ThornyDevils (17 page)

‘It’s Slugger!’ He suddenly felt like vomiting. Stella kept her handkerchief clamped over her mouth.

Dave leaned forward to take a look. ‘Pretty certain he’s dead. Don’t move anything else, Peter.’

Peter wiped his mouth on his handkerchief. ‘Still a cop at heart, eh, Dave?’

Dave shrugged. Peter went back to the body and pulled a squashed beer carton over it.

‘Your source?’ Stella remarked as she lowered the handkerchief from her face.

‘And a good one,’ Peter sighed. He turned to Dave. ‘What do you reckon happened?’

‘Probably fell over. Happens a lot’

‘He was strong as an ox, but always having falls. Legacy of having his head beaten too many times in the ring, I guess,’ added Peter. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if Slugger was behind the bins having a piss, and fell over.’ He blew his nose.

‘You were fond of him?’ Stella eyed Peter, searching for clues.

‘I felt sorry for him. And we had some funny times. I shouldn’t be thinking about having just lost my main source, yet that’s exactly what I keep coming back to.’

‘It’s all right, Peter,’ Stella comforted. ‘All right, okay? Sometimes it’s hard to separate the man from the journalist.’ She took a final look at Slugger. ‘I think I’ll call it a night. The police might want to hear what you have to say about Slugger, but I’m going home.’

Peter looked at Dave. ‘Let’s get Sam and go home. I’ve made enough statements to the police to last a lifetime.’ He stood with his head bowed for a moment, in silent prayer.
Goodbye, Slugger. God bless
you, you old bugger, wherever you are. I’ll miss you more than you could possibly understand.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.

***

Peter and Stella were once again in Bob’s office, contemplating the events of the previous night. The mood was solemn. Peter was sitting forward in his chair, head in his hands. He only raised it every so often to sip the whiskey Bob had poured for him. Stella had passed on the whiskey, but was pacing around the office. Bob rested his elbows on the desk, pawing his glass.

‘I know what everyone’s thinking,’ Peter broke the long silence, looked up and placed his glass on the desk. Stella stopped pacing and sat down.

‘My stories depend on sources in the street,’ he began. ‘I don’t do well sucking up to authorities, the big wigs. That’s my style. I’ve gone out of my way to piss off the top end of town.’

‘We know that, Peter,’ Bob threw in. ‘That’s part of your charm.’

‘But in this instance, it’s not going to work.’ Peter scratched his head. ‘Look at the sheet. McCracken and Donarto hate my guts. I’m going to get shit out of them. The O’Learys are only going to beat me up if I go near them again. And my only way into this story is now dead. I’m fucking dead in the water.’

‘Do you think you could snuggle up to Ivy O’Leary again?’ Bob asked.

‘I only got that interview because Slugger set it up.’

‘Where in the hell does that leave me?’ asked Stella.

‘Seems to me you’re doing fine with McCracken and I’m sure Tony Donarto will be the same. That’s where the leads are going to come from. You may be able to bend the O’Learys too. Who knows?’

‘You want off the story then, Peter?’ Bob asked as he picked up the whiskey glass.

‘What’s the point of having me
on
the story? My main source is dead.’

‘Your theatrical sources,’ Bob suggested. ‘What about them?’

‘They’re only good with society gossip stuff. You know: which politician’s sleeping with whom. Nothing to do with this.’

‘What about all the sources you’ve used over the years? I thought you had a busload of them. These puppies of yours.’

‘I’ve lost many of them,’ Peter admitted. ‘I should have found replacements but…’ His voice trailed off. ‘Sorry.’

Bob leaned back in his chair and looked at Stella.

‘I think Peter would be a great loss, Bob,’ she spoke up. ‘I think he should remain on the team. I need someone to guide me through this crazy place.’

‘I get it and I’m grateful. Thanks, Stella,’ Peter replied. ‘But I think you’re able to handle yourself without me.’

‘I don’t do sentimentality. You’re a fine journalist, that’s all. It’s pure self-interest.’

Sure it is. Like throwing a starving dog a bone. I’ve worked you out, Stella. You’re more considerate than corporate.

‘Today,’ Bob interrupted, thumping the table. ‘I want you to bring a major breakthrough to the table, today.’ He stopped to take a drink of whiskey and look Peter in the eyes. ‘And I don’t care how you get it. Use that commando journalism of yours. Get me something or you’re off the story.’

‘Bob,’ Stella questioned, ‘is that wise?’

‘My decision, Stella.’

As Peter sat studying his hands and contemplating his future, Bob gave Stella a wink.

‘Okay.’ Peter put down the still three-quarters full glass. He stood up and puffed out his chest. ‘You want a fucking breakthrough? I’ll give you one.’

‘Clancy, you are so predictable,’ Bob laughed. ‘You love being backed into a corner, don’t you?’

‘All right,’ Peter replied. ‘So, I have a healthy ego.’

‘So you’re still on the story?’ Stella asked.

Peter shrugged his shoulders.

‘You have twenty-four hours,’ Bob repeated as he held up a finger. ‘One day.’

‘Where are you going to start?’ Stella asked. ‘You’re back to square one.’

‘Fucked if I know,’ he said. ‘I’m going to have to go out there and find it, I guess. Maybe it will fall into my lap.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Bob.

Peter could hear a commotion spilling out of the reception area as he was walking back to his cubicle. It sounded like Shazza was
having a heated argument with someone. A very noisy argument. As he approached his desk, he caught every other word. Shazza was saying his name. Loudly. A woman responded. Equally loudly.
Peter Clancy
…He continued walking past his desk, all the way through to reception. It was exactly as he suspected. The woman having the loud confrontation with Shazza was Her Highness.

Concheetah was wiggling a gloved finger at Shazza while simultaneously tossing her feather boa around her neck. Shazza was standing with her hands on her hips, freckled face blazing with anger. Peter stood behind them, unnoticed, smiling, as the two went head-to-head.

‘You don’t get it, do you? I need to see Peter Clancy,’ Concheetah argued. ‘I’m a close friend of his. You think I’d waste my time coming all the way here if it wasn’t important, you stupid girl?’ She growled in her best tenor: ‘Get him now.’

‘I can’t. He’s busy, I’m telling you,’ Shazza fumed. ‘You’ll have to wait.’

‘Don’t you know who I am?’ Concheetah raised herself up to her full height. Six feet four, in heels.

‘I don’t care who you are,’ Shazza shot back. ‘I wouldn’t care if you were the Queen.’

‘Stupid peasant girl. I’m more than a queen. I’m a diva.’

Just then, the water cooler next to Peter belched. Concheetah spun around and caught him grinning.

‘Have you been enjoying this?’ she asked as she threw back her head in disgust.

‘I was wondering who was going to attack first.’

‘Sheeee,’ Shazza elongated the vowel for emphasis, ‘sheeee wants to see you.’ That said, Shazza sat down and continued typing.

‘How are you, darling? It’s very important, you know,’ Concheetah cooed as she planted a kiss on both of Peter’s cheeks, leaving smears of red lipstick.

‘In future, if Shazza tells you I’m busy, maybe you should just wait for me quietly in the reception area.’

‘Darling, that sounds
so
hoi polloi.’

‘Where’s Ted?’ Peter asked.

‘He had to take a break from his act. His prostate has been playing up. Poor dear will probably need an operation.’

‘So what did you come to tell me?’

‘I can’t talk here,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘Very hush-hush.’

‘Then you’d better follow me to my desk,’ he said as he pointed down the corridor, in the direction of his cubicle.

‘Oooh, how exciting,’ she gushed. ‘Going into Peter Clancy’s inner sanctum.’ Concheetah’s comment was met by a chorus of wolf whistles.

‘Just try and tone it down,’ Peter suggested, as they walked down the corridor.

Concheetah inhaled. She always played to an audience. Any audience. ‘My dear fans all, Queen Concheetah is here.’ She waved at the journalists, who had pushed themselves away from their desks to catch a glimpse as she passed. Peter felt himself blush.
There’s going to be hell to pay
. He pulled out a chair when they reached his cubicle.

‘Sit,’ he ordered pointing to the chair.

Concheetah looked about Peter’s messy desk, disdain on her face, as she lowered herself onto the chair. ‘Positively post-apocalyptic, my dear,’ she sniffed. ‘I’m coming back here to do a makeover.’

‘No, you won’t!’ Peter snapped back, grabbing a chair from the other cubicle and sitting face-to-face with Concheetah. ‘I don’t want my work area turned into a fucking bordello.’

‘You, my dear, have no taste.’ She rolled her heavily made up eyes, ‘I could teach you. Teach you lots of things.’

‘Coffee?’ he retorted.

‘You don’t have anything stronger?’ she whispered. ‘I know you journos like to keep a bottle or two in the desk.’

‘Okay,’ Peter sighed and reached into a desk drawer. He pulled out a flask of whiskey and two plastic cups. ‘My emergency rations. Not your usual poison. Will this do?’

‘Of course.’

He half-filled both cups and handed one to Concheetah. ‘I’m pretty busy, so you’ll have to make it quick.’ He took a sip from his cup.

‘Cheers,’ she lifted her cup and took a sip. ‘Of course, you don’t want to spend a lot of time with me…You’re embarrassed aren’t you?’

‘I assure you that I’m not.’ He looked around just as Stella peered over the screen of her cubicle and smiled. ‘It’s just that I’m on a deadline and I don’t have anything.’

‘Let’s call it kismet, then, my dear. This might help you.’

‘Shoot.’

Concheetah leaned forward. ‘There have been a multitude of drug overdoses in St Kilda in the past two weeks. I found someone dead on the footpath in front of the club, last Thursday morning, the needle still stuck in her arm. A young girl, poor thing. She looked so angelic. She’s someone’s child. Everyone hates druggies, but I feel sorry for them. It’s not their fault they have an addiction. Why not help them?’

‘I agree,’ Peter replied. ‘Is that what you wanted to tell me?’

‘You’re not impressed?’

‘These kinds of things happen all the time,’ he countered. ‘It’s not actually earth shattering news. Obviously someone is cutting it too pure or is new to the game.’

‘I began to wonder why would you want to kill your customers? Isn’t that bad for business? That’s why I thought I should tell you.’ She asked as she upended her cup to drain the dregs. ‘Something’s rotten in the state of Denmark.’

‘What about the cops? Shouldn’t they be interested?’

‘The cops couldn’t give a shit,’ Concheetah retorted angrily. ‘They’d love all the druggies dead.’

‘Maybe they would, but there’ll always be more to replace them, I guarantee it.’

‘So you’re not interested?’ She flicked the end of her feather boa.

‘I can’t see the relevance to what I’m doing at the moment.’

‘You’re working on the O’Leary and Donarto shootings? You’re really in the thick of it.’

‘Okay? You think there’s a connection?’

‘With the deaths? I’m not sure about that.’

‘Then you think they have a connection to each other? I’ve been trying to work it out,’ said Peter, ‘but I’ve hit a brick wall. I don’t see how the families are connected.’

‘You should have asked Her Highness Concheetah, first,’ she smiled as she tweaked Peter’s cheek with her left hand. ‘You’re a very naughty boy.’

‘Do you know them?’

‘Not well, but we have been introduced. Two of the O’Leary boys, a couple of Russian brutes from Sydney and Tony Donarto used to come into the Velour Lounge together, every so often. But that was a while back.’

Peter’s eyes widened with interest. ‘Which of the O’Learys?’ His
interest meter was sitting at maximum. He grabbed his notepad from his desk and scribbled into it.

‘Robbie.’

‘And?’

‘I don’t know the other one.’

‘Friendly?’

‘Of course. Very cosy. Plenty of drinks, laughs and women who weren’t their wives. High-class hookers. Only the best.’

‘How recently?’ Peter continued scribbling.

‘Haven’t seen all of them together in the club for about a year. Of couse, Donarto and his hooker friend were regulars until we had words a few weeks ago.’

‘You don’t know why the others stopped coming?’

‘No, my dear. The O’Leary boys stormed out of the club one night and I never heard another thing about them until now.’

‘Interesting,’ Peter said as he tapped his pen on the notepad. ‘You mind if I introduce you to my partner? Is it okay for me to share this?’

Concheetah preened her hair with her hands. ‘You know how I hate playing to a crowd,’ she sighed, ‘but if you must.’

He spun around in his chair. ‘Stella,’ he called, ‘I may have something.’

‘That was quick,’ Stella called back. ‘I’m coming over.’

‘Who’s the lovely lady?’ Concheetah said as she stood up for Stella.

‘Concheetah, meet Stella Reimers, and vice versa,’ Peter introduced the pair, closing up his notepad.

‘It’s a pleasure,’ Stella smiled as she held out her hand and shook Concheetah’s.

‘You’re an American!’ she remarked with admiration. ‘I love Americans.’

‘New Yorker, in fact.’

‘Fantastic. Andy Warhol. The Factory. Lou Reed. Studio 54. I love it. What are you doing in this backwater?’

‘Let me tell you, Melbourne ain’t no backwater, lady. No way,’ Stella replied. ‘Not how this story’s going down.’

Concheetah giggled. ‘You sure are new to this place. And I ain’t no lady.’

Peter interrupted the love-in. ‘Concheetah was just saying that the O’Learys and Tony Donarto used to come into the club until they had a public tiff about a year ago.’

‘Unlikely friends,’ Stella surmised. ‘Maybe they were business associates?’

‘I’ll keep my ear to the ground,’ offered Concheetah.