Merv had been a publican ever since he left the Force, after a brief stint in the pawnbroking business.  He was comfortable in his own skin – which was understandable since he had quite a lot of it for a man of his size.  Merv’s wife Janet had fallen for a man whose face she felt needed ironing. But she married Merv just the same.  He was not really a big man for someone six feet five and he certainly was not as broad as half a beer truck.  (OK I stole this from Raymond Chandler’s Farewell My Lovely”).

Merv knew he was pushing it with O’Hoo, but since O’Hoo had never been seen paying for his beer, Merv took it that he was up for the occasional piss taking.

The beans were doing their stuff and the receding panel beating in my head was giving way to the pipes clearing themselves for some fabean orchestral work or even a fabian organ recital.

O’Hoo was warming to the day and mopped up the last few streaks of tomato sauce with a piece of granny’s toast.  He washed it down with the room temperature beer.  I was reflecting on how glass canoes are like trees.  If you count the foamy rings, you can see how many pulls it took the drinker to down that glass.  This forest was still in its youth but the number of trees was growing fast.

O’Hoo looked set to roll up his sleeves and do something close to nothing with the morning.  First a stop off at Marios for a short black and then some business at Rosie’s Tattoo Emporium and House of Pain (Extra Pain no charge).

Hedge had thoughtfully topped up the Zephyr and since I was feeling much more like a human, he handed me the keys and the invisible chauffeur’s hat.  ‘Sprung to life’ is an overstatement for a Zephyr starting.  The Zephyr cleared its throat and settled into a cautious burble and saying our fond farewells to Merv, Manne and the remains of granny’s breakfast (with the usual hollow threat of paying in the unforeseeable future), we took the first left onto the Warrigal Interstate and pulled off that down the Inner West Ringroad and yanked a parking space right out front of Marios.

Marios was well known as the never-closed palais de café where Cold Chisel famously did not write “Breakfast at Sweethearts”.  There was nothing to indicate the place was open for business or what kind of place it might be.  Mario enjoyed the ambiguity and his customers enjoyed the laminated ambience that only formica and brushed aluminium can bring.

But the coffee WAS hot and the black gold flowed like West Texas sweet light crude.  It smelt better than it tasted and it had an excellent taste.  Tough to decide whether to kill the taste with the cool water needed to save the stomach lining from a fresh re-tarring.

O’Hoo’s famous appetite had returned with a vengeance and a second cup was landed with a side order of Hungarian poppyseed cake.  O’Hoo tucked in like a condemned man – which wasn’t far from the truth.  He was condemned to look like a person with poor attention to dental hygiene – on account of the swarm of little black/blue/grey poppyseed deposits between his teeth.

“Now about this little bit of backside art work”, O’Hoo said drawing closer as a connoisseur of an embarrassingly-placed tattoo might.  “How did we get these?”  “I thought you might be able to enlighten me”, I replied.  A “give me strength” frown crawled over his brow.

O’Hoo had the annoying detective’s habit of asking obvious questions and then quibbling over the correspondingly obvious answers.

“I imagine  we visited Rosie’s” I added helpfully but to no applause.  “Foodge, we have a pair of fucking Gemini twins.  One on your arse cheek and one on mine.  What’s the message ?”  It was a fair question and I was really wishing I had even a passable answer.

“Do you remember the bet?”  No.  “Well what about playing Slippery Sam ?”  Two or three neurons flickered into an idea somewhere in the back reaches of my brain.  “Was that where you bet Shorty Chan he couldn’t make it past half way through the deck and when he made it to half way, took the pot and went double or quits, I had to cover you ?”  “Hmm.  Possibly”, said O’Hoo.

“Did we lose anything else ?”  “Hmm.  Possibly said O’Hoo.

“Is there anything in this that Trotsky might be interested in ?”  “Snap”, said O’Hoo.

“Listen, I have an appointment.  I’ll drop you off at Rosies.  You fill in the blanks and I’ll meet you for lunch at the Pig’s”.  Several of the wrinkles on O’Hoo’s face had decided to do an impression of anger.  Some of the others were voting for apprehension and one or two opted for bravado.  O’Hoo’s appetite had given up on the Hungarian poppyseed cake.

O’Hoo’s mobile rang once.  “Yes, OK.  Rosies”, he said, listening for several minutes.  It was unlike O’Hoo to listen much past the second sentence.  He had the attention span of a gnat.  I could tell that it was Hedgie, and that Hedgie had done a lot of homework while we were eating.  I thought I overheard “ballistic”.

Rosie’s Tattoo Emporium and House of Pain (Extra Pain no charge) was across the road and down a bit from the Pig’s Arms.  Hedgie’s bike was parked outside.  I dropped O’Hoo and headed off at a Zephyr-brisk (i.e. leisurely) pace for a quick shower, a change into my other suit in time to meet the intriguing Miss Anne Thropy.