…… “and Maison de Pain” …… read the small fragment of a business card in O’Hoo’s rapidly cooling top pocket.   Something about a baguette, maybe.  But as crusty as I was, the second last thing on my mind, after sharing a room with a deceased copper was breakfast.  The first and last thing on my mind was the diminishing effect of a couple of aspirins.  Pretty soon I’d be Bayering at the moon.

I had to think fast and act.  I thought I’d quite like a cigarette.  Since Merv had banned them inside and since the car park was a no-mans land of low-life dealers and netball players, it had been a long drawn-out time without a Lucky Strike.  No smoke detectors?  Nope.  Bliss.

I needed a hirsute canine to steady myself.  The flask of JW…. was empty.   Some of the panel beating in my head came from the aircraft, busy leaving tyre prints on the roof.  I figured that O’Hoo and I were somewhere in the Inner West.   I was more there than he was, though.  He was previously in the Inner West.  That meant I was not far from the Pig’s Arms, a pint of Trotters and a JW chaser.

I thought about moving O’Hoo, but how ?  There was a blue Zephyr parked outside across the street.  A notoriously hot-wirable chariot, with a boot just big enough to accommodate the former charlie.  But a supine former dick the size of O’Hoo was not an easy lift and I figured that I had best get my sorry arse over to the pub climb into a glass canoe and see if the great amber god gave me some inspiration.

The first gift of the day was a set of keys in the ignition.  Someone had been in a hurry.  Someone who had left sticky traces on the leather bench seat and a Barry White tape in the 8 track.

I turned the key.  The Zeph considered the suggestion and reluctantly coughed into life.   I wheeled the beast out into the traffic and headed in the same direction as the aircraft until the familiar porcine sign drifted into view.  Into the driveway and around the back of the car park next to two 44 gallon drums full of what looked suspiciously like waxed eyebrows.

The carpark was deserted except for the local kids shooting butterflies with a slug gun.  I found my Ray Ban clip ons, donned the Trilby and with a sound louder than the 10:30 mongrel overhead, I crunched my way across the gravel and pushed open the side door of the pub.

Without so much as raising his eyebrows, Merv wordlessly reached for a pint glass and with the care of a cardiac surgeon, poured a delightful foamy vat of Trotter’s Ale and placed it on a coaster on the bar.  I sat down with all the care of a recent post-pile patient, raised the glass – nodding to Merv and enjoyed the luxurious flow across my parched palate.

I scanned the bar.  There were two old alkies – Wal and Danny from the rice shed on the Rozelle goods line.  Danny was studying the form guide and nursing his middy like he expected it to gather interest if he kept it long enough.  And Wal was bullshitting his way through retelling (to no-one in particular) blow by blow detail of his successful score with the tea lady at the RSL prawn night the week before.

There was a blonde bloke with a lived-in face in a cheap Hawaiian shirt, beige chinos and white shoes sitting in the corner with a Trotter’s, pretending to read the sports pages.  He looked like a copper to me.  He seemed to be waiting for something.