ThornyDevils (5 page)

‘Tell me, then.’

‘I don’t know if I should,’ he hesitated. ‘You just do sexy stories. I should talk to someone at
The Herald
.’

‘I’m a crime reporter as from today,’ Peter replied. ‘You can run it by me.’

‘You know I was in the Druids Hotel the day that Paddy Shannon got shot. I was sitting at the bar,’ he whispered. ‘I saw who did it. Plain as bloody day.’

‘Who was it, then?’

‘Can’t say,’ Slugger replied after taking a slow sip on his beer.

‘Why are you telling me?’

‘I was leaving that until later. For when you write a book on my life. A tell-all biography, Jack.’

‘I’m going to do that?’ Peter laughed. ‘You’ve put a lot of trust in me.’

‘Who else do I bloody know that writes for a living? No one. I know where the bodies are buried, if you want to know.’

‘Can you remember?’ Peter said dismissively.

‘I’m not joking, Jack,’ Slugger thumped the bar with his fist. Irmgard heard it and walked over.

‘What’s wrong, Slugger?’ she asked.

‘Jack doesn’t believe me. He thinks I’m nuts,’ he grumbled.

‘Slugger’s fine. No crazy talk at all,’ Irmgard acknowledged. ‘He was just telling me about one of his fights in great detail. The one he had with Mohammed Ali in America.’

‘Okay?’

‘See?’ Slugger drained his glass and handed it to Irmgard. ‘You can buy me another beer as an apology.’ She replenished his glass and stood with them.

‘All right,’ Peter conceded. ‘So the lights are on. Just a little dim, I think.’

‘I know what’s going on down at the wharves.’ Slugger leaned in closer to Peter. ‘I have the rundown on what they’re doing.’ He looked back at Irmgard. ‘Sorry love, but this is top secret stuff.’ She smiled and moved away to serve a customer.

‘She’d be a top sheila in the sack, that German sheila,’ Slugger commented as he watched her retreat.

‘She’s not bad,’ Peter grinned. ‘She doesn’t usually like doing it in the sack, though.’ Slugger broke into a laugh.

‘Lucky bastard. Can’t set me with up anyone, can you? I’ve been feeling like a bit of skirt since I’ve gone back on the meds.’

‘If you give me good information I’ll set you up with one of Irmgard’s friends. She’d probably even sleep with an old bloke like you.’

‘Okay, sounds good to me,’ Slugger beamed and rubbed his hands together. ‘Here it is, Jack. Between you and me.’ He glanced around the bar. ‘They’re bringing the stuff in on the boats.’

‘And?’

‘You know. The stuff,’ Slugger repeated tersely.

‘What stuff?’

‘The heroin,’ he whispered, ‘the smack.’

‘I thought it was nearly impossible to get it through the docks. You’ve got Customs, Federal Police everywhere.’

‘Not the way they do it.’

‘How does whoever they are bring it in?’ Peter tapped his fingers on the bar.

‘On Navy ships.’

‘Navy ships?’ Peter repeated as his eyebrows rose.

‘You know warships, that sort of stuff. The ones with bloody guns and missiles and blokes in silly hats. Get my drift?’

‘The Navy would be bloody strict about personnel carrying heroin. Wouldn’t you think?’

‘Not all of them do it,’ Slugger replied. ‘It’s what they call a rogue element, you see.’

‘You haven’t been taking your meds have you, Slugger? Is the admiral involved, too?’ Peter chuckled.

‘Don’t be a smartarse, Jack.’ Slugger grabbed him by the arm. ‘I’m telling you something serious.’

Slugger released Peter’s shoulder and continued. ‘The Navy blokes buy up in Asia, store it on board and hand it over at the other end to someone on the docks. The Customs mob don’t go on the Navy ships, do they? Easy bloody peasey.’

‘What I don’t get,’ Peter responded after a long silence, ‘is that Navy ships don’t come here often and there would have to be a few of them involved to ensure a regular supply. Melbourne’s got a lot of junkies. There’s no large naval base here like Garden Island in Sydney.’

‘I’m telling you, Jack,’ Slugger shouted. ‘I got it from the horse’s mouth.’

‘Someone on the wharves?’ He asked with increasing disbelief.

‘Maybe,’ Slugger hesitated. ‘Too risky to tell you.’

‘You’re not going to say?’ Peter shook his head.

‘You don’t believe me, so I’m not going to say anymore. Bugger ya.’

‘Fine,’ Peter replied. ‘Go home and take your medication. Talk to me when the lights are brighter, all right?’ There was a brief silence. Peter watched as Slugger looked around the bar, his eyes following Irmgard.

‘Are you still going to set me up with the German friend?’

‘She’s sitting on the other side of the bar,’ Peter replied pointing to a masculine looking girl with purple hair. ‘Go and introduce yourself. Say you’re a friend of mine.’

Slugger turned his eyes towards the girl. ‘You’re joking, Jack. She looks like she belongs in a bloody circus. She’s not a clown is she?’

‘You wanted some skirt,’ Peter retorted. ‘I didn’t say she was a model. She looks hot when she takes all the crap off.’

‘I guess I’m no oil painting.’ Slugger felt his nose. He rose hesitantly from his stool rubbing his hands with anticipation. ‘I tell you what, it’s been a while, Jack. I can’t be too choosy these days. It used to be showgirls once.’

‘Go,’ Peter implored with a wave of his hand. ‘Leave me alone. Please.’

Peter could hear the faint tone of an alarm clock. In his semi-consciousness he wondered why it sounded muffled, like it was under water. He moved his head slightly. The alarm clock was now drilling through his head, as per normal. He realised he had moved his head from the protection and comfort of Irmgard’s ample breasts, which had acted like twin ear muffs, smothering the noise. She was lying face down on top of him, snoring loudly. Peter now realised he couldn’t breathe properly. He took a deep breath and managed to roll from underneath her in a single motion, and switch off the alarm clock.
Shit!
He had to be at the airport in forty minutes.
Shit! What happened last night?
Peter spun to the side of the bed looking for something, anything, to wear. It was obvious what he and Irmgard had been up to, but as to the events that had transpired before that, not a bloody clue. He found a pair of underpants hanging on the bedside lamp and slipped them on. Irmgard kept snoring. He rolled alongside his German vixen and stroked her hair. He was about to kiss her neck.

‘Cup of coffee, Jack?’

Peter spun around to be confronted by Slugger Douglas, wearing a pair of torn grey Y-fronts, holding two cups of coffee and a devilish grin. He started to walk towards Peter who was now sitting bolt upright, propped against the bedhead.

‘Don’t come any further. I don’t want those jocks coming too close to me. I don’t want to catch anything,’ Peter waved frantically. ‘How the hell did you get in here?’ he stammered.

‘I stayed here last night. You invited me,’ Slugger beamed.

‘I let you stay with me?’ he responded nervously, ‘You came home with me and Irmgard?’

‘Yeah. After the pub shut,’ Slugger replied.

‘What did you hear? What did you see?’

‘After I got Helga on the couch,’ he grinned, ‘I didn’t hear or see anything else except her naked body and her cries…’

‘You and Helga?’ Peter interrupted, looking Slugger up and down. He didn’t look in too bad nick for a man in his fifties, except for the decomposing underpants. But…

‘What a lovely girl,’ Slugger continued. ‘Can I put these coffees down? They’re getting hot.’

‘Sure,’ Peter replied. Slugger moved towards the bed and carefully put one down on the bedside table next to him. Peter took a quick sip.

‘You make an all right coffee, Slugger.’ Peter looked around the room for more articles of clothing. He grabbed a pair of pants that were lying on the floor. He stood up and slipped them on.

‘Good night,’ Slugger smiled. ‘Best I’ve had in ages. I reckon I owe you one for setting me up with Helga.’

Peter didn’t reply. He jumped off the bed, opened a battered wardrobe and rummaged around. He pulled out two shirts and a pair of jeans, threw them on the bed and looked back in the wardrobe. Moments later a pair of shoes and a duffel bag were on the bed.

‘Are you going somewhere, Jack?’ Slugger asked with a quick scratch of his groin. Irmgard’s sonorous snores punched holes in the air.

‘Going to Townsville to cover a trial,’ Peter blurted as he reached into the bedside table drawer and pulled out a crumpled collection of underpants and a wad of loose socks. He zipped up the bag and slipped on a shirt and a pair of shoes in a flurry of motion. He took another drink of his coffee.

‘Townsville,’ Slugger said finally. ‘You poor bastard. I remember going through there once with Jimmy Sharman. What a hole.’

‘Exactly,’ Peter responded breathlessly. ‘Hate the place. The arse end of the world.’

‘How long are you going for?’

‘About three days,’ he replied as he did up the buttons on his shirt.

‘I’ll look after things while you’re gone.’

‘There won’t be much to look after.’ Peter looked at Irmgard. ‘Tell
Irmgard I’ll ring her tonight. Got to go.’ He snatched the duffel bag and headed out of the bedroom.

‘There’s something big happening on the wharves, Jack,’ Slugger called out, as Peter brushed past him.

‘So you said last night.’

‘I may have mixed things up a bit,’ Slugger admitted. ‘Not all there yet.’

‘Well, you’ll be back to your old self by the time I get back. Firing on all cylinders.’ He checked his watch. ‘Got to go.’

‘I know people on the docks,’ Slugger followed him through the lounge. ‘I used to work there.’

‘We’ll talk when I get back,’ Peter returned. ‘Just take the tablets.’

He was out of the door before Slugger could reply. Slugger stood in the stairway watching Peter run down the stairs towards Johnston Street and a taxi blowing its horn repeatedly. Slugger adjusted his underpants and went back inside.

The taxi was nearly at Melbourne Airport and Peter was still wishing he could relax. He had a lot to think about. New job, Irmgard, sleep deprivation, Slugger, Townsville and the next deadline. Always the next deadline. It could feel like a gathering storm when there were too many events happening. Maybe Townsville would be a good location to wind down, if he could just get past his dislike for the northern city. Imagine it was Cairns? Or Cannes? Then Peter thought of Concheetah and smiled. Would he do almost anything for a story? Most times, but today…the front page of
The Truth
would be:

Former Captain Capers Star Unveils his Dance Act at The Velour Lounge
.

Townsville

Peter lay naked on the bed watching the overhead fan beating lazily. It wobbled and hummed as the blades turned. He suspected the fan was going to detach itself from the ceiling any minute now and fall on him. It might injure him, but the blades would never cut him. They were moving so slowly that he could see that they were covered in a black crust.
In the heart of darkness.
Martin Sheen’s opening scene in
Apocalypse Now
. The only difference, Peter hadn’t smashed the mirror. Not yet.

Peter wanted to smash the whole room but drunkenness had been his only deterrent. Bob had certainly booked him into a motel on The Strand. The Bayview Motel, as its name suggested, was near the sea but as far away from modernity as a motel in Haiti would have been. Obviously, 1966 had been a big year for motel expansion in Townsville.

Peter had started off at the neighbouring Seaview Pub when he first arrived from the airport, then he trotted off to the Bayview, took one look at his room, laughed with shock and immediately decided to get hammered. Yes, Peter Clancy had fallen off the wagon and straight into his version of hell. He had done well to last a year without going on an all-out bender, but the Motel Hellside had been too much. Now, he was stretched out in a non-air-conditioned room that felt like it was the backdrop for depressed people to check themselves out, with the police finding their bodies in a sea of pills and bottles of booze three days later. He was lying on sheets already wet with humidity, perspiration and spilt alcohol. The heat was sleep depriving. It should
have been a pleasant change after the biting chill of Melbourne. Peter had opened the windows earlier in a vain search for a relieving sea breeze, only to be attacked by a swarm of rapacious mosquitoes. It was a motel in Haiti located near a dengue-ridden swamp. The only thing missing was the gunfire—though he could hear drunken voices fighting in the park across the road.
I’ll get you back, Bob. I fucking promise
.

The mini bar was empty. It had been empty since nine o’clock when he had skulled a mini bottle of Johnny Walker Red. It was now eleven-thirty. There had been only six bottles in the mini bar but Peter had dug out all reserves to get drunk on so little. Getting more kilometres per litre. This was going to be the only way to get a semblance of sleep.

Peter thought he might have achieved a heavy state of inebriation at the Seaview but he had almost been rescued by a blonde angel-faced nurse called Cherie—weren’t all nurses like her?—who had nearly pulled him away from his beer to her room at the nurses’ quarters. He might have gone willingly had he not intended on getting wasted and remaining faithful to Irmgard.

A new development. He had recently decided to embark on a bold experiment: practising fidelity. He’d tried celibacy, monogamy and polygamy, but fidelity? Irmgard was going to be different. So Cherie had left disappointed and Peter had returned to his cell-like room to wallow in alcohol and self-pity. Now he regretted his decision. A beautiful woman in your bed was a far better option than clutching an empty mini bottle and watching a rerun of
Prisoner
on television. Finally, Peter fell asleep around midnight, after covering himself in a moist sheet in the hope that the mosquitoes wouldn’t devour him.

He managed to appear at the Bayview Motel restaurant for breakfast at eight, feeling itchy all over—the sheet hadn’t worked— and suffering a top ten hangover. He passed on the tropical fruit, which came out of a can, the gravelly cereal and the leathery bacon and eggs, opting instead for two pieces of toast. He found a single table in the corner and carefully scraped a large wad of butter and Vegemite onto the toast. Even that level of exertion made his head throb. All this suffering could be rectified by a good cup of coffee. He noticed a hovering waitress carrying a jug.