ThornyDevils (16 page)

‘No. Sorry.’ He threw his cigarette on the ground and stamped it out.

Peter looked at Dave and shrugged his shoulders. ‘You see that woman over there?’ Peter pointed to Stella who was now having a heated argument with a journalist from one of the television stations.

‘She very angry,’ Gianni replied.

‘She’s my boss.’ Peter embellished. ‘If I don’t have some information to give to her she’ll bust my balls.’ He looked pleadingly at Gianni.

‘Why do I care?’ Gianni retorted. ‘Your balls, not mine.’

‘Let’s see if this helps.’ Peter pulled his wallet from his pocket and offered two fifty-dollar bills.

Gianni shoved the notes in his pocket. ‘No photos of me, all right?’ He glanced around nervously.

‘Promise.’

‘They pull up in a white Commodore. I no see their faces because they wear hoods.’

‘How many?’

‘Two. They shoot Frank as he unloading the truck. Mister Donarto, he hit too, but he okay. He jump behind a bin. Then they go. Like that.’ Gianni moved away from the truck. ‘I go now.’

‘Just one more question,’ Peter asked, blocking Gianni with his body.

‘Be quick. I gotta go.’ Gianni was looking anxiously past Peter and Dave to a group of men, who were gesturing him to come to them.

‘Did you notice anything interesting about the shooters?’

‘One man run into the other one and he swear at him.’

‘Anything said?’

‘“Stupid prick”, I think. Like that. I don’t know for sure.’

Gianni left a puzzled Peter and Dave standing beside the truck.

‘Not sure that helped us much.’ Peter waved at Stella to signal that it was time to leave.

‘Marvellous Melbourne, all right,’ Stella laughed as she slipped into the passenger seat of the Stag. ‘More like murderous, marvellous Melbourne.’

‘So what did Dale McCracken have to say for himself?’ Peter asked as he turned on the ignition.

‘He thinks you’re an asshole,’ Stella smiled.

‘That’s complimentary of Dale. Really? And here was I thinking that Dale and I were great mates,’ he replied sarcastically. ‘Dickhead.’

‘And we could be in the midst of a family feud,’ she beamed. ‘Now that could be exciting.’

‘Between who?’

‘The O’Learys and the Donartos. Apparently they had a falling out. Over a woman.’

‘How do you know that?’ Peter asked as he stopped for a red light.

‘From McCracken, of course. What a sweetheart.’

‘Just like that?’ he retorted. ‘He would never have told me that.’

‘Well, he doesn’t want to ever date you.’

‘What the hell!’ Peter exclaimed as the car behind began sounding its horn. ‘Are you going to go out with him?’

‘Probably,’ she replied in a matter-of-fact way. ‘He’s not really my type though.’

‘This sounds a lot like honey-pot journalism. Now I’m really starting to feel redundant.’

‘Hey, buddy,’ she snapped back, ‘I just want some information. I’m not going to sleep with him. You have your techniques, I have mine.’ She opened her purse and took out her lipstick. As she applied it, she added, ‘So, what did you find out?’

‘Two shooters wearing hoods in a white Commodore. One swore at the other. That’s it.’

‘Anything else?’

‘They traumatised an old Italian bloke.’

‘See?’ she grinned. ‘We both brought home some of the bacon.’

Peter let the comment pass. ‘Couldn’t get anything from Donarto. He still remembers my story about him and the soap opera bimbo.’

‘I’ll have to work on him, too,’ Stella burst out laughing.

‘Probably. He hates me as well. You, on the other hand, seem to have a way with my enemies.’

***

Bob tilted back on his chair, hands behind his head, looking like a proud father as Stella recited the details of the shooting. Peter sat quietly, wishing he could join Dave and help process the photographs.

‘Get this written up, you two, and we’ll have it out tonight. We won’t even have to wait for the press conference tomorrow. Good work.’

Peter rose from his chair.

Before you go,’ said Bob, ‘have you heard from Slugger recently?’

‘I haven’t seen him since the funeral.’

‘Peter was telling me about him. Do you think you could find him?’ Stella asked.

‘Eventually,’ Peter responded. ‘I know all of his haunts. Hopefully he’s not back in the mental ward.’

‘If you can get him to talk,’ Stella mused, ‘we may be able to find out what’s happening between these families.’

‘You look for Slugger,’ Bob commanded, ‘and you don’t have to come into the office until later.’

‘I guess so.’ Peter snuck through the door.

‘Someone’s got their knickers in a knot,’ Bob remarked as Stella disappeared behind the partition separating Peter’s desk from hers.

As Stella had busied herself with the article, Peter occupied his time by finishing off a fake letter to the editor and unpacking a new coffee machine on his desk. Since Mad Dog had had his meltdown, he had felt guilty that he’d somehow contributed to Mad Dog’s psychosis by not maintaining the old coffee machine properly.

‘So you’re the coffee specialist around here?’ Stella interrupted and sat on his desk.

‘I just knew how to keep a buggered coffee machine operating,’ he replied, ‘until Mad Dog smashed it.’

‘I heard. Poor guy. I’ve seen a lot of journalists take drugs and drink too much. And the failed marriages. You know the story.’

‘And we get paid shit for the privilege. Gotta wonder why we do it.’

‘Because we don’t know anything else. You really think you could be an accountant?’

‘Some days I tell myself I could.’

‘Don’t delude yourself,’ She fingered the coffee machine. ‘Hey! You didn’t pay for the machine?’ she asked.

‘No. I managed to coax some money out of Bob, which is unusual. He’s usually as tight as a fish’s arse.’

‘He hasn’t changed,’ she laughed.

‘Bob told me that you and he worked together in New York.’

‘
New York Post
, in fact,’ she replied.

‘The
New York Post
,’ Peter repeated. That was something to put on a CV.

‘Only the frigging best. We shared the crime circuit. Bob was one of the best reporters I’ve seen. He could get a lead story out of a stone.’

‘So what brought you to Melbourne?’ he questioned. ‘We don’t actually get American journos arriving here in droves.’

‘I wanted to catch up with Bob. He’s a great mate. I owed him a favour. And he wanted me to add my expertise to his new crime column.’

‘So, he didn’t trust me to handle this on my own?’ Peter pushed the coffee machine aside.

‘That’s not what this is about. Bob wants the best crime column in the country. Remember, I did this for ten years in one of the toughest cities on earth. If you want my input,’ she shot back, ‘fine. If you don’t: fine. I’m here to help. That’s all.’ Stella got off the desk.

‘Sorry,’ Peter apologised. ‘I’m sounding like a jealous kid at the moment.’

Stella nodded her head in agreement. ‘I’m not here to take over your column. I’m not here to diminish you.’

‘You’re not? What about today. You wrote the story. It’s your byline.’

‘It’s ours,’ Stella leaned over Peter and tapped him in the back of the head. ‘We’re a team, remember? I said it and I mean it. Get that into your thick antipodean skull.’

‘So we’re Woodward and Bernstein?’ Peter laughed.

‘Better than them. Clancy and Reimers.’

‘So where to from here, Reimers?’

‘How about a drink tonight? To christen the partnership?’

‘Maybe,’ he sounded doubtful.

‘Don’t worry, Peter. I don’t want to sleep with you, in case you were thinking that.’

‘That’s a relief. No offence.’

‘None taken.’

Okay, meet me at the Tote,’ Peter said. ‘At seven. It’s dark, the bands are loud and the carpet sticks to the bottom of your shoes. Dress accordingly. I’ll draw a map for you.’

‘We’re going to make a great team,’ Stella grinned. ‘The rest of the media won’t know what hit them.’

Sam and Dave sipped orange squashes at the bar as Stella and Peter cemented their working relationship with a long series of bourbon shots.

‘Aren’t you two drunk by now?’ Sam complained, his stomach churning with hunger. ‘You should be.’

‘We’re journalists,’ Stella joked. ‘Booze is one of the major food groups. We need it to get up in the morning. We need it to sleep. We need it to think. Vitamin B.’ She held up her glass in a toast. Sam didn’t reciprocate.

‘Food,’ Peter replied. ‘If it wasn’t for the Apollo Café I’d have died of scurvy years ago. You know I reckon I’ve eaten more meals in the Stag then at a table. Terrible, isn’t it.’

‘Eating in cars,’ Stella chimed in. ‘And the sleeping in cars. Chasing a story. I’m too old for that now.’

‘We’re fucking crazy,’ Peter slurred as his finished off his sixth glass of bourbon. ‘My shout.’

‘No more for me,’ Stella waved her hand. ‘I want to be able to get out of bed in the morning.’

‘I thought you’d be able to handle yourself?’ he teased.

‘One of the best lessons I’ve learnt in life,’ said Stella as she got off the stool and checked that nothing had stuck to her skirt, ‘is to never attempt to go drink for drink with an Australian journalist. I learnt that from Bob Connolly once in a bar on the Lower East side.’

‘I should call it a night too,’ Peter added. ‘I don’t want a hangover clouding my judgement.’

Sam started to laugh.

‘I don’t reckon you’d be able to function without a hangover.’

‘I just have them on the weekends. Remember?’

‘Well they must be bloody long weekends,’ Sam replied, shaking his head.

Peter had given up waiting for Slugger to appear, when he heard a piercing scream coming from the rear lane. It pierced the hum of the bar and the background music.
A screaming, fucking banshee,
Peter thought.
No; more like Ian Gillan with testicular torsion.
It was enough to sober him up.

Mary Riley, an old backstreet boozer, appeared in the doorway babbling incoherently. She only started to make sense when her lower dentures fell out. She stooped to pick them up but her stomach was too big and her arms too short. No one seemed inclined to help her. They were accustomed to seeing her dancing to the bands that played at the Tote, looking for all the world as if she was having an epileptic seizure. Perhaps she was dancing to the music in her mind. Mostly, Mary was totally sloshed but now she was as sober as a babbling person could be.

‘What’s wrong, Mary?’ Harry the barman leaned across towards her. He only looked mildly concerned, probably for the same reason as everyone else. She was hyperventilating and started to stagger. He darted from behind the counter and buttressed her, as she began to sink to the floor. ‘Someone,’ Harry called frantically, as he tried to keep her enormous frame upright, ‘grab a chair.’

Peter snapped a chair from where they were sitting and rushed it to her. He was able to throw the chair under her before she hit the floor.

‘What’s happening, Mary?’ he asked as he watched her slowly regain her breath. ‘Take some slow, deep breaths.’

Mary was well known to Peter. She had even propositioned him several times. He had always politely declined.

‘Horrible. Bloody horrible,’ she cried. ‘Out in the lane. Behind the pub.’

‘What? What’s in the lane? Did you see something?’

‘Bloody horrible,’ she repeated. ‘Out there.’ She pointed in the direction of the lane.

‘Get her a drink,’ Peter threw down a five-dollar note. ‘I can’t get any sense out of her.’ Harry went back to the bar.

‘Me teeth,’ Mary pointed to her mouth. ‘I can’t talk without me teeth.’

‘You can certainly frigging scream without them, Mary,’ he quipped as he looked on the floor. He found them lying near where Stella was standing.

Stella jumped higher than if she’d seen a dead rat. ‘You’re not going to pick them up?

‘The things you do in the name of journalism,’ he grimaced as he picked them up delicately between two fingers. The others looked away.

‘Here,’ he said as he dropped the plate into Mary’s left hand and wiped his fingers on his pants. She slipped them into her mouth. The barman returned with a glass of Mary’s favourite rum. She drank it down in one gulp.

‘Now I can speak,’ she announced. ‘That’s better.’

‘Speak then, Mary. Speak, for fuck’s sake.’ Peter rolled his eyes.

‘In the laneway,’ she began. ‘I’ve been trying to tell you. There’s a body lying in the rubbish.’

‘A body?’

‘Is the person dead?’ Stella asked.

‘Well, he’s not fucking moving, love,’ Mary shot back. ‘He’s all covered in rubbish. Shocking.’

‘We better have a look.’ Peter looked at Stella and then at the barman. ‘Can you ring the cops?’

Harry already had the receiver in his hand and was dialling. He handed Peter a torch.

‘Okay. Let’s check it out,’ Peter murmured as he stepped out onto the footpath.

‘It’ll just be some old, dead wino,’ Stella added as she followed. ‘Used to see more dead winos in New York than pigeons in Times Square.’

‘You coming, Sam?’ asked Dave as he got up to follow.

‘I think I’ll wait here. Seen enough dead bodies, thanks.’

Peter, Stella and a few of the others dribbled out of the pub and into the laneway. The body was lying in a heap of rubbish and overturned bins, just as Mary had reported, as if he’d suddenly dropped dead while rummaging through them. Peter shone the torch over the mound. The only parts of the body that were clearly visible were the legs. The rest was obscured by a pile of rubbish in black plastic bags that had been thrown out by the pub. The pants and shoes looked familiar. Peter inched forward and stood over the body.

‘Should I see who it is?’ he asked.

‘I guess someone had better check in case he’s still alive,’ said Dave.

‘I’ll let you do the honours,’ Stella looked away and put a handkerchief over her mouth. ‘You sure you want to look? Something smells and I have a hunch it’s him.’

‘I think I might know who it is,’ Peter replied as he delicately peeled back the pub’s detritus of beer cartons and food waste from the corpse. ‘Bloody hell!’ He reeled back in horror as he recognised the body. Despite the early stages of decomposition and a gaping wound in the forehead, the identity of the body was unmistakable.