Story by Manne

Manne rushed in through the side door of the pub.  He was breathless.  From exercise and other things.

“Mr Merv.  Mr Merv” he gasped.  It was unlike Manne to get excited about anything and Merv was going to exhort him to calm down, but since Merv had no clues as to the process of exhortation, he motioned for Manne to sit down next to Foodge at the bar and he poured Manne a limp Pink Drink and acknowledging Foodge’s “I’m parched” pantomine, Merv filled a Glass Canoe to capacity and placed it with some delicacy on the unfamiliar coaster that had appeared on the bar.

Catching his breath in his right hand and extinguishing his thirst with the contents of his umbrella-adorned Pink, Manne went on to demolish the fruit and keep his tendency to vitamin deficiency at bay.

“Ahem” said Merv.  “Now that we’ve kept scurvy away for a week or two, my Manne, Why the fuss ?”

“You know the Pink Merc that’s appeared across the road next to Miss Rosie’s Tattoo Emporium and House of Pain ?”

“Yes, I have noticed that”

“Well, behind the Merc is a new shop front”.  “Yes, and what would that be ?”

“It’s a doctors surgery”

“Is it now ?”

“But not just any doctor’s surgery”.

“No, well then WHICH doctor might be practicing his craft there ?

“No, not a witch doctor”, said Manne, who had clearly not read the script for the day.

Merv took out the stub of an HB pencil, turned over the new beer coaster and drew breath.  Manne looked puzzled.  Merv wrote “What is the name of the doctor, Manne ?”.

Manne read the note – just like the rest of us.  “Oh, I see what you mean.  Godfrey Adelsteen or something like that”, said Manne. “Here, I decided to take a peek inside to see what kind of doctor he is and I picked up a complimentary beer coaster from his secretary.  My goodness, she’s a handsome woman”, said Manne. “And quite a good penist, Mr Merv.  She was tickling the good doctor’s ivories when I looked in”.  Merv withheld judgment pending a report from the video referee.

Merv turned the coaster over and read the argument “Geoffrey Endelstein”, cosmetologist to the stars.  Bring me your tired bodies and I’ll take a look and see what I can do to for you”.

Word got around the front bar of the Pig’s Arms at an astounding rate, possibly due to the conga line of attractive but modestly endowed ladies snaking past the surgery and Rosie’s Tattoo Emporium and House of Pain.

Word managed to get through to Jail, who was known to do a bit of birdwatching – which was why, Foodge said, Jail hadn’t been around much since O’Hoo’s failed liver transplant.  Merv had trouble joining the dots and gave Emmjay the kind of look that suggested he thought Foodge was having a pixie excursion again.  But closer inspection of Jail might have revealed that he was nursing a certain secret pertaining to the mysterious disappearance of Inspector Rouge and his deeper than usual lack of conversation reflected the imminent hatching of a plan.

“So, this doctor across the road is some kind of plastic surgeon ?” inquired Jail.

“No, nothing to do with plastic or recycling or anything”, said Manne.  “He works on people. Women mostly with small, you know, um, ah… ” “Front verandahs” Merv assisted.

“That’s right”, said Manne. “Oh, I see”, said Jail, finishing off his “Trotter’s Ale” with a flourish and “Shit, look at the time !  Got to go.”

Merv and Emmjay exchanged meaningful looks.  They both new that Jail wouldn’t normally break into a run even if he had cholera.

” I have a friend who might be able to, ah, benefit from Dr Edelberg’s wonderful surgical skill”, said Jail to the receptionist, handing her a photograph of a rather well-endowed woman in police uniform.

“How might that be?” inquired the receptionist.

“Well, she’s very keen to enhance her appearance and I’m sure that the good doctor has the hands to create an even greater  vision of loveliness”, said Jail.

“A friend of yours?” she said, cocking an eyebrow. “A rather good friend”, said Jail. “I’ll bet”, said the receptionist.  “They’re probably both good friends of yours”.

She scribbled a figure on the back of another beer coaster.  It was a round number, which was appropriate under the circumstances.  Jail glanced at the number and said “When can she have the procedure?”.  “For that many clams, whenever she likes”, said the receptionist, suddenly breaking into Foodge’s pulp fiction channel. “In half an hour?” suggested Jail.

“She’ll have to fast for six hours”, said the receptionist, beginning to push Jail over the mental touch line ready for a 20 metre drop out.  “Oh, she’s fast alright”, said Jail.  “Tomorrow at 8:00”, said the receptionist. “And the deposit?”.  Jail drew a wad of crisp new fifties out of his coat pocket, peeled two dozen off and not waiting for the receipt or to check whether Dr Steenedell had  any qualifications or a Medicare provider number, he sloped to the door and in passing said “See ya tomorrow… at 8:00”.

“I don’t know” said Inspector Rouge.  “It looks a bit over the top”.

“Nah, it’s a perfect disguise”, said Jail.  “Nobody’s going to clock that it’s you.  It’s the last thing that anyone would expect from a Chief Inspector”.  “No way will anyone notice you then”, said Jail.  “I’m just not sure”, said Vinh Rouge.  “Show me the ‘after’ picture again

Jail took out the glossy promotional brochure with Rouge’s new computer simulated ‘after’ picture.”

“See, discreet and no likeness at all”, he said.

It was true, Vinh Rouge was taking breast enhancement to a new level.  For some reason she started thinking about triplets.