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.

Foodge’s War by Big M

Foodge, O’Hoo and Merv had little else to do but wait, so watched some cricket, a one day match between MNU (no-one knew what this stood for)  and the OPs. It was a replay and seemed like a universe away. “Y’know we’ll be in a shitload of trouble if it all kicks off?” Mumbled Merv, his eye on a batsman wearing a clerical collar. “lambrettists are the some of the fiercest fighters in this town.”

“Pppppfffft,” O’Hoo sprayed beer, lettuce and egg across the room, hitting the brass and timber ship’s wheel, hung on the wall for effect. “Packa Pooftas, that lot. Couldn’t fight their way outova wet paper doily.”

“No, Merv’s right.” Foodge chipped in, “Look at motor scooter riders. No one respects ‘em. Gotta push their way through heavy traffic, precipitates a bituv road rage. They gotta know how to fight.” Foodge still carried a scar from an altercation. “Lookit the Angles. They all look tough, ride big bikes, everyone gets outov their way. Never fight, they’re all blubber. Lookit Hedgie.” Hedgie was still there, too frightened to go into the streets until he was with the gang. “We need more people.”

The Bowling Lady’s production line was still in full swing. Merv leaned to the side and whispered into Janet’s delicately formed ear. She quickly jerked her head back, fixing him with that one eyed stare. “No, go on Love, we need’em.” Janet removed her apron and took off through the front doors like a male nurse trying to avoid emptying a bedpan.

Ten minutes elapsed then Janet sidled up next to Merv, nodded and winked, while he watched the TV, stoney-faced as the priest-cricketer got knockded out. She must have slipped in through the yard, where Granny was stacking kegs, sorting brown bottles from clear, and so on.

A sound split the air like a thousand deep throated, twin cylinder gnats, roaring up the main street. All assumed it must’ve been the Angles, on their charlies. The main door was opened by a short, rotund fellow, dressed in chauffer’s livery. He stepped to one side to allow the most ravishing creature on God’s earth to step through. It was none other than the very aromatic Ms Ann Thropy. “Thankyou, Gregor, you may wait in the car.” She walked toward Foodge, careful not to snag her stiletti in the fraying carpet. “I pay you good money to look for my ex-husband, and instead I find you here drinking with buffoons.” Her eyes wandered to O’Hoos hunched form as she pronounced the word, ‘buffoon.”

Foodge was flummoxed. “Well, ‘er, ah, you, ah, never gave me a , er, description of your, ah, husband, er, ex, er, ah, husband.”

“His name’s Rocky de Sastri, he’s 186 cm tall, well hung, I mean, built, and drives a black Lambretta. Is that all? With that she turned on her heel, forgetting the fraying carpet, tripped over her own feet, and collapsed on the floor. O’Hoo was all over her like a fat kid on a Smartie. The more he tried to help, the worse it got, especially with his best Police Association ink still wet on his filthy paws. Eventually Janet stepped in, helped her to her feet, wiped as much ink from Ms Ann’s shoulder as possible with a beer soaked rag, then helped her out the door to her waiting Wolseley Six.

Both Foodge and O’Hoo were about to have a eureka moment. Wait for it. Wait for it. “Rocky’s disappearance must have something to do with the Angle’s trouble with the Lambrettists,” both chimed together. “Find Rocky, and we’ll find the answer to our dilemma,” continued Foodge, just as the doors burst open and in strutted Rosie, her chief tattooist, BB and their bodyguard, Jail (because he’d been in there, and his initials are JL, get it?). Each carried a couple of shot guns, and each was adorned with ammunition belts criss-crossed over their chests, Zapata style.

“Oh, no, not shooters!” Foodge exclaimed, who’d developed hoplophobia in another life.

“Can’t win war without guns, Mister Foodge,” grimaced Rosie. “How did you think we won the Great Tattoo war of ’58?”  Merv moved out from behind the bar, took the guns ( a lovely Purdey Over and Under shotgun and one of which proved to be an old blunderbuss, for which Rosie hand-loaded ammunition) and stowed them in the office. Beryl poured the trio cups of tea, as they were all teetotallers.  Psycho killers, but teetotal, none-the-less.

“Look, thanks for your help, but we’re almost on the cusp of….” Foodge’s words were cut short by the arrival of the Angles, led by the Professor, who stepped up to Foodge, and embraced him like a brother (a sibling, not a bikey gang member), then walked over to Hedgie, and embraced him.

“I see you’ve assembled a formidable army!” said the Professor to no one in particular, as he removed his John Lennon style glasses. “We shall crush them like little beetles.”

“Well, wait a minute, that might not be necessary.” Began Foodge, who was immediately interrupted by O’Hoo, who was till enjoying the eureka moment, or, in his case, the eureka ten minutes.

“We should try to find Rocky.” Burst O’Hoo. “He’s the key.”

The Prof looked quizzical. “de Sastri’s missing, well, so is Gez. He went away on a water colour weekend in the Southern Highlands, and hasn’t been heard from since. Normally he calls every other day, just to inform us of his progress.”

“Water colour weekends, progress, what are you smoking, Prof?” Foodge was exasperated.

“Oh, well that’s easy, Gez goes away for a couple of days a month, paints his little heart out, then sells the paintings at a little art gallery in Paddington. Easy money for a great artist, and brilliant geometrician.” The Prof enthused. “ He’s been gone about five or six days.”

“So has Rocky.” nodded Foodge.

“I know, they’ve eloped. No, they’ve gone camping, no, they’ve joined the Mormons.” O’Hoo could barely contain himself. “I’ll get Fern to check the Registry Office, and the Mormons, and all of the camping grounds.”

Merv gave O’Hoo a clip around the back of the head. “You’re becoming hysterical, like a potato peeler. The same person has probably abducted them both.”

The Second Big M Episode….

Foodge grabbed O’Hoo by both shoulders, “Please tell me you’re not going to call this in?  You know what happens to blokes like us if this place closes?”

O’Hoo shook his head, “No bloody way, there’s not a case I’ve solved that hasn’t relied on information received here.”

Merv pushed a couple of glass canoes of Pigs Arm Best Bitter, across the grainy, stained, timber bar. Granny had been experimenting with imported Tasmanian hops, hand roasted barley, and new yeast, which had been extracted from a pair of underpants found under the cellar stairs.

Foodge downed the brown fluid in one continuous gulp, “Christ that’s cold, what happened?”

Merv laughed, for the first time in years, “Granny fixed the refrigeration unit in the cellar, just this morning, turns out it was a busted fuse!”

O’Hoo mumbled something about draining a lizard, or, was it someone’s gizzards, and stumbled off.  Foodge reflected on his time at the Pigs. He’d started out as the rising star of the Police Prosecution Service, winning high profile cases by day and escorting some of the most glamorous women in Erskineville at night. The legal system would never allow a man like him, a (mainly) heterosexual teetotaller, into their inner sanctum. Foodge had been bullied by the other lawyers until he left, a broken alcoholic, fed on a steady diet of Pink drinks, with JW chasers.

Merv had been the one who’d turned everything around for Foodge. He’d literally pulled his face out of the urinal of the Pigs Arms gents, sat him down at the bar, fed him one of Granny’s famous Pigs Arms Big Breakfasts, then told him a few home truths. Merv pointed Foodge in the direction of work as a Private Dick, “A good Private Dick can name his own price and get as many roots as he can handle.”

Foodge’s life was transformed. He bought two pinstriped suits, a bow tie and his trade mark Fedora, which he never wore. Now, years later, he had a suite of one office, a luxury Zephyr, and a staff of two, if he counted Emmjay, the cleaner.

His reverie was disrupted by a soprano scream.

“Janet, my love, they’re only school kids,” called Merv. Janet had never really understood the concept of children being, well, children, as she’d never been a child herself. Every afternoon she screamed at the kids as they walked passed on the way home from school, thinking they were dwarfs trying to break the glass over the ‘Wretches Pilsener’ poster, outside.

O’Hoo was settling on the stool next to Foodge. “So, how are we going to avert World War Three?”

“This will have to be a triumph of diplomacy over bellicosity”, mused Foodge. “Those bloody Lambrettists have the strength of numbers to destroy Highbury and The Pigs, as well as everything that goes with it. We are going start with getting the boss of the Angles talking to the boss of the Lambrettists, but, how do we do that?”

“Hedgie,” called Foodge,” Can you come back over here, just for a minute?”

Hedgie was lying on the lounge, his head on Beryl’s lap, while Old Dot was at the piano, doing her best impersonation of Nina Simone. The only problem was that Dot could neither sing, nor play the piano well. Hedgie struggled back to his feet and ambled back to the bar.

“Hedgie, we need you to get the Professor down here, so we can plan our defence against the Lambrettists,” stated Foodge, as he fumbled with a pack of Camels. He never smoked, but kept them in his shirt pocket to add to the mystique of being a P.I.

“Professor won’t talk to you. Professor won’t talk to anyone. Not since his thesis on Fermat’s Last Theorem was ridiculed by the Feculty of Meths at the University of Sidney.” Replied Hedgie.

“Hedgie, the Angel’s only chance for survival is for the Professor to talk to Rocky  de Sasatra.” Urged Foodge.

The de Sasatra family had been the heads of the Lambretta club since the end of WWII. Foodge reasoned that if the leader of the Angels, the Professor, could talk to the head of the Lambrettists, there could be hope of peace.

“There is someone who can help,” interjected Merv, “Neville Coleman is the best man to act as a go-between.”

“Neville Coleman?” exclaimed Foodge,” the bloke who does the vegetarian meat raffle on Friday nights to raise money for the Annandale Sea Scout Dinghy Repair Fund. The bloody things rigged. His illegitimate son, Manne always wins. The poor kids still trying to get his dad to take him to the tofu farm to watch tofutabeasts being made into tofu burgers.”

“Where did you think the Pigs Arms Fisherman’s Club came from? They’re a break away, non-Lambretta, motor scooter group. Neville’s the leader?” grinned Merv. He’d both laughed and grinned in one day. Might be time to see a psychiatrist.

“OK,” said Foodge, “how do we get Coleman down here?”

“I’ll phone ‘im.” Mumbled Merv, as he turned to enter the ‘office’, which was about the size of a Public Telephone booth, only much less comfortable.

“Hedgie, phone the prof, NOW, here’s my mobile” said Foodge, a little louder than he intended.

“OK, OK, I’ll phone.” Hedgie backed away and headed for the public phone, one of the few left in Sydney that didn’t require a phone card, next to the ancient condom dispenser, next to the gents.

Foodge had forgotten that the Angles eschewed modern technology such as, mobile phones, calculators, electronic fuel injection, and such. The all lived for the day when the analogue computer would return, probably running on valves, coils and huge capacitors.

Merv was back behind the counter. “Neville will be back this evening, at the earliest.”

“Why, where the hell is he?” Foodge was umbraged that Merv had taken it upon himself to contact Neville without giving him the opportunity to speak.

“Him an’ Manne are at the Banks, fishing for Black Marlin”

“Black Marlin, does he really fish?” Foodge’s forehead was so screwed up it looked like a map of Afghanistan.

“Does he fish? He’s one of the last great big game fisherman. He’s fished all over the world, why, right now him an’ Manne are trying to break Dolly Dyer’s record!” boasted Merv, as he stood to his full height, towering half a head over Foodge.

Foodge was about to continue the argument when Hedgie’s considerable bulk re-appeared. Hedgie really was quite an unattractive fellow, mused Foodge, in one of those surreal moments one has during a crisis. “Thrall cumin!” blurted Hedgie, as the unmistakable stench of the gents wafted in, as if pursuing one of its members.

“So,” O’Hoo mumbled, as he, once again, managed to squirt ink from his Police Association pen all over his, now useless, Police Notebook, “Most of our side should be here for tonight.”

The Bowling Ladies had overheard all of this, and had already started a production line of egg and lettuce, or ham with pickles sandwiches. All on stale white bread, all with margarine that tasted something like 90-weight oil from an old Zephyr diff. An old dented urn was already bubbling away, like a witch’s cauldron, and a huge chipped, dark green, teapot had already been cleansed of algae, ready for the first acrid brew of the afternoon. The old girls were on a war footing.

Rocky Di Sasatra - President of the Lewisham-Leichhardt Lambretta Club - before the accident.

Emmjay welcomes this Guest Episode by Big M !

O’Hoo leant across the table, “You gunna eat that?’ His hand hovering over the last day-old sausage roll, fresh from Merv’s ancient pie warmer.

Foodge shook his head, and drained the warm remnants from his glass canoe. The warm beer gently soothed away the fire in his gut, which would be revealed, at autopsy, to be due to a gastric ulcer. He shifted his gaze towards Merv, who took the hint and started to pour two more canoes of trotter’s best.

“Granny,” roared Merv, “Drop that bloody broom and get down under to see what’s wrong with that keg.” Merv held a canoe in his great fist with beery foam streaming down the side, running off his elbow. “Sorry gentlemen, Granny’ll have it fixed in a jiffy.”

A hint of a smile crinkled the corner of Foodge’s mouth. Yeah, Granny would fix it. There was nothing that the old girl didn’t know about kegs and taps, and pipes, as well as cooking, cleaning, and the general administration of the Pig’s Arms. It was a pity she new nothing about keeping beer cool, he reflected.

It was ten o’clock on a fine morning, and the place was humming along, mainly due to the presence of the Window Dresser’s Arms, Pig and Whistle Ladies Bowling Club. They held their weekly meeting every Tuesday morning, in spite of the fact that their green had been demolished to make way for Aldo’s Shopping Emporium.

Foodge’s ruminations were disturbed by the sound of a crash against the front door, as Hedgie’s distorted face pushed up against the glass. He had never been able to work out that the entrance doors opened outwards, to facilitate the egress of patrons at closing time. The door was wrenched open and Hedgie appeared, sobbing so fiercely that his entire frame shook.

Foodge moved to Hedgie’s side, expertly navigating the big, blubbering giant through the assorted stools and gasping bowling ladies (some, inexplicably held flames for poor old Hedgie, but that’s not for here). Merv placed a glass of JW on the bar, “On the house, son.”

O’Hoo had wiped the sausage roll oil from his maw, and had taken up position on a stool next to Hedgie, his best Police Association pen and police notebook in hand.

“It was bloody Gez, wanting dual club membership”

Foodge was befuddled, “What club?”

“Gez has been a member of both the Hell’s Angles, and the Lewisham-Leichhardt Lambretta Club.” Moaned Hedgie, “He’s been riding his Charlie Fat-Boy by day, and a bloody bright yellow Lambretta Serveta, by night. You know how one –eyed those Lambretta riders are? When they found out they went berserk. They declared a Lambretta vendetta”

“Settle down lad,” soothed O’Hoo, wishing he hadn’t eaten that second sausage roll, which seemed to be having a war with Granny’s beans and toast, “What did they do?”

“What didn’t the bastards do?”  Wailed Hedgie, “desecrated Highbury, that’s what they did. Broke in, cracked the slide on our Napier’s Memorial Slide Rule, broken all of the set squares and, T-squares, then they’ve torn up the only remaining sine, cosine and tangent tables left in Australia. Anything to do with Angles has been destroyed.”

Foodge, O’Hoo and Merv looked at each other. They all knew what this meant. Gang war, here, a bee’s dick away from the Pigs. Only swift, direct action could divert total disaster.

There was an air of acetone in Foodge’s office as the remaining wetness evaporated from Fern’s immaculately sculpted nails.  She opened the window to the point where she could make the judgment that the air outside was far less breathable than a boil-over in a cosmetic foundry.  Fern closed the window and turned the overhead fan up to “2”.  This made no difference.

Fern opened the door just before the doorbell rang.  Offscreen, Emmjay frowned at the sound effects operator, then realised that Fern was ad-libbing fresh air.

Standing in the doorway was a ravishing, tall and slender woman, impeccably attired in Eurojaponais fashion.  Fern knew she was looking at a woman of wealth, discernment and considerable taste.  The shoes were Anne Demeulemeester, the dress was a Comme de Garcon spring collection number in black, red and white.  The Fern was a tiny bit envious.  Emmjay realised that the ABC wardrobe man had created a fashion statement that would appear forty years in the future.  He scribbled one word on a piece of paper, handed it to his assistant, he always called “The First Mate”.  She handed it to the ABC wardrobe man.  It said “Centrelink”.

“Come in, Miss …..” Fern dangled an introductory opportunity.  “Thank you” replied the mysterious fashionista, declining the nominative insertion potential of the exchange.

“Mr Foodge is expected momentarily”, said Fern. “Do you mean that he is anticipated for a fleeting period of time in the sense of the literal English, or do you mean that after a short period he will no longer be expected to arrive – because he HAS arrived – as the Americans mangle the English ?” inquired the vision of style and grace.

“I mean, he is supposed to be here soon” came Fern’s increasingly testy response.  “Would you like a cup of coffee, some tea or perhaps a glass of water ?”   The water cooler made an obligingly authentic imitation of a dog unloading its breakfast in the alley outside, by way of answer and the woman opted for the offer of a seat in preference.

She sat with the elegance of a swan.  Tall, composed, straight and self-contained.  She was a woman of substance and Fern could tell that this was no mere wealthy dame riding the coattails of some merchant or a rapper’s moll.  No this dame had substance all right, and a well-worn season ticket to a gym.  She had the look of a woman who had lost a lot of puppy fat, had grown lean and hard, but still managed to keep the kind of curves a man might find irresistible.  Fern was standing back and letting her admiration struggle with her sense of envy.  Envy seemed comfortably in front for the long haul.  The gap was widening under the influence of about $200 worth of French perfume.

Both women heard the sound of footsteps in the hallway.  The door opened with a remarkably synchronised unlocking sound and Foodge strode in and tossed his fedora onto the hatstand in half of the corners of the room.

“Ah, good morning Miss ….Thropy” “Thropy” she echoed, needlessly, but usefully as emphasis and cadence – much like one of the Kransky sisters.  “I’m well, thank you Mr….. Foodge””Foodge” he responded, by way of making an embarrassing moment a little more embarrassing.

Foodge retired to the Aeron chair and Miss Thropy arranged herself on Foodge’s lap Chesterfield.

“I’ll get straight to the point, Mr Foodge” said Miss T, much to a rapidly-tiring Emmjay’s relief.  “We are having some concern over a small matter of a possible contract”.

Foodge suspected that it was a “royal we”, but thought it wise to seek clarification at the first break in the traffic.

“My ex-husband, Mr Foodge, has received death threats”.  “Yes, so ?” And he hasn’t returned from a business trip to Colombia.  He was due back three days ago.”  And what was he doing in Colombia, Miss Thropy ?”.  “He runs an import / export business, Mr Foodge.  He exports Ugg boots and surf apparel and imports washing powder.”

“And how can I help you Miss Thropy?” asked Foodge, suppressing jokes about a whitewash and shear fantasy.  He was quickly coming to the conclusion that this was a messy and possibly dangerous expedition up a blind alley and a perfect opportunity if not exactly getting rained on with his own .38, of finding out how inferior his gat was to an AK-47.

“ I want you to find him and bring him back, Mr Foodge”. “Miss……””Thropy”, she filled in. “Thropy, Yes….. Miss Anne Thropy, I recall” said Foodge.  “I’m a little tied up with a few cases at present”.  Fern had a sudden coughing fit.

“What are your fees, Mr Foodge ?”

Before Foodge had time to answer ‘five hundred a day plus expenses’, Anne Thropy said “I’ll pay you $1,000 a day.”  “Plus expenses”, added Foodge helpfully, but non-specifically. “Then we have an arrangement, Mr Foodge, she said and took a plain envelope from her bag, rose and placed it on the desk in front of Foodge and allowed Fern the time and space to open the door for her.

“We’ll be in touch, Mr Foodge”, she said over her shoulder. “Undoubtedly, Miss Anne Thropy”, he replied.

Emmjay was tidying up over at Foodge’s office, getting ready for the next scene.  Rather he would have been tidying up except he enjoyed the fantasy that he could have had a habit of chatting up beautiful women – probably with a track record of only sporadic success.

This time he was engaged in light banter with Foodge’s secretary, the lovely Fern Bracken.  Fern had made her pile selling often legitimate pharmaceuticals and was working for Foodge a few days a week for a bit of company and Pol Roger money.  There was a rumour that Fern and her man – an alleged engineer were running some kind of Internet scam selling sunglasses to ersatz punters, would-be’s and shonks who in turn were trying to return replicas for fraudulent refunds.

There was a knock on the glass-panelled door.  “Entre !” said Fern.

In the open doorway stood a disappointingly clad Vinnies mannequin vaguely resembling a blonde that Emmjay had written into a previous episode.

She extended her hand, mistaking Emmjay for Foodge.  This was understandable because Emmjay’s recent hard work at the gym was paying off and Fern could discern the faint outline of half of a six pack against the Pig’s Arms T-shirt (which was now becoming an integral part of many people’s wardrobe).  “Miss Anne Thropy”, she smiled, introducing herself.

Emmjay looked shocked.  “Is there some mistake?” he asked, dropping his hands beside his body with a look of exasperation.  “

‘I want to see the boss of Wardrobe.  Now !” He barked.

A rotund, cheese-faced chap with a minimalist hairline and skin like a moonscape pizza appeared and did a convincing impression of obsequiousness.  “And you are ?” inquired Emmjay. “Jay Green, from the ABC.  Your people have outsourced Wardrobe to us”.  Some of the production people began to avoid eye contact, but they knew there would be “consequences”.

“Listen to me, Mr Green.  In the next episode, Foodge is going to accept an assignment from Miss Anne Thropy.  The arrangement will be for $1,000 a day plus expenses.  The arrangement is always for $1,000 plus expenses and to afford that, Miss Anne Thropy will be a woman of independent means and have considerable leisure time.”  Are you with me, Mr Green ?”  “Yes, Mr Emmjay”.

“Good.  Now take Miss ~” “O’Murphy – but my friends call me ‘Spud’”  “Please take ‘Spud’ here and dress her appropriately”.  “Yes, certainly, Mr Emmjay”.  “Immediately, Mr Emmjay.”

Emmjay was tired from writing himself such a demanding and very dramatic part.  He slumped in Foodge’s leather-beaten Chesterfield and placed the back of his hand on his forehead for dramatic effect.  Fern offered him a jelly bean from her generous stash.  Emmjay carefully avoided the black ones and the purple ones and thoughtfully masticated a pink one.

Fern carefully checked the office.  She was a stickler for detail. Avoiding disturbing the carefully arranged dust and random collections of paper visually suggesting that Foodge had at some time in his life done work that occasioned the use of paper beyond niceties like ransom notes and scented letters from ladies of major wealth and dubious judgment, Fern sharpened a pencil and did officy kinds of things.

The overhead fan turned a lazy four or five revolutions per minute, casting no shadow on the Persian carpet that Foodge’s father, Chocko had accepted in lieu of payment for turning a blind eye during the kebab incident at the 1938 Inner West Policeman’s ball.  A thin, neutral light filtered in through the venetian blinds.  A Bakelite phone sat on Foodge’s desk.  Fern Bracken preferred using her mobile – creating a strange ripple of in-authenticity in the room.  In the corner stood a hatstand.  In the other corner was a water cooler.

There was no other corner in the room – which made furnishing it a tricky operation, and drafty during inclement weather.  But Foodge ran a low rent operation and four walls were out of the question.

Foodge’s desk was a six drawer pedestal monster, impressive more in its bulk than its utility and Foodge himself had chosen his new Aeron chair to support his surprisingly supple spine.

On the wall was a single picture of a purple woman with luxuriant dark hair wearing a yellow dress and large hoop earrings.  Foodge used the picture to hide his fake safe – containing his fake pistol.  His real safe was in Fern Bracken’s desk.  It contained a fake bottle of Johnny Walker Black. His real pistol – a .38 snub-nose Smith & Wesson– was in an old Johnny Walker Black gift box, behind a pile of fake tax returns and letters of demand from some woman claiming (possibly correctly) to be Mrs Foodge.

Fern took a nail file from her bag and proceeded with an apparently urgent manicure.  She looked expectantly at Emmjay, who took the hint and mumbled something about it probably being time for him to make space for the imminent return of an elegantly attired Miss Anne Thropy, who, in turn would wait an obscenely long time for Foodge to make an appearance.

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.

Recently ……

Things were taking a turn for the worse.  I’m tagging along by “special invitation” with O’Hoo – a speed-balling cop/Russian Mafia double agent in search of a one-armed drink-spiking priest called Sandy.  I was a bit distracted.  I’d forgotten about Trotsky.  And I had nearly forgotten about my appointment with the blonde Miss Anne Thropy…..

O’Hoo only needed to look at the door and Pi , ah, squared up to it and let O’Hoo and me loose into a circle of light – the outside world.  It was some time in the day, I guess.  Not being dark.

I was really getting on top of situational analysis and I sensed that the blue Zephyr had, horse-like, made its own way over to meet with us and carry me home.  There’s a crime-fightin pecking order and a private dick ranks below a bent cop, apparently and so I took the wheel and O’Hoo took a swig from his hip flask.  The warm and inviting waft of a morning refresher of Bundy filled the car.  I looked like an old trusty but O’Hoo looked like he didn’t recognise sharing as a virtue.

I punched the radio button.  The radio said “Hey now, hey now, my boyfriend’s back !”.  I didn’t need to look at O’Hoo to know that he was a golden silence passenger.  I thought that the recent return of somebody’s boyfriend had better take a back seat.

I was driving in the general direction of away (Clue !) and I was aspiring to some kind of direction from O’Hoo, figuring that he was not out taking the airs for his health.  “Listen”, I said, “As much as I value your fun and generous companionship, I was wondering why it is that we’re going for a spin this moment”.  I was also wondering about our tattooed arse cheeks, but O’Hoo looked like he naturally gagged question time.  One inquiry would have to do for now.

“I’d kill for some of granny’s bacon, eggs and beans over at the Pig’s – wouldn’t you ?”.  I wouldn’t have killed for granny’s bacon eggs and beans, but I’m fairly certain that O’Hoo would – and probably had.  “Absolutely!” I somehow agreed, turning left off the Erskineville turnpike and down a laneway that had featured in one of Archie Roach’s ballads about Charcoal.

I was in a maze of small twisty little passages and I knew we were close to the pub because I could smell the acrid nasal assault of a combination of bacon, eggs, beans and burning hedge.  That’s the best way to find the Pig’s Arms.  Sniff for hedge and follow your nose.

The local kids were wagging school.  Unusual!?  I lied questioningly to myself.  I knew we were inside the gravitational field of the pub when I saw more kids in the car park, shooting butterflies with their shanghais.

And there at the back of the car park was Jail, deep in discussion, commercially engaged with Hedgie.  Hedgie is a Hell’s Angle with a horticultural bent.  There is a rumour that he got his nickname because he has spiky hair, but the congoscenti (those who can even smell the Congo through a doco on their TV sets) believe that “the Hedge” is deeply acquainted with the cultivation of decorative hemp plantations for aesthetic, commercial and recreational porpoises.

O’Hoo rolled down the window of the Zephyr and instructed Jail to have sex.

I edged the Zephyr next to a couple of 44 gallon drums of eyebrow hair.  Just out of range of the kids and their shanghais and O’Hoo and I headed for the Pig’s dining room, with Jail trailing along like shit on a sheep’s bum.

“We’ll have the lot with the lot, thanks granny”.  O’Hoo pretended to not hear the question that might have otherwise nourished Jail.  It was going to one of those days for Jail, who had managed to find a lower rung on the crime fightin’ peckin’ order than me.

Merv served us two glass canoes of Trotter’s Ale and a chaser of JW Black as palate cleansers before Manne emerged with a couple of granny Michelins worth of breakfast.  The eggs were round with yellow centres surrounded by a ragged white edge.  The beans were tiny round footballs swimming in red slurry.  The square slabs were either tiles or toast.  That meant that the other stuff was more than likely the bacon.

I was relieved to see O’Hoo using cutlery and the sting of the JW Black gave me some reassurance that I’d be reasonably protected from the first wave of microwildlife safari known as the “Pig’s Arms Big Brekkie Special”

Merv came over with the second flotilla of glass canoes and with a wry smile, took his life in his large hairy hands and asked “How are the Bottom Twins, today ?”

“Da” ? “Da!”. Trotsky was not really giving his Russian much of a workout, which was fine by me since he’d already exhausted my extensive knowledge of the lingo.  My surprise at discovering that the Hell’s Angles were led by Leon Trotsky was not inconsiderable, but it was not the full deal.

The steel entrance door snicked open and another familiar face sloped in.

“G’day Foodge” said O’Hoo as he flopped down in the chesterfield .  “Lend us one of your Lucky Strikes”, he continued with the tobacco theme – much to the pleasure of a reminiscing Gez.

Now there was a man of iron.  Not only was O’Hoo recently deceased, but he didn’t seem much put out with the new tattoo beaten into his arse cheek.  He just flopped right down and totally ignored the dermal disruption.

“Thanks for coming over”. “My pleasure” I said, keeping an eye on Trotsky and his ice pick.  But Trotsky was looking at O’Hoo as if he (O’Hoo) was Stalin – or more likely Beria.  He was in his box and the crowd was looking to O’Hoo for the run of play.

I was starting to feel less like I was going to be shipped off to do some concreting on a Russian Mafia-owned building site; some foundation work, if O’Hoo was the big cheese at Highbury.

“Jesus”, I’ve got a splitter of headache.  Do you have….” I pulled out my remaining aspirin… “Anything stronger”?.  He was talking to the room more so than he was talking to me.

Pi handed over a small leather bag with the makings of a line or two.  I was pretty sure it wasn’t Rinso.  O’Hoo had only recently come back across the Styx, and now he was off for another dance with Morpheus.  No wonder he wasn’t particularly worried about his new tatt.

This was starting to shape up like the cast list from War and Piece.  Not Tolstoy’s epic“War and Peace”, but Gez and Mike’s attempts to get things published by Unleashed.

O’Hoo was skating along the edge of the local constabulary and playing first fiddle for the Hells Angles.  Nice.  A double agent.  A double agent with a septum that flapped like a loose spinnaker in a stiff nor-easter.  Not a good look for a copper.  A dribbly snoz from a snorting habit.

O’Hoo was flying and suddenly wanted to revisit our night out.  ‘Hey, Foodge.  Let’s go back and score some more ink”.  He said.  It wasn’t a suggestion.  It was an instruction.

“I have a score to settle with that bastard who gave us the spiked JW Reds”.

“What bastard was that ?”.  My memory tape for last night was completely wiped.

“The fuckin’ one-armed guy.  You remember !  The bastard in the cassock !  They were callin’ him Sandy”.

Things were taking a turn for the worse.  I’m tagging along by “special invitation” with a speed-balling cop/Russian Mafia double agent in search of a one-armed drink-spiking priest called Sandy.  I was a bit distracted.  I’d forgotten about Trotsky.  And I had nearly forgotten about my appointment with the blonde Miss Anne Thropy.[1]

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[1] Astute readers will notice I changed the spelling of this character’s name to improve the pun.  Don’t bother going back and checking, I’ve probably changed the previous one by now.