her.’

Ivy was dressed totally in black, as expected, her face partially obscured by a long black veil. Peter could still detect no emotion on her face, although she was pale as she moved to stand beside her sons and Slugger. She lifted her veil when the first coffin was hauled from the hearse and touched it with one hand. It was draped in St Kilda Football Club colours. The second coffin followed, also draped in St Kilda colours. At the sight of the second coffin, Ivy started to cry. She laid her cheek against the coffin and kissed it. The attendant held her tightly by one arm. With that cue, a bagpiper at the entrance of the cathedral started to play
Danny Boy
. The coffins were slowly lifted up the cathedral steps and into the dark interior.

‘That’s it?’ Dave asked.

‘No, we’ll wait around until after the service,’ Peter replied.

‘These O’Leary’s know how to put on a funeral,’ Dave observed, as he lowered his camera. ‘I haven’t seen anything like it.’

‘They made their money off the wharves,’ Peter replied. ‘By honest means. Apparently.’ They walked back to the footpath. ‘Hopefully it won’t take long,’ he added. Unfortunately, it seemed he was wrong.

‘You must be getting thirsty, Clancy,’ Barry Pritchard joked when they returned to their original position.

‘Hey, Barry,’ Peter snapped back, ‘your make-up’s running.’

One hour later the bagpiper reappeared and started playing again at the entrance of the cathedral.

‘About time,’ Peter yawned. ‘Same thing again. More photos of the funeral party. Don’t make it obvious.’

The two left the kerb again to get closer to the proceedings. They positioned themselves near a tree at the entry to the courtyard, about two hundred metres distant. Dave kept taking photos of the first coffin and the pallbearers, of which Slugger was one. He continued until the second coffin was loaded into the hearse. The pallbearers assembled on both sides of the hearses like an honour guard. Peter tapped Dave on the shoulder.

‘Let’s get a better shot.’

They moved closer. Maybe too close. They were the only media people standing next to the hearses. The other media contingent remained on the footpath.

‘Where’s your respect?’ a mourner yelled at them. A man shoved Peter backwards. He only regained his balance by grabbing hold of Dave.

‘Maybe we should go,’ Dave frowned, as he lowered his camera to his chest.

‘Get a picture of the cars leaving and we’ll get out of here. It’s getting too hot.’ Peter knew from past experience that the media’s presence at prominent funerals could cause tensions to rise. Funerals and post-trials: prime times for journos to be turned into punching bags. Taking pot shots at the press was the way some people released tension.

Peter was the first to notice that some of the pallbearers had begun to notice them. Except for Slugger, they all looked to be solid, young, hardworking men, obviously men off the docks who probably worked
for the O’Leary’s, and had that
don’t fuck with me
persona. Robbie O’Leary broke from the pack first and raced towards Peter.

‘Time to go,’ Peter hastily warned Dave, as Robbie O’Leary threw a wild punch at his face. ‘The camera. Don’t let them grab it,’ he blurted as he managed to duck the punch.

Dave had just enough time to lock the camera in a vice-grip, as a bear of a man in an ill-fitting suit attempted to snap the camera from him. Dave’s hold on it was stronger and the bear gave up and turned his attention to Peter, pushing him back into the throng of mourners.

The archbishop who had officiated at the funeral was now standing at the first hearse waving his hands frantically at the crowd. ‘Move backwards, away from the cathedral,’ he called out.

Two priests scurried, still in their vestments, down the steps of Saint Patrick’s and started to move the crowd away from the hearses with trained precision. The crowd quickly complied. It was as if the archbishop was Moses and he had just parted the Red Sea.

With the push, Peter had fallen backwards against a legendary ex-football player from Carlton who seemed in no particular hurry to move for anyone, including the archbishop.

‘You’re in a bit of a bloody pickle here, aren’t you, son?’ The player laughed as he righted Peter back onto his feet.

Dave grabbed hold of Peter by one arm and pulled him back through the dispersing crowd. Peter’s new suit coat, which he’d only replaced the day before out of his own money, was torn and he could feel blood trickling from his nose. Hand cupped over the flow in a futile attempt to prevent further damage to his outfit, Peter was just able see two policeman running towards them, narrowly followed by Barry Pritchard and his crew. He also glimpsed Slugger attempting to reach the fracas.

‘Stop it, Robbie,’ Slugger implored, as he shoved aside one of the priests and another pallbearer who was trying to reason with him.

‘Scum journos,’ Robbie O’Leary cried as he grabbed Peter from behind. ‘And you’re the bloody worst, Clancy.’ Robbie spun him around and landed a punch in Peter’s midriff. He doubled over. Meanwhile Dave kept pulling at Peter’s arm. For a moment, he was strung out between them like a rag doll.

‘Keep moving,’ Dave instructed.

‘I’m fucking trying,’ Peter cried as he doubled over again.

‘How dare you interview Mum after her husband and son had just been killed. Scum bastard!’ Robbie yelled.

He spat at Peter, just as a police officer seized Peter by the collar. He was still clutching his abdomen as a second police officer grabbed him. ‘What in the frig did I do?’ he swore.

‘Language!’ one of the priests said tersely. ‘We are on holy ground.’

‘Yes, Father.’ Even in immense pain, in fear of his life and under threat of imminent arrest, Peter, the ex-Christian Brothers’ boy, gathered enough of his senses to apologise. Robbie pulled away from the police officer and attempted to land another haymaker on him. Slugger grabbed the punch before it landed on Peter and turned Robbie’s arm behind his back.

‘What are you doing, you stupid old man?’ Robbie cried with pain. The police officer now took hold of Slugger.

‘Leave him alone, Robbie, he’s a mate,’ Slugger yelled. ‘He was invited. Ivy and I invited him to my place the other night.’

‘What?’ Robbie intoned. ‘You did what?’ Then Robbie exploded and twisted out of the Slugger’s grip. ‘You punch-drunk old bastard!’ His body shuddered as he shoved Slugger to the ground. Slugger fell on his back but slowly raised his head and shook it. The police officer, now in a state of total confusion, grabbed Robbie again.

‘We should have put you away years ago. I don’t know why Mum wanted you around,’ Robbie cried. Ivy came from out of the crowd and fell on Slugger.

‘Leave him alone, Robbie,’ she cried as she cradled Slugger’s head in her hands.

‘Why, Mum. Why?’ Robbie sobbed. Passive now, he appeared to lose all strength and allowed the police officer to lead him away.

Peter was attempting to straighten up when he saw Barry Pritchard and a camera in front of him.

‘Looks like you’re going to be on the news tonight,’ Pritchard grinned as he shoved a microphone in Peter’s face.

‘Piss off, Ilmo, before I shove that up your arse,’ he growled, covering the mike with his hand.

***

‘I’d like a drink for every time a Truth journo has been shoved around,’ Bob sighed as he tapped his desktop, deep in thought. Peter was
slumped in Bob’s office chair having his cuts and abrasions attended to by Shazza, who was saturating a cotton ball with Mercurochrome. Dave was sitting in the other chair, wincing as she started to dab it onto Peter’s forehead.

‘Shit,’ Peter cried out as Shazza patted an abrasion, ‘I don’t want any more pain. I’ve had enough.’

‘You’re a sook, Peter Clancy,’ Shazza laughed. ‘Hold still.’

Bob seemed unaware of commotion going on in his office. His strumming on the desk became faster and harder. ‘Well, we can forget about the O’Leary family wanting to talk to us, can’t we? I just wanted us to look slicker, more professional. Keep the fence-jumping and the stunts away from the public eye. Can you do that Peter? Can you please try?’

‘All right, Bob,’ Peter replied meekly.

‘This has organised crime written all over it,’ Bob resumed. ‘Everyone’s ready to explode. I can feel it. I can taste it. I was in New York during the Mafia turf wars, so I don’t care what you do to get the edge on the competition. Oh, and I have one more thing to tell you: I’m bringing in an old colleague of mine to help out.’

‘An old colleague?’ Peter started. ‘I think we’re right with this story, Dave and I.’

‘You know how it was going to be a weekly crime column,’ Bob added. ‘In view of what’s happening, I’m going to expand it to twice a week.’

‘So? We can handle that, no worries, Bob.’ Peter paused to reflect. ‘Is this because of today?’

‘No. No. It’s nothing to do with that. Stella Reimers will bring a wealth of experience to the job that you don’t quite have yet, Peter. She is the best crime reporter I’ve ever seen. And New York is a tough place. I’ve been to war zones that are like holiday resorts compared to New York back in the seventies. She’s tough and she gets results.’

‘So now I’m a frigging cadet. This is my time, Bob. My chance. Do you think I want to be a sleaze merchant forever? Fuck you. Fuck Stella Reimers,’ Peter snapped and stood up to leave.

Dave grabbed him by the arm. ‘Relax, mate. Let’s hear Bob out.’

Peter hovered over the chair, but didn’t sit.

‘Here’s my vision for you and Stella. You’re going to be a team,’ Bob persisted. ‘A team of investigative reporters. Like Woodward and Bernstein.’

‘Woodward and bloody Bernstein,’ Peter shook his head. ‘What’s so good about them? Even the movie was boring.’ Bob had his best poker face on. ‘Do I have a choice?’

‘You have two choices, Peter,’ said Bob. ‘You can be part of the team or not be part of the team. I’ll get someone else. That’s it. The story is going to be huge.’

Peter sat down as he thought. ‘So how is this team going to work? We can’t be doing the same thing.’

‘Stella starts tomorrow.’ Bob beamed. ‘We’ll talk about it then.’

‘That it?’ Peter said as he rose again.

‘I know you might be pissed off at the moment but this is going to work. I promise.’

‘It better,’ Peter sighed and looked at Dave and Shazza. ‘This story deserves it.’

***

Peter and Dave arrived back at the flat a little after five.

‘Sam. Where are you?’ Peter called out, as he opened the door. He threw his bag on the dining table. ‘You sleeping again?’ he yelled into the silent flat.

Dave padded across to the spare room and looked in. ‘He’s not here.’

Peter glanced around, hoping Sam had left a message. ‘He hasn’t left us a note. So where is he?’ he wondered. ‘If he’s gone for a walk he won’t be able to find his way back. Sam’s never lived in the city.’

‘Maybe we’d better go and look for him,’ Dave suggested.

‘Where do we start?’ Peter fumed as he reached for his car keys. ‘Melbourne isn’t actually small.’

‘He’s got a limp so he shouldn’t get too far,’ Dave remarked.

‘Don’t count on it.’

They drove around Collingwood without success. Then they checked the Tote and the Apollo Café. Still no Sam.

‘I’m going to ring the police,’ Peter said anxiously.

‘Waste of time,’ Dave replied. ‘It’s too soon. They won’t even take down a report.’

Some of the regulars at the Tote agreed to check a few of the laneways in exchange for beer, but Peter couldn’t just sit on his hands and wait. ‘I’m going back to the flat,’ he told Dave, ‘in case, by some miracle he manages to return there.’ Dave had no reason to stay at the
Tote, so he left a few moments later and followed Peter back to the flat.

Peter was fumbling for his key when a rusted Kombi wagon with faded blue paint pulled up beside him and the side door slid over. Sam eased himself out and called back to other passengers.

Been in Melbourne for a couple of days and he has friends already? How, Sam, how?

‘Thanks for the lift,’ Sam waved. ‘I’m all for it. Right on, bro,’ he laughed. He turned around and noticed Peter’s stony face. The Kombi roared away belching smoke.

‘Have a good time?’ Peter interrogated.

‘Where did you go?’ Dave asked. ‘We’ve looked all over the place.

‘I didn’t hang around here. No bush here.’

‘Where the hell did you go?’ Peter asked.

‘Not really sure. I went that way,’ he pointed west, towards the city. ‘I ended up in a park, a big one, with a fountain and a grand old building.’

‘The Exhibition Building? How did you get there?’

‘I walked,’ Sam replied. ‘And after that, I walked through the university. It was only a couple of streets further down. Bought myself a copy of
Das Kapital
while I was there. Funny, some of the kids were staring like they’d never seen an Aborigine in a book shop before.’

‘Bloody hilarious,’ said Dave.

‘Maybe they never saw one reading Karl Marx before,’ Peter added.

‘So, then I was going to walk back home, but I only got as far as Fitzroy before I got tired. Walking in the city’s not like walking through the bush, you know. It’s hard on the feet. I was sitting on a bench when some brothers asked me if I had a smoke and we started talking. Good people those city brothers,’ Sam said cheerfully. ‘Peace and love. Land rights. They’re all for it. They gave me a lift back here.’

‘Good for them.’

‘I’m glad you had a good time, Sam,’ Peter chuckled, ‘but have you ever thought of telling us where you’re going?’

‘I would have, but I couldn’t find a pen.’

‘Here, have one of mine.’ Peter took a pen out of his shirt pocket and handed it to him. ‘No excuse, now, okay?’

‘One thing with all that walking. It’s made me hungry. No bush tucker to nibble on in the city.’