ThornyDevils (7 page)

Peter should have been embarrassed, but instead he felt pleased. Pleased that he hadn’t lost a friend and especially relieved he hadn’t lost a source of information. He picked up the flowers, cradled them in his arms and moved stealthily down the corridor. He would have made it back to his desk unnoticed, except for Tom Crocker.

Old Tom Crocker, was the journo who took up the slack, who did the stories no one else could be bothered with, including the sex advice column. He had a work ethic that belied his advanced years. And apparently a more than passing interest in horticulture.
How old was Tom? When was journalism invented?
Tom was here before everyone else had started at
The Truth
and would probably still be here when everyone else has left.

‘Beautiful flowers,’ said Tom. ‘From someone special?’

‘Not really.’ Peter felt himself blush and kept walking. He put the flowers on the floor next to his desk.

‘Don’t do that,’ Mad Dog snarled from somewhere. ‘You need to put them in water,’ he instructed as he approached.

‘I don’t have a vase,’ Peter replied, a little bewildered.

‘You’ll probably find one in the storeroom.’

‘Thanks, I’ll get onto it soon.’

Mad Dog smiled uncomfortably at Peter, who was now sitting in his chair pretending to look at papers on his desk. Peter slowly picked
up the flowers from the floor and held them uneasily between his legs.

‘I love flowers, especially carnations.’ Mad Dog fingered the petals. ‘They’re a symbol of beauty. Don’t you think?’

‘Yes, I suppose.’
What the…?

‘But so short-lived. Alive for a briefest moment in time then…’ He took a sip of his coffee and leaned in towards Peter, who shifted in his chair. ‘Crime writer now, I see. I hope you’re up to it. Won’t be pleasant.’

‘I should be right. I’ve seen my share,’ Peter replied, a little defensively.

‘I hope so.’ Mad Dog took another sip of his coffee. ‘Because you and I are going to be working fairly closely. More than normal.’

‘You and me?’

‘Bob wants good pictures, see. What’s the saying?’ he paused. ‘If it doesn’t bleed, it doesn’t lead.’ He chuckled for a moment then his face turned sombre. ‘So I don’t want anyone falling apart on me.’

‘No worries about that,’ Peter bit back. ‘I hope you’re up to it, too.’ He placed the flowers back on the desk.

‘Funny,’ Mad Dog shook his head. ‘I’ve seen stuff that would make you go insane. You’ve never been in a war.’

‘Well, then it looks like we’ll make a good team,’ Peter returned.

Mad Dog took a long time to reply. ‘Bob says you have a scanner. You better start listening to it.’

‘It’ll be on all the time.’

‘Only do the hard stuff. Nothing else. I don’t want to be woken up for car accidents and domestics.’

‘I get it—if it isn’t bleeding, it won’t be leading. I know the brief. I am the journalist, after all,’ he called after him, as Mad Dog sauntered back to his cubicle. Peter was still shoving flowers into the glass vase on the last piece of space on his desk, just as the door to Bob’s office swung wide.

‘Doing a bit of flower arranging,’ he sniggered, barely catching his breath as he approached Peter. A cigarette dangled from Bob’s lips, glued there with spit; it bobbed up and down with every word. ‘Which admirer is it this time?’ he continued.

‘Would you believe they’re from a five-feet, eleven-inch drag queen?’

‘Whatever puts the wind in your sails,’ Bob chuckled, admiring the flowers. A line of ash fell on them. Peter flicked it away.

‘Purely professional,’ Peter replied as he put the finishing touches to the arrangement.

‘I didn’t know you had another side,’ Bob joked, adding in an effeminate voice, ‘Drag queens. Flower arranging. Should I be worried?

‘Just keeping Mad Dog happy,’ Peter retorted. ‘Apart from being mad, he’s also a bloody florist. And apparently I’m going to be working closely with him.’

‘No more than you have before.’

‘Good,’ Peter sighed. ‘To hear Mad Dog speak, we’re going into combat together. He’s taking the crime column far too seriously.’

‘He’ll be fine,’ Bob reassured. ‘And at least he won’t be squeamish. As long as you don’t mention the war,’ he chortled, slapping Peter on the back.

‘And this fucking scanner,’ Peter slid open the drawer and took out the scanner, still in its box.

‘It isn’t going to work in its box, now is it?’ Bob growled.

‘Do I have to keep this on all the time?’

‘Yes. Even at night. Sorry mate, it’s going to cut into drinking and girl time but I want this column to work.’ He pulled open the box and took out the scanner. ‘Count yourself lucky you’re not a police beat reporter. And you have to listen to everything, day in, day out. You can’t even have a piss without taking it with you. Keep it on the priority one channels. You know, the fatal shootings, the homicides. That has to be your focus.’

Bob tossed the scanner at Peter, who thought about letting it go through to the keeper for a brief moment. He stretched out his hands at the last moment and caught it. Just in time.

‘Make it your friend. Between this and your sources, I reckon we’ll keep ahead of the competition.
The Age
won’t know what hit it. Hey?’ Bob slapped Peter so hard on the back that it stung.

‘Okay.’ Peter toyed with the scanner. He could feel his blood pressure sinking quickly into his newly acquired Julius Marlowe shoes, and had the sudden urge for a stiff drink, followed by a second. Was this the crossroad moment that he had dodged his entire long and undistinguished career? Either the enormity of the job was now suddenly dawning on him, or was he just plain shit scared.

Bob detected conflict in Peter’s eyes and shifted subjects. ‘So, things didn’t go so well up there in the boondocks, I hear?’

‘I should have expected that Max Hillard would get off,’ Peter replied, snapping back from his thoughts with a jolt. ‘Now I’m thinking I don’t have a story. After everything we did, he walks free.’

Deep in thought, Bob stubbed out his cigarette at a nearby desk. He lit up another one almost as quickly. ‘That’s easy,’ he proclaimed. ‘Don’t make Max the focus. Open the aperture a little.
Frontier justice, Queensland style. A lesson for Melbourne.
No names, no pack drill. That shouldn’t get the lawyers too hot and bothered. How does that sound?’

‘I get it,’ Peter rejoined. ‘Concentrate on police corruption. Its far-reaching effects.’ He began to type.

‘There’s no hotter topic than that at the moment. Everyone’s blaming the police for the spike in crime already.’

‘That’s good,’ Peter nodded, adding, ‘You’re fucking good, Bob,’ by way of emphasis.

‘In my day, son. In my day. Believe it or not, when my fellow journos were sitting in a pub, I was working the beat.’ A lazy smile stole across Bob’s face. ‘To be honest with you, you’re not a bad journo, Peter, but you’re bone idle. You have to pull your finger out now. This job could make you. No more titty boom-boom stories for you—this is the real deal.
The Truth
’s going to make you a legend, even if it kills you.’

‘Great,’ Peter replied. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

The Tote was nearly empty when Peter wandered in for his pre-dinner ritual drink at six. Slugger wasn’t there. Thankfully. Neither was Irmgard.

She had told him on the phone that she was looking forward to seeing him. A thought drifted into his mind. Maybe Slugger had run off with Irmgard and her friend? Peter grinned to himself. With a wave, he called over Harry, a novice barman who had been leaning over the bar, watching television.

‘Where’s Irmgard?’ he asked.

‘You didn’t know?’ Harry looked surprised.

‘I’ve only just got back from Queensland.’

‘I thought she would have told you,’ Harry chuckled. ‘You were shagging her, weren’t you?’

‘Yeah. You’d think she’d tell me, wouldn’t you?’ he replied flippantly. He didn’t have a clue what Harry was talking about.

‘She left, while you were away.’

Peter zoomed in on Harry’s teeth as he spoke. Tar stains. Not a sight for sore eyes after a hard day’s work. Peter didn’t know which was worse: his needling personality, his scowl or the lank
muffet
on his head, as Peter called Harry’s hairstyle hybrid of the muffin-topped mullet. Possibly, it was all of the above. If Peter ever wanted to punch anyone, Hooray Harry would definitely be first in line. He wouldn’t want to connect with those teeth, though.

‘Obviously,’ Peter rolled his eyes. That was another irritant: Harry wasn’t the coldest beer in the fridge.

He began again. He knew it all. Filling Peter in on everything he’d missed. ‘She said her and her mate were going to travel. Heading to Western Australia, apparently.’ He looked Peter up and down and started to snigger. ‘You look cut up, mate.’

‘You continually dribble shit, Harry,’ Peter snapped back. ‘Just get me another beer then you can go back to watching
Neighbours
.’

Harry drifted away to the fridge. A snigger for the road.

*

Con and Roula both came around from behind the counter and greeted Peter with a hug when he entered the Apollo at seven.
Someone cares
, Peter thought.
Someone cares. Stop beating yourself up, Peter Clancy. Did you think you were going to have a long-term relationship with Irmgard? You know relationships don’t suit you.

‘We missed you,’ Con said cheerfully.

‘I was only gone for a few days,’ Peter replied faintly, ‘but I’m glad to see you too.’

‘Isn’t it good to know someone misses you when you’re not here?’ Roula smiled and hugged Peter again.

‘What are you having tonight?’ Con asked, returning to his spot behind the counter. ‘If you say fish and chips again, I’m not going to make them. Too much! I know we have the best in Melbourne, but you eat too much the same thing, you have a heart attack.’ He clutched his hand to his chest. ‘Like the Greeks say,
Pan metron ariston
. You hear that before?’

‘All things in moderation. That’s Greek?’

‘Yes, that’s Greek. That’s very old Greek.’

‘We’ll make you something healthy all right,’ Roula added, rolling her eyes. ‘We’ll make you Greek salad and
pastichio
. Much better for you.’

‘Okay,’ he smiled. ‘I don’t know if my body will take it but I’ll give it a try.’

‘Very good,’ Roula replied. She shovelled a piece of the
pastichio
into an aluminium tray, while Peter wondered how a concoction of pasta, meat and cheese sauce could possibly be a healthier choice than fish and chips.

‘You looking very sad, Peter,’ Con fixed his large, dark eyes on Peter like a concerned parent.

‘I’m fine,’ he replied, scanning the menu on the wall that he already knew by heart.

‘I know! That German girl,’ Con continued. ‘She broke your heart.’

‘I’m not the broken heart sort of bloke, you know that.’

‘Sure, you are,’ Roula interrupted. ‘You very soft. I see it in your eyes. I have words of advice for you.’

Here we go,
he grinned. Always full of useful advice for Peter which he always found useful to ignore. Maybe, one day he would heed their advice.

‘Good family, good food, good woman. And lots of healthy children. That’s all you need in life,’ Roula declared as she spooned the salad into a separate takeaway container. Con smiled in agreement.

Then again, maybe not. ‘I should start to worry,’ Peter grinned, pretending to wipe sweat from his forehead. ‘I’ve managed to avoid all of those, so far.’

‘But you not too old yet,’ Roula continued. ‘You still young and not bad looking. You meet a good girl. But not one who like to smoke, drink and go to parties. Okay?’

‘Sounds like you want me to marry a nun,’ he joked. Con and Roula broke into a hail of laughter.

‘Good,’ Con wiped his eyes. ‘We start looking for one tomorrow.’

After dishing up his evening meal onto a chipped plate, Peter settled onto the couch with a comforting can of VB. Feeling the need for relaxing dinner music, he left the couch to slip the latest
Whitesnake
record on his Pioneer stereo (with the turntable and two cassette players combination). It was one of only five items of furniture, the others being a second-hand fridge (with leaking seals), a very old double bed (with sloppy mattress), a battered wardrobe (with one door missing) and a rusty camp bed for pissed guests who didn’t mind doing permanent injury to their back. The stereo was the only thing in it that was insurable.

He turned the volume to mild ear pain and fell back onto the couch. All of his immediate neighbours were shopkeepers and Con and Roula had already gone home, so there was going to be no noise complaint. He felt lucky to be where he lived because, if on occasion he turned it up to ear-damaging volume, the surrounding residents always blamed the bands playing at the Tote.

With the VB still in one hand and the instructions to the
fucking scanner
in the other, he sank into the couch, determined that he would learn how to use it, thus making the new position his own. Embracing new jobs and new technology were, admittedly, not his forte. He needed help to change a light bulb. A Luddite.

The sound of Coverdale’s vocals filled the flat and overflowed, joining the screech of the Johnston Street traffic, as Peter wrestled with the manual and the scanner’s buttons. It responded with a series of farts, crackles and whistles. He wanted to throw it across the room.
Instead of Irmgard for seductive diversion, he had this machine to contend with.

By midnight, after six more VB’s, three temper tantrums, four changes of records and a broken hearted depressive moment, he finally conquered his fears, his heartbreak and the scanner, which, in the meantime, he had nicknamed,
The Beast
. He fell into bed, placing the scanner on the floor beside him. His new, dark navy blue Stafford Ellison suit awaited in the broken wardrobe. The phone sat on the pillow next to him. Peter was prepared. Peter was ready. Ready for anything. The Pulse was ready.
Bring it on
. With that, Peter crossed himself and fell asleep.

Peter was skipping along in a field that appeared to be in the Bavarian Alps. He was holding Irmgard’s hand tightly as they laughed and gambolled. Reaching a stream—a bubbling one, of course—they fell with unbridled laughter onto the soft verdant grass. Irmgard slipped off her white blouse to reveal her bounteous Germanic breasts covered in a lacy bra. Peter joyfully was unhooking and fumbling with the bra but the noise of the stream was distracting. It crackled urgently.