By Big M.

Foodge looked at the ancient Cuckoo clock over the bar. The clock always said half past eleven but just now that meant that it was about four p.m. Janet had done her ritual screaming at the local kids. One mum had turned up, giving Janet an earful. She’d come back inside, downcast. Her one good eye following the carpet in front of her feet, the other swinging wildly, as if trying to take in everything. Merv filled another canoe with Granny’s new Pale Ale. Granny was intending to try to keep this new cellar-floor underpants yeast alive. It had really invigorated her brewing.

Foodge took a long pull at the canoe, then settled back to Barrister’s Weekly. He’d always tried to maintain his knowledge of legal matters. He loved the Barrister’s Word Finder, most of all, except, it had him stumped, which wasn’t unusual.

Last night had been a disaster. Instead of meeting Ms Thropy for a midnight tryst, he found himself negotiating towing fees with young Nic Stavros of ‘Stavros & Stavros Towing Services’, then, half the morning discussing engine rebuild options with Fern’s brother, Reg, who was keen to drop a 427 Chev motor into the chassis, as, this was cheaper than a full rebuild.

The usual barflys hung around. Rosie and BB had been in to collect their guns. Rosie continued to wink at him every time she saw him and mumbled something about the strength of the dragon. The bowling ladies had been back, except Beryl, to ensure that the urn and teapot had been stored away properly, then left.

The main door opened. O’Hoo stepped aside to let DI Rouge in, then stepped through, allowing the door to slam on the young plain clothes copper, on secondment from uniform.  “Gerald, your manners should extend to our young friend”. Rouge simpered, obviously still in love’s thrall. “Ah, Foodge, questions for you.” Vinh’s speech had taken on a weird, lilting, poetic quality. “You must excuse me, Mr Foodge, for, I am in Love!: she exhaled.

O’Hoo looked bashful, but, better for being in ‘Love’. He’d already had a shave and haircut, with streaks! He was wearing a clean suit and shirt, and carried a new Mont Blanc pen in his pocket.

Well, O’Hoo, you look like you’ve got beaver fever.” Said Foodge, as straight a face as he’d ever pulled, although he was bursting with laughter on the inside. O’Hoo, dud root extraordinaire, with bloody trouser wearing Rouge. Still, he thought, O’Hoo looked better for it, in spite of the love bites up his neck.

“Mr Foodge, we meet again.” Rouge’s small fingers were interlaced with O’Hoo’s sausage-like equivalents. “I have a few questions for you.”

“Am I under arrest, or, just a police caution?” Foodge was applying some legal jargon in the hope of throwing Rouge off the scent. There was a scent, the scent, or, rather stench of the blocked urinal in the men’s intermingled with burnt sausage roll and goat-shit.

The mixture of sights and smells, plus, a night of wild love-making left O’Hoo’s stomach complaining. He nodded at Merv who scratched his skinny arse with the tongs, then tossed a couple of sausage rolls onto a plate. O’Hoo was in heaven, side by side with his love, his best mate next to them and a fist-full of oily sausage roll and sauce. MMMMMM..extra crunchy!!!

“Dyouahvanalibiforlastnite?”

“Sorry?” Foodge shook his head a couple of times like an epileptic.

“Alibi, you, last night” Rouge was clearly jiggy with the young people-speak.

“Dwineedwun?” Foodge replied, he’d watched ‘Countdown’, before.

“Yep.” Sounded more like the way he was used to speaking. “de Sastri’s been shot, with your 0.38. Grinned Rouge. “Prima facie case.

Foodge was confused. He assumed de Sastri was till on the Southern Tablelands, plus, the only latin he knew was  ‘cunni lingus,’ the Irish airline. “Ugh?”

“Sorry mate, we’ve got the head with a bullet from your snub nosed 38, and, your gun at Thropy’s place. Looks like you’ve hooked up with her, been discovered, shot the bugger, then chopped him, and his scooter up, then chucked it in wheelie bins throughout Leichardt.” Explained O’Hoo.

“Foodge aint the ‘Wheelie Bin Killer!” exclaimed Merv. “Been here mosuv the night!” The body of de Sastri had been discovered by a garbo, who, counter to the garbo creed, had got out of his truck to reposition a wheelie bin, then made the discovery of a severed arm with the tattoo ‘Lambrettas forever’, plus a scooter motor. This had shut down garbage collection for most of Leichardt whilst the Coronor’s lads combed through the remaining wheelie bins. There hadn’t been much left in the compactor, as bits of de Sastri mixed with bits of motor scooter, mixed with refuse.

Rouge put her hand up.”I agree, Merv, Foodge aint, or, isn’t the ‘Wheelie Bin Killer’. Why, you may ask? One, We know he was here last night, as he was still under police surveillance, two, he’s a good friend and mentor to my beautiful Gerald, and three, I believe he was framed!”

“Commiserations on the Zephyr.” Chimed in O’Hoo, looking around desperately for a napkin or tissue to wipe his greasy fingers.” Merv refused to provide napkins on the premise that, if he did so, people would use them.

“Looks like a big end bearing came apart, tearing open the crankcase.” Foodge was upset, not only because of the damage to his favourite car, but it was going to cost so much to fix. “Anyway, why d’you think I’m being framed?”

Rouge was wiping O’Hoos’s face with a tissue she’d found in her Louis Vitton handbag. “Your finger prints weren’t on the gun, as you have a pathological fear of guns. Thropy had retained you, as a PI in order to access your weapon and, at the same time assessed security in your office, which is never locked properly as your secretary can’t manipulate keys properly with those acrylic nails.”

“Why would she want to murder her ex-husband? She was shot of him, and managed to get more than half of his substantial property.” Foodge was bewildered.

“I believe I can answer that!” In strode Gez, who had obviously just ridden down on his Charlie, his long fingers still stained with paint. He nodded to Merv who poured a glass of shiraz, while Janet, who had recovered from her bollocking, went down to the cellar to get a jar of pickled herrings. Merv and Janet enjoyed having a famous painter as a patron, so, uncharacteristically, tried to look after him.

Gez settled onto a stool next to Foodge. “But first, how is your painting, my friend?”

“Haven’t had much time, been…ah…busy…er…sorry.” Foodge was embarrassed to talk about his artistic exploits. Keen to change the subject. “ What motive did Anne have for murdering Rocky?”

“Cast your mind back, how did this start?” Gez sounded slightly mystical.

“The tattooed arse, no, the Professor’s thesis rejected, no…”  Rouge prevented Merv from giving O’Hoo another clip around the ear.

Foodge’s brow furrowed. “It was Lou, started the vendetta, and…” Foodge struggled for something at the back of his brain. No. The more he struggled to remember, the more confused he became. He may as well try to remember Poiseuille’s Equation, or the capital of Brazil.

“Rocky divorced Anne, because she had an affair with his brother Lou. This affair has continued. They both wanted to take over the Lambrettists. The vendetta was a trial to see to whom the members were loyal. When the vendetta was called off so easily then Rocky was killed. Simple!” Said Gez, as he ate the last of his herring, followed by the rest of the shiraz.

Rouge was already dragging O’Hoo through the doors, she was thinking SWAT teams, big arrest, perhaps even tip off the press. Gez gave Merv a generous tip, then left, promising to take Foodge out to the country for some painting, mumbling something about the quality of the light, the colours, the textures.

Foodge was once again alone with Merv, who filled another canoe and handed it to Foodge, “On the house, son.”

The Pigs Arms was finally back to the way it was.