By Big M

It was late, passed eight o’clock, and the tension at the Trotters was almost palpable. Neville’s boys still hadn’t arrived, and the frequent high-pitched sound, and hint of blue smoke let them know that the Lambrettas were still outside, buzzing up and down the main street like blowflies in a charnel house. O’Hoo was buggered, so was punching out a few zeds in the Nathan Rees Memorial Cinema, upstairs. The bowling ladies had reluctantly been ferried home in the ‘Window Dressers, Pig and Whistle Courtesy Omnibus’, which Merv claims to have won in a poker game. As with most things around the Pigs, Granny was the only one with a bus/truck licence, so, she did the honours. This was with the exception of Beryl, who stayed to comfort ‘her Hedgie.’

Foodge was thinking at a frenetic rate. Two men missing, one, the leader of the most powerful gang in Sydney, the other, a fellow, and rival, gang member, and seriously respected artist. Foodge called Fern, asking her to bring all of his files on Ms Ann Thropy, Gez, the Angles and the Lambrettists. Naturally she had just had new acrylic nails, so, Emmjay would drive her down. They arrived shortly before nine; Fern resplendent in a green silk dress that hugged every curve, making her look like a jade princess. Emmjay, on the other hand, was on the receiving end of another ABC wardrobe malfunction so was wearing slippers, black pyjama pants, yellow smoking jacket with gold cravat.

Emmjay handed over the files (Fern’s nails hadn’t ‘set’), which were empty, except for a pamphlet in Gez’s on an Alpaca farm. This was partly, or mainly, Foodges fault, as he’d written nothing in the files aside from writing the titles on the manila folders. “Crikey, these are as useful as a cat flap on a kennel.”

Emmjay looked around. The Angles sat around brooding, drinking Trotter’s ale and snavelling egg and lettuce sandwiches. Rosie and BB were reading Tattoo Quarterly while Merv loaded a new lot of day-old fresh pastries into the pie warmer.  “What’s happened, boss, and why are there motor-scooters surrounding the place?”

“It’s a siege, Lambrettists versus Angles, that’s why the Angles are hiding in here.” Foodge was distracted by the sound of the TV.

“Two Lewisham men have broken Dolly Dyer’s record for catching Black Marlin in Australia. They are ineligible for the award on account of their gender; however, the Australian Angler’s Association is helping with the costs of having the animal stuffed and mounted…and in other news…” the newsreader droned on.

“Good on you Neville!!!” Merv couldn’t conceal his pleasure. “So, we won’t be seeing him, lucky bugger.”

Foodge’s mind was in overdrive. Neville was no help. What was the connection between the two missing men? Motor scooters? Well, that was obvious. Women? One was married, the other was recently divorced. What did Rocky import? Soap, or something? No. What did he export? Surf gear and something else. Ah thought Foodge. Ugh boots. There’s the connection. Alpaca Ugh Boots. Exporting them to South America. Gez was a retired Alpaca farmer, and Rocky, the owner of an Ugh boot factory! He turned the pamphlet over in his hands. He hadn’t made the connection, initially, because the farm was under the name of ‘H & G Alpacas’, not ‘Gez and whoever H was’.

Foodge dialled the number on the pamphlet. A woman identifying herself as ‘Helvi’ answered the call. He asked for Gez, and found himself speaking with him after a wait of a few minutes, whilst Gez divested himself of earmuffs, helmet, gloves, etc. Foodge explained the goings on at the Pigs. Gez just laughed, “that’ll be Rocky’s little brother, Lou, he’s been trying to take over the Lambrettists, and has probably seized the opportunity, while we’ve been away. Don’t worry, Rocky’ll call it off.” Gez hung up.

A couple of minutes passed, then, all was silent. The Lambrettists had gone. The Prof stood up. “Three cheers for Foodge” They all cheered enthusiastically. “Publican, your finest Passion Pop, all round.”  There was no publican to be seen. Merv and Janet had already realised the siege was over and had crept upstairs for some horizontal samba. Granny was asleep in the ladies’ lounge, snoring sonorously. Jail leapt over the bar, and started popping corks, and pouring carbonated wine into Ladies Waists, as Merv had never bothered with wine glasses. O’Hoo, woken by the cheers, staggered down the stairs, his creased face half covered with Police Association ink, and saliva over one collar.

There was the screech of feedback from a loudhailer somewhere outside. The disembodied voice called, “The building is surrounded with armed police, everybody lie down!!”

There was a huge noise from the front door, as someone tried to push the doors in, then realised that the doors opened outwards. Police in Kevlar jackets and helmets stormed in from every entrance, whilst the patrons quivered on the floor. Detective Inspector Rouge marched in, wearing high heels, silk stockings (complete with perfectly aligned seams, and a little butterfly on each ankle), and a short, red, cocktail dress. “Where’s O’Hoo, what have you bastards done with him?” she yelled.

O’Hoo struggled to his feet, trying to straighten his tie, and turn his jacket lapels the right way round. Rouge strode across the room, grabbed him by said lapels, and kissed him hard on the lips. “Thank God, little one, I thought you were a gonna! Now, what have these bastards done to you, you’ve been off the radar for two days?”

Foodge interjected. “We’ve done nothing, in fact, O’Hoo has been working ‘off the radar’ and, almost single handed located the missing Rocky and Gez, as well as stopping the Lambretta Vendetta!” Foodge went on to explain how O’Hoo had located the missing men with his brilliant powers of detecting, appealed to Rocky to call off the vendetta, and managed to keep all of the Angels in the pub, out of harms way.

“That’s my little Gerald,” cooed Rouge, with her face resting against his sweat stained shirt -front. “Who’s going to be nominated for a promotion?” She said as she tousled his greasy, thinning hair. With that, she ordered the armed police out, apologised to the patrons who’d been inconvenienced, then proceeded to walk out arm in arm with O’Hoo.

O’Hoo mouthed a quick, “Thanks Mate,” to Foodge, who responded with, “Bye, Gerald, see you round like the fat lady at a circus.”

Foodge sat on a stool, leaned against the bar, and skulled a pint of trotters, which a very thoughtful Jail had poured. Case closed. All over. Missed out on the money for finding Rocky. Missed the kudos for solving the case. No loose ends. An itch coming from his arse cheek told him otherwise!

The pub emptied pretty quickly. The Angels fired up their bikes, and took off for Highbury to attempt to salvage their collection of all things trigonomic. Fern had broken a new acrylic nail, so demanded that Emmjay escort her to the nearest beautician for emergency treatment. Rosie and BB mumbled something about creating more digital tattoo designs, so left with Jail in tow. Hedgie left with Beryl perched behind him on his outlandishly chromed chopper. It was a pity Hedgie didn’t pay as much attention to his personal hygiene as he did to his bike!  Granny had stumbled off to the cellar to check on her yeasts. Foodge was alone.

Foodge was alone exhausted. He’d been awake for the best part of thirty-six hours. He was unshaven and in desperate need of a shower, shave, and change of clothes. He had to admit to himself that he felt slightly betrayed by O’Hoo. Clearly Rouge and O’Hoo had been conducting a clandestine affair. Oh, well, he thought, Vinh was a very attractive women and O’Hoo was a very desperate man. Even Hedgie had hooked up!

Foodge’s reflections were disturbed by the rattle of the front door. A black leather clad, and helmeted figure strode confidently across the room. He was transfixed. The biker removed gloves and helmet, as long, black tresses tumbled down and an exotic, yet familiar scent filled the room. Foodge was gobsmacked. It was Miss Anne Thropy. “What does a girl need to do to get a refreshment around here?”

“Well…ah…oh..what can I get you?” Foodge mumbled.

“White Russian?”

Foodge knew that this was probably out of the question. Alcoholic drinks based on goat’s milk tended to be pretty ordinary, and the only milk at the Pigs Arms was from Granny’s goat, ‘Myrtle’.  Foodge shook his head, “What about a leg-opener, I mean a G & T?” He replied.

“Yes, Mr Foodge… I think you’re flirting with me.” Miss Thropy batted her long eyelashes. “Why don’t you just call me Anne?”

Foodge pushed the drink across the stained timber, “Here’s to your health, Mr Foodge, “ said Anne, draining the glass.

“Another, “ Foodge sounded a little too hopeful.

“No, thankyou, it doesn’t pay to drink and ride, nor does it pay to drink and drive a motorcycle.” Anne winked. “Coming?”

Foodge was a horny bastard, so didn’t need to be asked twice. He looked around as he opened the door for Anne. This place was like a home. Every feature etched in his mind, from the original art deco cornices to the threadbare carpet, from the rust-pitted chrome door handles to the juke box which only played one song, ‘Third Rate Romance, by The Amazing Rhythm Aces’. He sighed as he stpped into the cool night air.