ThornyDevils (6 page)

‘Double espresso,’ Peter called in a parched voice, ‘extra strong.’

‘What?’ the waitress asked.

‘Espresso,’ Peter shook his head, ‘you know. Coffee. The drink that isn’t tea.’

‘We don’t have that sort,’ she replied as she approached Peter with the coffee jug. ‘No one asks for that here. You’re from down south aren’t you?’

‘Maybe I am. That shouldn’t matter. Have you ever thought that tourists come here or do you tell them to go to Cairns?’ Peter rasped back at her, watching the girl’s eyes glaze over. ‘Okay, just give me what you have.’

The waitress poured the coffee quickly and left. Peter took a sip then banged the cup back on the saucer.

‘It’s frigging cold!’ He cried in frustration, ‘I ask for a cup of coffee and its cold! I just want a cup of coffee. Please.’ He felt like he was going to do a Mad Dog. The other guests, all three of them, looked up from their meals. The waitress strode back to Peter’s table. He had his head in his hands, feeling utterly broken. He looked up just as the waitress was putting a finger into the cup.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ he asked with disbelief. He could feel his mouth drop open.

‘It feels hot enough to me,’ she announced as she removed her finger from the cup, shook it like a thermometer and wiped it on her apron, adding, ‘Are you sure?’

‘Believe me, I know what a cold cup of coffee tastes like. I know what a bad cup of coffee tastes like, and this ticks both boxes.’ He looked up at the waitress, pleading. ‘Why do you think I moved from Queensland to Melbourne a long time ago? To get a good cup of coffee. That’s why.’

‘Well,’ she snapped. ‘There’s no reason to get angry. No one else has complained.’

Peter took several deep, slow breaths. Either loss of temper or complete insanity would be first past the post. He and the waitress traded stares, each waiting for the other to crack. Peter finally concluded that you can’t argue with dumb.
Dumb and brick walls. Forget it
.

‘Forget it,’ Peter stood up quickly. ‘I’ll find a coffee shop in town… I hope.’

This wasn’t hell on earth, he thought as he left the restaurant, this was really hell.
In hell the coffee is always cold
.

Peter wished he had brought his cunning kit with him as he approached the Townsville courthouse, a bunker-like complex among tropical palms. He could have arrived dressed as a rabbi-with-a-false-beard or a grey-old-man, and the Max Hillard group gathered at the courthouse entrance would not have been any the wiser. There were about thirty of them. Some were holding placards saying
Release Our Hero
,
Trial by Southern Media
, and
Leave Our Town Alone
. Peter stiffened, dropped his head and increased his pace as he drew nearer. He could see the masculine features of Mrs Daphne Hillard out of the corner of his eye and saw her propel her large frame at him with fists flying. One punch just missed Peter’s nose. He ducked and ran up the stairs.

‘Traitor mongrel,’ Mrs Hillard screeched repeatedly, with the group providing a chorus of insults. He stopped when he reached the top of the stairs. Mrs Hillard remained at the bottom, continuing to hurl invective up at him. The police constable who was supposed to be providing security sauntered up to the group and looked up at Peter and grinned. Yes, Peter was in the heart of darkness.

Peter hadn’t entered a courtroom since his time at a Queensland newspaper. He knew the process
ad infinitum, ad nauseam
. Barristers, wigs, juries, gowns and judges parading like peacocks. The drama of the court unfolding. It always appeared far more exciting on television. Even
Rumpole of the Bailey
had made it look sexy: the accused sweating bullets, shitting bricks, looking dishevelled, angry, lost. The reality was mostly like watching a boring test match with the occasional boundary or dismissal. Peter recalled a case where a young court reporter was so bored and so hungover that he had fallen asleep during proceedings. Peter had been unceremoniously woken and removed from the court when his snoring had distracted the judge. This time Peter wasn’t a spectator. He was going in to bat. He was going to be called as a witness, and, he hoped, not a nervous one.

He was directed to a crowded waiting area and was pleased to see Dave Tindall looking dapper in a suit and tie, sitting by himself.

‘You look like a groom, mate,’ he laughed as he shook Dave’s hand. ‘Where’s the bride, or has she run off?

‘And you look the same,’ Dave grinned. ‘Like you’ve just got out of bed with the latest hangover.’ They both laughed.

‘What have you been up to?’ he asked as he sat down. Dave followed suit, loosening his tie.

‘Got out of the police force. Thank God,’ Dave smiled. ‘Only a few months ago. Got a good payout and now I’m looking for another career.’

‘How about you join the Victoria Police?’ Peter suggested. ‘They could do with a man of your calibre and intellect. They’re a little short on those qualities at the moment.’

‘I never want to be a copper again,’ Dave declared, hanging his head. ‘After what I’ve been through.’ He paused. ‘I have given serious thought to becoming a private investigator. I even did a course for it. I could start up my own company with my payout.’

‘You’re frigging joking.’ Peter shook his head. ‘A professional pervert? You’ve been watching too much
Magnum P.I.
It’s not like what you see on television.’

‘And you can talk. Professional pervert.’

‘I’ve been promoted. I’m now a crime writer with my own weekly column.’

‘I’m impressed. From naked bodies to dead bodies. That’s a step up. Better get used to the smell.’

Peter swiftly changed subject. ‘How’s your mum?’ he asked.

‘Not well,’ Dave replied, ‘She’s in a nursing home. She wanted to be here, but she had a stroke a week ago.’

‘Real shame,’ Peter responded. He’d always liked Lorna Tindall. ‘She’s the real one who deserves to see justice been done.’

‘Do you think that’s going to happen here today, Peter?’

‘Well, we’ve wasted our time if it isn’t.’

‘Look around you,’ Dave lowered his voice. Peter looked at the faces in the room. There were about twenty people who had been called as witnesses.

‘How many people here do you think are the prosecutor’s witnesses?’ Dave asked.

‘If it is just us I’m going to start worrying.’

‘There’s not many,’ Dave replied. ‘Most of them are character witnesses for Max and Doug.’

‘Hardly anyone came forward?’ Peter asked, sounding defeated. ‘I should have known.’

‘The local media are on their side. It’s the usual thing:
The southern media are picking on us
stuff.’

‘I wonder who’s putting out that message?’ Peter smiled. ‘I had a
frosty reception out front. Ma Hillard threw a left hook at me. Nearly got me.’

Dave started to laugh out loud. ‘I heard the old bitch could handle herself. I’ve heard she’s flogged Max on occasion.’ He wiped away tears of laughter.

‘Glad you think it’s funny.’

‘We’ll slip out through a side door when it finishes.’

‘I’d feel better if Sam was here,’ Peter said pensively. ‘He didn’t deserve to die that way.’

‘Die? Who? Sam?’ Dave replied in quick succession. ‘He wasn’t killed.’

‘What!’ Peter exclaimed. ‘The old bugger’s still alive?’

‘Well, he nearly died,’ Dave continued, ‘but he managed to drag himself to a homestead five kilometres away. He was in hospital for three months. That young nutcase Corey fractured Sam’s skull and broke his leg.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me? You know my number.’

‘Sam told me not to tell you because he wanted…’ Dave was cut off mid-sentence.

‘Surprise, young fella!’ Peter spun around to see the familiar frame of Sam Saturday, resplendent in a new stockman’s hat, moleskin trousers, checked shirt and bootlace tie. Peter also noticed that Sam was using a walking stick.

‘I thought you were bloody dead!’ Peter stood up and embraced the old man.

‘Not too hard,’ Sam complained. ‘Still a bit sore.’

Peter stood back and admired the stockman. ‘I can’t believe you survived.’ He turned away to wipe his tears.

‘Stop the crying, I’m fine,’ Sam chastised. ‘I’m a tough old black fella. I’ve had horses roll over me, been gored by a bull and been stabbed in a fight. Do you think some girlie bloke was going to finish me off?’

Their celebration was cut short by the sudden appearance of the bailiff calling Peter’s name. He stiffened and patted Dave and Sam on the back before he followed the official.

‘Wish me luck, boys,’ he tossed at them, with the air of a man who thought that he was the one on trial instead of Max Hillard.

Peter and Dave looked desolate as they walked through the lounge of the Townsville Hotel with their first drinks. Sam, on the other hand, looked strangely serene. Peter and Dave had opted for stubbies of beer while Sam was content with orange juice. After sitting down, the three fell silent as they sipped at their drinks. After a couple of gulps, Peter brightened up enough to throw a flirtatious eye at a receptive barmaid who was clearing a table nearby. He then realised he had no interest in proceeding any further. After today’s trial, Peter felt like he had been put through the mincer.

‘I don’t know how you feel,’ Peter was the first to break the pall of silence, ‘but it didn’t go quite as I envisaged. Max’s barrister pulled us to pieces. The prick called me an unreliable witness.
A muckraking journalist from a scandal sheet is not a reliable witness
. His own words,’ he snorted. ‘And no Gloria. What the fuck? Max’s defence team are going to shit on us. I can’t believe they couldn’t locate her even if she has pissed off back to the Philippines.’

Sam and Dave remained mute. Sam finished his drink, then lifted up his hat and picked aimlessly at the band.

‘Isn’t anyone going to say anything?’ Peter looked at Dave, who looked to be on the verge of tears.

Dave drained his stubby in one gulp. ‘What’s there to say? We should have known it was going to be one-sided. If you’re an unreliable witness, then join the club. My apparent unstable mental state added me to that list. I’m glad Mum wasn’t here to see this.’

‘Today was a bad day,’ Sam said finally, after throwing his hat on the table. ‘Tomorrow could be different.’

‘Why are you so optimistic?’ Peter asked.

‘The way I figure it,’ Sam began, ‘Doug’s in the slammer, Max’s career is finished, I’m sitting with my mates, and I’m alive.’

‘I just wish it would go against Max,’ Dave said. ‘Dumb Doug puts up his hand. Fancy not ratting on Max and taking the fall for him.’

‘Max is a cop,’ Sam replied. ‘Cops don’t like going to jail. There’s a lot more black fellas in jail than there are cops. Get it?’

The barmaid had finished gathering up the used glasses on the other tables and had sidled up to them, one hand on her hip, looking bored.

‘Just another round, thanks, love,’ Peter ordered, finally glancing up at her.

A different barmaid returned with their drinks.

‘Where are you blokes staying tonight?’

‘We’re sharing a room here,’ Dave replied.

‘You derros are staying at the best hotel in town and I’m at some flophouse on the Strand. How the hell does that work?’ he complained.

‘We can’t help our good breeding,’ Sam laughed.

‘Is there another bed in your room or do I have to bunk in next to you, Sam?’

‘You can sleep on the floor,’ he returned, ‘I’m not having you snoring in my ear all night.’

‘Sleeping on the floor would be better than that room I was in. It wasn’t even air-conditioned. It was like sleeping in an oven. And the coffee was stone cold.’

‘Okay,’ Dave relented. ‘You can stay with us, but on one proviso.’

‘Sure,’ Peter replied.

‘No bloody whinging.’

Melbourne

Shazza looked unusually healthy and alert, Peter thought when he kicked open the office door at eight o’clock to see her typing and looking at the word processor’s screen.
A pleasant change.
Peter playfully rang the counter bell several times.

‘What the hell?’ Shazza looked up at him and sneered. ‘You look like a frigging politician.’

Peter was resplendent in his new Stafford Ellison suit and carrying a new leather briefcase. Another request from Bob.

‘Please don’t lower my status from scum journo to scum of the earth,’ Peter replied in a mock aristocratic voice. ‘Still on the wagon, I see? Don’t know if that’s a good thing. You sound too witty.’

‘Doing my best,’ Shazza replied. ‘Been two weeks now. If I keep this up I could become a good Christian girl.’

‘I think I prefer you drunk or hungover.’ Peter smiled. ‘You, a good girl? And I’m going to become a choir boy.’

Shazza took a drink from her cup of coffee.

‘That’s reminds me,’ Peter said anxiously, ‘is the coffee machine still working? I don’t want Mad Dog chasing me around the office.’

‘You can rest easy. It hasn’t broken down once since you’ve been away.’

‘Thank God,’ he sighed.

‘So, are you glad to be back from the sticks?’ she asked.

‘Shit yeah,’ he beamed. ‘I know for sure that I’ll be able to get a good
cup of coffee in Melbourne. Back in civilization,’ Peter said happily and turned away from the counter.

‘Hey. There’s a big bunch of flowers on your desk,’ Shazza winked. ‘Someone thinks you’re good in the sack.’

‘Really?’ Peter stopped dead, flattered. ‘I wonder who it is?’
Irmgard
. How come she was getting all hot and heavy when he had only rung her once from Townsville.
Tread carefully, Peter Clancy
.

‘What on earth?’ Shazza rolled her eyes. ‘Someone thinks he’s a big lover boy?’

‘Some men have it,’ Peter grinned. ‘Some don’t. I don’t.’

A huge bouquet of carnations greeted him when he reached his desk. He read the card.

My darling Peter. Thanks for the story you did on Ted. He was so happy, though I think you’ve created a monster. Crowds are up. He wants to do a whole revue. Sorry I doubted your sincerity. Hope to see you soon. Lots of love. Concheetah and Teddles.