ThornyDevils (4 page)

‘So we’re not shutting down?’

‘Where did you get that idea from?’ Bob laughed. ‘
The Truth
will never close its doors while I’m the editor.’

‘That’s good.’ Peter relaxed into his chair and took another drink. ‘I couldn’t envisage working for another paper. Also, nowhere else would have me.’

‘You’re a big part of the revamp.’

‘Come again?’ Peter leaned forward.

‘Columnist Peter Clancy, Crime Investigator: A Finger on the Pulse of the Crime Capital of Australia. How’s that sound? It could be called
The Pulse
.’

‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’ Peter sputtered just as he was pouring the remnants of the Jameson’s from the glass down his throat. It splashed onto his shirt. He made no attempt to clean it up.

‘The public wants more substance in their papers. They’re getting sick of looking at page three girls and reading about local celebrities who can’t control their sexual desires.’

‘I thought we were doing all right with tits and genitals. It’s been our winning formula for years.’ He grabbed the bottle off the desk and poured himself another drink.

‘Our circulation has been dropping over the years, as you know,’ Bob rejoined. ‘These days, people want to know why’s there so much crime in Melbourne: the Hoddle Street massacre, the Russell Street bombing, Walsh Street. They’re scared. People think that the great city
of Melbourne has been taken over by crims and psychopaths. They want a voice with reason. Someone with his feet on the ground, not some toff from
The Age
who knows the police minister and nothing else. They need someone who can make sense of it all. Someone who will keep them informed and get them through this. I’m giving them Peter Clancy. The Pulse.’ He raised his hands and clapped.

‘I’m not a body counter,’ Peter retorted. ‘I did Madgies Court when I was a cub reporter in Brisbane. I hated it. Listening to the scum of the earth and pontificating magistrates who thought they were High Court judges just wasn’t my cup of tea. I don’t want to hang around courts and police stations.’ He hesitated. ‘By the look on your face I don’t have a choice, do I?’

‘Of course you don’t.’

‘Apart from that, how will I get the info? Will someone send it to me? I know for sure who’s fucking who but not who’s killing who. I’m not sure about crime.’

‘You were my first choice.’ Bob took a last puff on his cigarette before stubbing it out and then lighting another. ‘Especially after what happened to you up at Clarkes Flat.’

‘What’s in it for me?’ Peter asked. He was losing momentum. ‘I might do it on certain conditions.’

‘How’s five thousand words weekly and a five per cent pay increase sound?’

‘Two thousand words and a ten per cent increase sounds better. I could buy a new car.’ Peter smiled.

‘Done. Everyone’s a winner.’ Bob shuffled papers. ‘You have those great sources of yours that you can utilise. The puppies, as you call them.’

‘A few of them are in the cemetery, but I still have a handful of good ones.’ He could feel himself lying. In reality, he only had a handful of unreliable sources and after tomorrow’s edition he would definitely be able to take Concheetah off that list. Peter finished off the whiskey and resisted the urge to pour himself another.
Maybe a splash more
.

‘You know informers in the police force?’ Bob asked.

‘Yeah. Sure. An inspector at St Kilda,’ Peter lied. The reality was he knew a constable who did traffic.

‘Good,’ Bob replied. ‘What about at Parliament House?’

‘I know someone in the thick of it.’ He once knew a girl who worked in the parliamentary canteen. Should he tell Bob the truth? The offer
was simply too good to pass on and, besides, he was only stretching the facts a little. He knew he’d find the sources. He’d have to.

‘You’ll need one of these,’ Bob reached into a drawer and retrieved a box. He handed it to Peter.

‘What’s this?’

‘A scanner,’ Bob replied, shaking his head. ‘You can listen into the police channels.’

‘I’ve never used one.’ Peter took the scanner out of the box, examined it briefly then returned it to its container.

‘It’s essential if you want to know what the coppers are up to. You’ll be able to be one of the first on the scene. Keep it with you at all times.’

‘I’ll put it on my utility belt,’ Peter joked.

Bob ignored the comment. ‘I’m putting a lot of faith in you and this project, Peter, so don’t you let me down.’

‘I won’t. You have my word on that.’ Peter finished off the whiskey and pushed the glass away.
Enough
.

‘I have one big request, though,’ Bob added as Peter stood to leave.

‘What’s that?’

‘Two words. Stafford Ellison. You have to get rid of those mangy, stinking suits. You can’t wear them if you’re going to write a column. You have status now. Put it on the newspaper’s account.’

‘That’s the second time I’ve heard that today,’ he replied sadly. ‘And I thought I looked good in this.’

‘A derro might, but not a professional journalist. I want you in a new suit, as soon as you come back from up north. You can start the column then.’

‘Shit, I almost forgot!’ Peter darted forward in the chair. ‘When was that again?’

‘It’s tomorrow,’ Bob shook his head. ‘You’ve done yourself more damage than I thought. How could you forget you’re giving evidence in the Hillard trial? And you’ll be writing a story about it. Not under your name. It’ll be The Pulse’s first outing. All right?’

‘Why the hell do I have to go up there again? I wish I’d never got involved.’ He hung his head in his hands. ‘I hate it up there. Frigging Brownsville! Can you at least put me up in a hotel near the sea?’

‘It’s all arranged. Consider it like a holiday. You’ll be able to catch up with old friends, eat off the land, lynch people, the usual thing. Or maybe, this time, they’ll lynch you,’ Bob laughed. Peter could still hear him laughing when he returned to his desk and the dreaded deadline.

Peter was feeling pretty chipper by the time he entered the welcoming doors of the Tote at five-thirty. The smoky interior, the smell of stale beer, the rumbling conversations of the patrons and the muffled rock music were a loving hug to him. He pulled out a stool at his favourite end of the bar and perched himself on it. The story was written; he had a new, better paying, infinitely more challenging job. He was a pig in shit. But what about the downside? Sources had to be worked on. With a bigger expense account he could get better leads. He would have to get used to seeing dead bodies again. The last one was in Clarkes Flat. Peter shuddered as the image of her lying dead on the bed became stronger, only to be jolted back into reality by Irmgard appearing out of the smoky mist like a Valkyrie.

‘How are you? I was starting to miss you,’ she remarked from the other side of the bar, pouring a VB from the tap and handing it to Peter. He had become so accustomed to her thick, German accent that it rarely posed a challenge for him these days.

‘I’ve been waiting all day to see you. You’re a vision.’ He winked and took a sip of his beer. Irmgard had come from Munich and was here on a backpacking holiday of Australia. She had been working at the Tote as a barmaid for three weeks and had been fucking Peter for about one. Irmgard said that she loved Aussie men.
The best in the world.
She loved their earthiness and sense of humour. She would know. She had confessed to Peter one night that she’d slept with about twenty Aussie men, as part of her research when travelling around the country. Irmgard thought he was the best lover she had had thus
far in Australia. He had affectionately nicknamed her Boom-Boom in response.

‘When do you finish?’ Peter asked.

‘Nine. Do you think you can hang around until then? I want you at full strength.’

‘Of course. For you, I’ll be firing on all eight cylinders.’ He was beaming with excitement. Irmgard smiled and moved away to serve another customer. She had been staying at his place every night and he had been getting very little sleep. He was exhilarated but utterly exhausted and running on two cylinders. He could feel aching muscles where he thought muscles didn’t exist. Irmgard was a hungry German-Amazonian beast. Was there a pill for utter exhaustion? Ginseng wasn’t working. He might have taken Boom-Boom out on a date except that he had baulked at cleaning out the Shag.

Besides, Boom-Boom made a pleasant change after two months of celibacy. He had finally broken off with his on-and-off girlfriend, Suzi Night, once again. She was the leather-clad, mercurial vocalist of Hangman’s Noose. She had a voice that could make you cry in one song and pierce your eardrums in another. The band had a regular spot on Wednesday and Saturday night at the Tote, but they were currently touring Australia as support act for a major Australian group. Suzi and Peter had met about a year ago, a few days after Michelle had left, but they had broken up three times during that period. Usually it was about the same issue. Suzi was going to be a big, big rock star and she didn’t have time for love. Hangman’s Noose was going to conquer the world. Peter, well, he couldn’t commit to buying a newspaper. This time it was final.

Peter watched Irmgard move around the bar.
What a body
, he thought,
and she’ll be in my bed tonight. That’s if she allows us to get past the couch or the bathroom.
A warm gust of lust coursed through his body. He took a final drink and was about to call for Irmgard, when he felt a sharp thump in his back. Peter stiffened to counter the impending onslaught. Who had he upset this time? A familiar voice made him relax and turn in his chair.

‘Slugger. What do you want?’ Peter sighed and rolled his eyes. Slugger Douglas was standing behind him, shuffling and nervously jabbing short punches at an imaginary boxing bag. Slugger had never really left the boxing ring. In fact, twenty years earlier he had left a
large part of his frontal lobe on the ropes at Festival Hall when he had been knocked out cold by the American Jimmy Malone. Slugger hadn’t been expected to live. He lay in a coma for six months and Jimmy Malone was so distraught thinking that he’d killed Slugger, that he had become a pastor in his hometown of Chicago. When Slugger had awoken from his coma, Jimmy declared it a miracle. Miracle or not, it probably would have been better if Slugger hadn’t lived. In his heyday, Slugger had been rated the best Australian boxer never to win a world title.

He now survived on a disability pension, lived in the public housing high-rise apartments nearby and hung out at the Tote, regaling any poor unsuspecting patron with tales of past boxing glories, interspersed with hallucinations about flying elephants and snakes. Slugger always liked to boast that he had been a
fixer
for the Painters and Dockers after his boxing career and he still knew what went on in the underworld. Maybe there was a measure of truth in his claims, but you would have had to sieve through all the delusions first.

Poor old Slugger. FITH syndrome
. That’s what Peter’s former nurse girlfriend before Michelle—Bridget—would have diagnosed him with.
Fucked in the head.
Punch drunk and a pain in the arse, especially when he hadn’t taken his psych medications, which was often. And, strangely, one of Peter’s sources. Most recently it was the Tony Donarto story. Slugger was taking his medications and relatively lucid when he’d given him that tip-off. It had turned out to be a good story once Peter had checked it out, analysed and cross-examined Slugger’s claims.

He’d sent Mad Dog on a clandestine special ops mission to obtain photographic evidence. Mad Dog loved that, although dressing like a ninja had been slightly over the top. Slugger gave the address where and when the affair was being conducted and, from his perch in a tree, Mad Dog caught the couple in a juicy embrace at the pool. It was a sensational story. Donarto was going to have to resign his seat on the council, the soap star had suddenly left for Hollywood
to pursue her career
and Donarto had threatened to beat Peter up if he ever saw him in Lygon Street again. That was where Donarto liked to hold court. How Slugger knew Donarto and how he had knowledge of his private life, Slugger wouldn’t disclose. He would only say that he knew people. What Slugger’s motivation was, Peter could only guess.
Then Slugger stopped taking his medications. After that, it was back to flying elephants and snakes.

‘Look here, Jack,’ Slugger snuffled through a nose that was spread across his face like a scoop of mashed potatoes. ‘Jack’ was Slugger’s nickname for Peter. He thought that Peter had a resemblance to Jack Dempsey, the former heavyweight champion. He bore no resemblance to Dempsey whatsoever but Slugger saw things that others couldn’t.

‘What is it, Slugger?’ Peter said abruptly. ‘I’m trying to have a quiet drink. Can we talk a bit later?’ He turned his back on Slugger and took a sip of his beer.

‘Need to talk, Jack. Need to talk.’ Slugger did a boxing shuffle and then flopped himself onto the stool next to Peter.

‘I’ll buy you a beer, all right, if you leave me alone after that.’ Peter relented. ‘But no crazy talk about the flipping zoo you have in your flat.’ He motioned to Irmgard. ‘Light beer for Slugger.’

‘I want a full strength,’ Slugger yelled, waving his hands at Irmgard who was about to fill his glass.

‘How many have you conned out of people today?’ Peter asked. ‘Just the one,’ he replied. Irmgard was listening in and held up two fingers.

‘I’m thinking of your health.’ Slugger gazed at Peter, wide-eyed. ‘Okay. Have a full strength, then. Don’t come crying to me when you fall arse over head.’

Irmgard poured Slugger’s beer and placed it on the bar. They were all part of a conspiracy to limit his beer consumption, as he had a habit of falling over on the footpath when he had too much and the regular patrons and staff had got tired of picking him up.

‘Thanks, Jack,’ Slugger slapped Peter’s back. ‘I’ll give you a scoop for the paper.’

‘Sure you will,’ Peter smirked. ‘Know anyone in the underworld? Can you introduce me?’

‘I’m taking my medications again,’ he announced.

‘Sure you are.’

‘Swear,’ Slugger crossed his chest. ‘A nurse comes around every day and gives them to me. They said if I refused they’d put me back in the psych ward.’