By Big M

The Zephyr ground to a halt across the road from the Pigs Arms. Foodge had to park across the road, as a beer truck proudly displaying the sign ‘Wretches Pilsener’, was disgorging it’s load of kegs straight down through the steel doors in the footpath. Granny was supervising, hopping up onto the truck, then diving down into the cellar to man (or woman) handle the heavy aluminium kegs into some sense of order.  She was leaping, chimpanzee-like back onto the flat bed of the truck when she spied him. “Up early, son?”

“Home late, stake-out.” Foodge nodded to the aging Pentax, SLR in his hand. Stake out was a slight expansion of the truth, it was more like, trying to get the dirt on a stray husband at the Leichardt Ridges Hotel. The pristine Zephyr was hardly an inconspicuous observation post. “Grill on?”

“I’ll be five minutes, if this goat can pull his finger out. Already dropped one keg, for which I refuse to pay!” Granny glared at the driver.

Foodge ambled through the main doors, to find himself inside, what could only be described as a sauna. “Hello, anyone home?”

“In the back bar.” Roared the voice of Merv. “Tryin’ to make one of them ‘Cups-of-Chino!”

Granny bustled past Foodge, nearly knocking him off his feet. “I told you to leave the bloody thing until we’d read the instructions.” Shrieked Granny, as she flung the doors and windows open, to vent the steam, then tore through to disconnect the new coffee machine before any more aging wallpaper was threatened by the steam.

Merv looked helpless. “Tryin’ to go more upmarket.” He shrugged.

Foodge smiled the insipid, simpering smile of the night worker. “Breakfast?” He settled onto a stool as far from the coffee machine as possible, then flicked open ‘Barrister’s Weekly’, vigorously attacking into the Word-finder.  Merv pushed a glass canoe of Wretches Pilsener across the bar. Foodge knew by the absence of scent (smell would be a better word) and paleness that it wasn’t Trotter’s Best. “What’s this?”

“Best and Bitter are off.” Explained Merv. “Yeast died. Probably for the best.”

“For the best, for the bloody best?” Foodge was standing. “Best beer in the bloody world, and it’s extinction’s for the best!”

“Keep your voice down mate, Janet’s bin poorly.”

“Sorry.” Foodge had forgotten Janet’s delicate state, what with being in the pudding club, and grieving now that ‘Master Cook’ was finished. He leaned toward Merv, his tie draping itself through runny egg yolk and beans. “This is a disaster.” He whispered. “I can’t drink any other beer.”

“There’ll be no more PA beers until we can get new yeast, then there’ll be a trial period.” Granny had her back to them, trying to vent the excess pressure in the ‘Cup-of-Chino’ machine into a safe place, such as the sink. There was a great thump, followed by a second thump, which, inturn, was followed by the sound of the doors opening, which was accompanied by a  tuneless whistle, then, through the mist emerged the most distorted face Foodge had ever seen.

“Gidday, mates. Nice sauna” O’Hoo enthusiastically shook everyone’s hand, wrinkling his nose. “Breakfast?” Granny dashed off to the cellar for more beans and eggs. “Wizeyoo up so early?”

“Surveillance” Foodge bent his head forward and pushed his battered fedora back.

“Me, too.” O’Hoo grinned. “Big drug bust. Some bad bastards have been illegally making paracetamol, selling ‘em to old people, cheap. Very dangerous. By the way, why doesn’t it smell in here, I mean, aside from us fixing the dunnies?” This wasn’t entirely true, as O’Hoo himself carried a distinctive odour, but, like a sewage worker was completely inured to it.

“Tannery shut down, makin’ leather in Chine.” Merv shook his head, as sad at the loss of local jobs as he was for the loss of local drinkers.

“Bad news, O’Hoo.” Foodge struggled to keep a tear from rolling down his cheek. “Bitter ‘n’ Best are off!”

“No, tell me it isn’t true.” O’Hoo had Merv by the lapels, which was a pretty dangerous thing to do, what with his size and disposition. Merv expertly removed O’Hoo’s hands.

“Settle down, son, no-one’s died, it’s only beer” Merv stated, fairly unconvincingly. He started absent-mindedly fiddling with the ‘Best’ tap, looking about to make sure that Granny was out of earshot. “Look, yuz two are the cornerstone of this place, so I’ll level with yuz. It’s not so much the yeast, it’s Granny.  I know, she’s still sprightly, in and out, up and down, and she’s been happy as a dolphin since yuz two fixed the Gents, which, by the way, we’re all bloody grateful, but, ‘er arts not in brewin’.  I’m buggered, dunno what to do with ‘er.”

“But she won that award, for Granny’s Boutique Bitter, you remember, with the yeast from the underpants?” O’Hoo, avered. “What the hell is wrong with her?”

“That’s what I’m sayin’, I dunno. Thought she waz tired so offered her an all expenses paid ‘olidie to me cousin’s place in Woy Woy, but, no, wouldn’t go. Truth is she ‘ad a cuppla dud batches of  Best, then one of Bitter, then she said she’d never brew again. I think she’s lost it, she’s already made space in the cellar for Vee Bee an’ Toolies Old!”

The three screwed up their faces at the thought. Foodge thoughtfully let an eructation escape his lips, which took a bit of pressure off the ulcer. “Well lads, we all need to take it gently, you know, ‘touchy, touchy, feely, monkey’, as they say.” His head was bowed forward with his right index finger tapping the side of his nose. “My current case is a dead end, your’s is closed, O’Hoo?” O’Hoo nodded. “We both need sleep. Shall we reconvene at, say, seventeen hundred o’clock?

“You mean seventeen hours?” O’Hoo was jiggy with military time.

“No, what about five, then?

“Yep, we’ll make it five!”

The two men rose, collected their equipment, and left, leaving their glass canoes untouched. It was a sad day for Merv, his shoulders slumped as he tossed the amber fluid down the sink.