I was enjoying the deeply respectful space most (well, all really) drivers allow a huge geometrician, wearing his colours and riding  a Fat Bob and I was kidding myself that having a private dick on the pillion was adding a little more cachet.  But it didn’t take long for the reverie to evaporate and the growing concern over the purpose of the visit to Highbury to fill the small screen of my imagination.

The Harlet ate the few miles between Shorty Chang’s and the Angles centre.  She was running sweetly despite being a travelling typographical error.  Pi piloted the beast up to the wrought iron gates and gave the security cameras a good look at us.  Their approval was given with a buzz and a click and the gate opened up sufficiently to allow us passage.

I was admiring the renovations the Angles had done since the unfortunate bombing incident.  Their long-running turf dispute with the neo-Cartesian Co-ordinates had spilled over from spiteful exchanges of letters in “Geometry Today” into something more sinistra.  It was generally agreed that taking a hard line from A to B was plane and simple and that nothing was to be gained by insisting that Reinmann was superficial.

The bombing, wrecked the Highbury façade, but there was no reported casualty.  The word at the Pig’s Arms was that this was more a reflection on the quality of reporting than an accurate picture of the human collateral damage.  According to the press the dispute was a bit over the top and despite Rouge making non-committal denials on TV, it was clear to everyone that the police had more than an academic interest in the feud.

We got off Pi’s machine and since Pi filled the western hemisphere, I took the hint and headed east through the next airlock into the Highbury anteroom.  It was surprisingly elegant.  The walls were wood panelled and reminded me of a spartan gentleman’s study.  It was reminiscent of an academic institution.  The clue that I picked up could well have been the shelves of books.  There was a blackboard filled with a complex proof.  On second look, it appeared to be a complex proof written in Cyrillic script.

I was about to take a seat and do a quick scan of my pockets for the remaining aspirin, but Pi’s look suggested that the Angle’s boss was waiting and that the meltdown behind my eyelids was going to have to wait.  He motioned me to knock and to go through the heavy door to the left.  I did.  “Da” was the reply.  I opened the door and entered.

An ordinary person could have been forgiven for imagining that he was confronting a man who looked a lot like Trotsky.  But I’m a private dick and we’re trained to spot the difference between the genuine article and the fake.  And this was the real deal.  The eye patch.  The steel-rimmed monocle.  The Einstein hairdo.  The icepick letter opener on his desk.

There was a square hippo skin rug next to the credenza.  Next to that were two other smaller pieces of preserved pachyderm skin.  I could see that the square of the hippopotamus   was roughly equal to the sum of the squares of the other two hides.

Trotsky was obviously very pleased by my situational appraisal.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the discovery was not so novel.

I was wondering how much more of this weirdness I could beria, when the phone on Trotsky’s desk rang.

Rouge seemed strangely unhappy with the empty bed.  I was pretty satisfied. And mightily relieved.

I’ve always been intrigued by the phrase “assisting police with their inquiries”.  Sounds like going the rounds of doorknocking neighbours or doing a bit of research down at the library or the local SP bookie or taking a peep down a microscope over in forensics.

But somehow this inquiry was refusing to stay on the rails.  I was having myself on.

Rouge knows a lot about what must have gone on last night.  More than me.  And she was half keen to see some serious shit sticking to my blanket.

Her exercise of having me “assist police with their inquiries” was not panning out and I sensed that the ride back was going to be less cordial and more bitter lemon.

True to form, I wasn’t picking any winners and when we got downstairs, Rouge took the wheel of the Falcon.  Jail took the passenger seat.  And I took pole position on the footpath.  She motioned to Jail to roll down the window.  She took out one of her frog gaspers and lit up.  I could see she was full of gaul; was unhappy.  And she spoke across him.  “I smell a rat, Foodge.  A rat with a gold tooth.  A rat that goes to the same dentist as you.”  Rouge kicked the 351 into life and made it shrink into the distance.

I was contemplating my return trip.  It wasn’t the kind of neighbourhood where taxi drivers with any expectations of either making a quid or getting home at the end of the shift were likely to cruise around.  I was quickly running out of JW Red and aspirin and things were not looking a lot better than earlier in the day.

You don’t need to look to recognise a Charlie Davidson.  The gut-shifting rumble of the big twin heralds the arrival of an individual with no want for an image consultant or a personal trainer.  The hog delivered unto me one of the Hells Angles from the Pig’s Arms.  It was Rex.  But everyone called him Pi.  He was a big dude.  Maybe 3.14 times my radius squared.  A careless person might have thought of him as being a ‘thick-set square’.

I was more car-less than careless and Pi’s pillion seat beckoned.  Pi lived his life within the confines of a narrow circle of friends and locations.  His mum’s place, the Angles club house and the Pig’s Arms.  I was confident that we were heading for the pub.  I had another surprise coming.

Pi dropped the hog into a 180 degree arc and pointed us towards the clubhouse, affectionately known as “Highbury” – otherwise famous as the home ground for another Arsenal.

It occurred to me then that riding without a helmet was probably one of my lesser worries.

There was a blue serge into the bar.  She barely acknowledged the blond in the corner, but it was clear that that they were old acquaintances.  And he certainly was not the top dog.

Rouge sat next to me at the bar and looking straight at Merv ordered a lime and soda. The soda came from Russia and I was pretty certain that it was an effective form of antifreeze.

“Surprised to see you here before dark, Foodge” she said.  I offered her a Lucky Strike and she took it and waited for Merv (he of the no-smoking in the pub ‘It’s the Law’ rule enforcer) to light the cigarette.  When Rouge was in the pub, the law was what Rouge said the law was.

“I was thirsty”.

“The drive over from Alexandria must have parched you, then”.  “If you say so, Inspector”.

“Listen Foodge, I don’t have time to piss around with you.  I’m looking for O’Hoo”.

“How would I know where O’Hoo is ?”  I was unconvincing and I was about to pay handsomely for that.

The blonde joined his boss at the bar.  ” I saw you drinking with O’Hoo at the Leichhardt Wanderer’s prawn night, last night” he added helpfully.

“Yeah, and so was everyone else”.

“Perhaps you can explain why your Zephyr was parked outside of Short Chang’s this morning, Foodge”.

“I had a big night.  I don’t exactly remember where it ended”.  I hate telling the coppers anything but that last line was plainly the truth.  Let’s see Mr Blonde roll that one over.

“I think we need to take a little refresher visit to Shorty’s to see whether it jogs your memory, Foodge”.  My arse was smarting and any minute Rouge was going to add two and two and come up with the observation that she had a smarting arse on her hands.  She already had me trapped in the gully off a Shorty delivery.

She stood up.  He stood up and I thought that there was some expectation on me doing likewise.

The JW chaser had done its job and steadied me a bit – which was useful and a good start to help me not look so much like the shit I was slowly sinking into.

The blonde opened the back door of the Falcon.  I thanked him for his sterling service and got in.  Rouge sat beside me and made herself comfortable.  The blonde shut Rouge’s door and took the driver’s seat.  He was in control of Rouge’s pride and joy and he drove like James Packer’s valet. With respect for a machine and an owner, both of which scared the crap out of him. “Short Chang’s thanks, Jail”.

It was a leisurely run.  Rouge said nothing until the Falcon pulled up opposite a vaguely familiar tenement.  She looked at me and asked if I was feeling more co-operative.  I said that I was always prepared to co-operate with the police, but there was nothing on my script just then. But I was thinking that the Zephyr knew the place well and had been keeping a parking space free for the Inspector only  a few hours earlier.

The tenement was a low rent affair.  A few toothless derros and clapped out former junkies – if any junky can ever be “former” were gathered in the front yard.  Sitting on milk crates.  That was as close as they’d ever come to decent nutrition.  One had a no-name brand guitar with five strings and a tuning problem.  He took pity on us all and stopped strumming.  The blonde spoke.

“Shorty Chang”.  Not the slightest flicker from any of them.  We climbed the first flight of stairs, and then then second.  Nobody had locked the doors.  There was nothing to steal.  We went up another floor and the third and last  room, at the back of the building, had a lock.  Rouge looked at the the blonde like she half expected that she’d be telling Jail when to breathe next.  He turned the knob and then gave it the benefit of his shoulder and busted it open.  The door.  Not his shoulder.

There was a wet patch on the floor and it looked like a trail heading into the bathroom.  There was an empty aspirin bottle and the basin tap was dripping something the colour of single malt whiskey.

Against the wall was an empty bed.

Digital Crime Scene By Warrigal

I might not be a famous sleuthing Lothario, but if Manne does the wisecrack about being a lethargio one more time, I’m going to have to stop fixing up his Vespa.

I could feel her approaching.  I didn’t need to turn around.  I could see her form reflected in the “DA – for those Special Moments” painted poster screwed to the pub-yellow tiles.  She had the kind of figure that not even the Romans had a numeral for[1].  They’re always blonde.  This one was sometimes blonde too.  Like now.  She was blonde now.  She had the kind of eyes that sold a million bedroom blinds and they were focused on me.  The eyes.  Not the blinds.  The blinds, with any luck, might come later.

Right now, I had enough trouble on my plate.  And experience was having quite a lot more than a quiet whisper in my shell-like that this one was way more fish than I had tackle to land.

She stopped comfortably within my personal space and steadying on her heels, formed a shapely exclamation point.  I’m looking for a Foodge, she announced to no-one in particular.  The no-one in question was Manne, who was returning to the bar with a stack of dirty glasses.

That’s him, right there, Miss, Manne obliged, narrowly avoiding stepping on his own tongue.

She proffered her hand.  It looked more like a vague indication than a long-term commitment.  I hesitated for a moment and gestured towards a vacant table in the opposite corner of the bar to the other blonde.  “Can I get you a drink ?”  “Please”.  Merv poured an iced pink and Manne delivered it as though he had a regal appointment.

I have a tiny problem, Mr Foodge.  I’m told that you’re a useful person when it comes to solving problems.  My alarm bells began to ring up a storm.  No wait, I think the aspirin might have been wearing off.  Either way, time to slip on the asbestos gloves and take out the barbecue tongs .  This one looked suddenly way too hot to handle.

I’m a little busy just now, Miss, I lied.  Well, it wasn’t exactly a lie.  I had a dead copper in a tenement room with a tattoo on his arse cheek that matched a fresh one on mine.  And I had a headache that had previously belonged to Keith Richards.  What I lacked was actual paid work.  I hesitated just long enough to hand her the initiative.

“I’m offering a grand a day plus expenses.” I started to feel far less busy.  But I’m no cheap gumshoe.  Usually top dollar work comes with a hefty slice of risk.  I handed her my card.  Noon tomorrow.  My office.  “I’m not chaining myself to your problem just yet, Miss ~”. ”Anthropy”, she rejoined. “ We have a few details to discuss first”.  She placed the card in her purse, closed the hasp, clasped my hand like I’d just cured her brother’s leprosy, rose and evaporated in a processional exit from the bar.  Without touching a drop of the pink drink.  If my nose had been working, I’d have said that she smelt nice.  It was a fair bet that it was the smell of anticipation, danger and folding money.

The other blonde fidgeted and looked expectantly out of the door as Miss Anthropy made her departure.

I motioned to Merv that a JW chaser was the order of the day.

There was a crunching and a small shower of gravel as a burbling V8 propped and ground to a halt in the car park.

---

[1] OK, I admit I couldn’t resist, I stole this one from a Carter Brown novella “The Hoodlum Was a Honey”, Cumberland Press, Parramatta – A Railway Publication, sorry I haven’t got the date, but you’ll be really hard up to find a copy if another one still exists….

…… “and Maison de Pain” …… read the small fragment of a business card in O’Hoo’s rapidly cooling top pocket.   Something about a baguette, maybe.  But as crusty as I was, the second last thing on my mind, after sharing a room with a deceased copper was breakfast.  The first and last thing on my mind was the diminishing effect of a couple of aspirins.  Pretty soon I’d be Bayering at the moon.

I had to think fast and act.  I thought I’d quite like a cigarette.  Since Merv had banned them inside and since the car park was a no-mans land of low-life dealers and netball players, it had been a long drawn-out time without a Lucky Strike.  No smoke detectors?  Nope.  Bliss.

I needed a hirsute canine to steady myself.  The flask of JW…. was empty.   Some of the panel beating in my head came from the aircraft, busy leaving tyre prints on the roof.  I figured that O’Hoo and I were somewhere in the Inner West.   I was more there than he was, though.  He was previously in the Inner West.  That meant I was not far from the Pig’s Arms, a pint of Trotters and a JW chaser.

I thought about moving O’Hoo, but how ?  There was a blue Zephyr parked outside across the street.  A notoriously hot-wirable chariot, with a boot just big enough to accommodate the former charlie.  But a supine former dick the size of O’Hoo was not an easy lift and I figured that I had best get my sorry arse over to the pub climb into a glass canoe and see if the great amber god gave me some inspiration.

The first gift of the day was a set of keys in the ignition.  Someone had been in a hurry.  Someone who had left sticky traces on the leather bench seat and a Barry White tape in the 8 track.

I turned the key.  The Zeph considered the suggestion and reluctantly coughed into life.   I wheeled the beast out into the traffic and headed in the same direction as the aircraft until the familiar porcine sign drifted into view.  Into the driveway and around the back of the car park next to two 44 gallon drums full of what looked suspiciously like waxed eyebrows.

The carpark was deserted except for the local kids shooting butterflies with a slug gun.  I found my Ray Ban clip ons, donned the Trilby and with a sound louder than the 10:30 mongrel overhead, I crunched my way across the gravel and pushed open the side door of the pub.

Without so much as raising his eyebrows, Merv wordlessly reached for a pint glass and with the care of a cardiac surgeon, poured a delightful foamy vat of Trotter’s Ale and placed it on a coaster on the bar.  I sat down with all the care of a recent post-pile patient, raised the glass – nodding to Merv and enjoyed the luxurious flow across my parched palate.

I scanned the bar.  There were two old alkies – Wal and Danny from the rice shed on the Rozelle goods line.  Danny was studying the form guide and nursing his middy like he expected it to gather interest if he kept it long enough.  And Wal was bullshitting his way through retelling (to no-one in particular) blow by blow detail of his successful score with the tea lady at the RSL prawn night the week before.

There was a blonde bloke with a lived-in face in a cheap Hawaiian shirt, beige chinos and white shoes sitting in the corner with a Trotter’s, pretending to read the sports pages.  He looked like a copper to me.  He seemed to be waiting for something.

Vinh Ordinaire Rouge had never forgiven her parents for her middle name.  She was a tough and irascible homicide inspector and she had a reputation for assisting her enemies to enjoy the big sleep when business was a little slow.  Her business.

She could rely on her pack to fail to solve the appropriate crimes and to do what they were told.

Rouge had an abiding distaste for the festive season.  It was the time of year where all the loose change of society fell through the holes in the pockets of the rich and powerful.  It was the time for the inconvenience of a slow news week.  It was time for pressmen with little on their plate to come sniffing.

Her second cup of java had gone as cold as an ASIC One-Tel case and she grew impatient waiting for her left-hand man – the usually reliable O’Hoo to breeze in with his copy of the Racing Times – and bore her witless with his predictions for the night’s offing at Dapto dogs.  A good man, O’Hoo was usually reliable and seldom had any weaknesses, notwithstanding his surprising lack of judgement – investing in “the Leichhardt flash”.  Flash, like his namesake, went off just once.  For a third at Wentworth Park, but he continued to consume prodigious amounts of Pal and routinely stole George and Tash’s cat food.

Rouge punched the intercom.  “Has anyone seen O’Hoo”.  “O’Hoo’s on first”, came the usual reply.  It was Jail.  Jail was Julian Lapin.  Jail was an office ornament, who had allegedly retired but continued to come to work, or more accurately came into the station to keep warm on cold days.  And it gave him an alternative to his part-time job of preparing the sweets at the Coogee Bay Hotel.  Rouge and the rest of the squad turned a blind eye because Jail had useful connections in the music industry and by extension in the recreational horticulture business.  He was used to hedging O’Hoo’s bets.

“Piss off, Jail! I’m serious.  This is not like O’Hoo.”  “He was drinking pints with one of his old private dick mates at the Leichhardt Wanderer’s Christmas do last night, boss.  I left when they started playing ‘Truth or Dare’”.

Rouge left just enough coffee in the cup to start a new biology experiment for the boys in the lab, rose from her chair, grabbed her beret and the keys to the Falcon and gave Jail the unnecessary instruction to mind the shop.

Jail turned on the PC and fired up Firefox.  From the car park downstairs, he could hear the thunk of the Falcon’s door and the low burble as Rouge kicked her old 351 into life.  He clicked on his favourites list, scrolled down to the Pig’s Arms and pulled up a stool in the front bar of the pub before Rouge had time to cross the footpath and cut into the traffic on City Road.

“I’ll have a pint of Trotter’s, thanks Merv” he said, and flipping the pages of his copy of Rolling Stone, he couldn’t help wondering why they were featuring a piece on genetically modified wah-wah pedals.

I’m usually more careful than that.

I could sense the sickly smell of blood.  My hand was in a wet pool.  Too soon to open the eyes.

A small panel beater was hammering out the dents on the inside of my eyeballs and my mouth felt like a camel train had camped there overnight.

Whatever was out there on the other side of my eyelids was going to have to wait until the hammering eased up a little.

But the headache was not the main problem.  Beyond the headache, the right cheek of my arse was screaming louder than my head.  I decided to feel it.  Mistake.  It was wet.  It was wet with my blood.

I had taken one in the backside for the good guys.

But there was no wound.  There was a welt though.  I could feel that well enough.  I crawled across the threadbare Axminster into the bathroom and prepared for the worst.  Opening my right eye, I caught a glimpse in the mirror of my naked backside.  Curious.  There was no blood.  But it was wet alright.  And swimming in a fresh coat of straw coloured plasma, was a tattoo.  A zodiac tattoo.  It was one half of the sign of Gemini.  It was one half of a pair of twins.

Wash hands.  Two aspirin from the medicine cupboard behind the mirror.  And the taste of ironed water from rusty pipes.  No, wait.  It was the same colour as scotch.  An understandable mistake.  Two asprin and a shot of Johnny Walker Red.  Or branch water – from a lazy anabranch. Open the other eye.  Swimming into long focus in the room behind me was a figure.  A man lying still on the bed, facing the wall.  He was the kind of still not associated with hooch; he was pegged out more like the repose of the deceased.   His problem was clearly more serious than my smarting arse.

The bald patch was familiar.  The pale blue shirt was familiar. The tattoo on the left buttock was fresh and also familiar.  Dave Gerard O’Hoo was a latter day detective with the Met.  He was my drinking partner years ago, on an exchange case with the Inner West dicks of 21 Division.  He was famous for busting the Hells Angles for growing and selling Marrickville gold hedge.  In  the carpark.  From the boot of an old blue Zephyr.

O’Hoo was on the case because he looked like a cross between a leprechaun and a crime boss.  I had my suspicions that he looked like a crime boss because he had more skeletons in his closet than a Greek mausoleum at Rookwood.  And the word was that some were home made and not exactly related.  It was just an escaped word, but the word’s life was clearly at risk and this old upstairs pub room was something far from what could be called a safe house.

This was going to be a tough one to explain.  It required another thoughtful of hip flask, so I sat next to O’Hoo previous on my intact left cheek and fingered my chin a bit.