Tag Archives: Private Dick

Foodge 43 – Foodge Sleep

10 Friday May 2013

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big m old-greyhound-bus-terminal-julie-dant

THIS PHOTOGRAPH WAS PUBLISHED WITH THE KIND AND GENEROUS PERMISSION OF THE PHOTOGRAPHER

JULIE DANT

Story by Big M

Foodge was tired, in fact, overtired, not that the surveillance had been difficult; staying awake had been the challenge. He had photographed three cats and a garbage truck, and, the young pair having a swift knee trembler up against the front doors of the Pigs (disrespectful). His mind was racing, not the least because of Granny’s get-up and behaviour.  He lay on the fresh sheets, in freshly laundered pyjamas (this was a new experience) and stared at the flaking, high, ornate, plaster ceiling. The Pigs Arm must have been quite a grand hotel in it’s time, he thought. Then he got to wondering about Granny in her younger days. Surely she hadn’t always had long grey hair, spindly brown legs and a permanent frown?

Then he started to think about O’Hoo, suddenly realising that it had been some days since he and Manne reappearanced. Where was he holed up? Merv had quickly spirited him away to some sort of safe house, but where. What of O’Hoo? Was he guilty of some sort of malfeasance? Had he gone native whilst undercover? Did he still love Ordinaire Rouge? Where was Rouge? Was she similarly guilty? Was Santa real? His racing mind was suddenly interrupted by a knock at the door. “Mr Foodge, you’re needed urgently downstairs” hissed Granny.

Foodge leapt out of bed, hastily trying to grab a dressing gown to cover, what he regarded, as semi-nakedness (our Foodge is a very private dick). “What time is it?” He stammered, hoping she wouldn’t burst in, whilst he desperately tried to re-arrange the gaping hole in front of his privates that the pyjama manufacturers jokingly call a ‘fly’.

His worst fears were realised as the, almost paint-less door swung open, and Granny stepped in wearing so much make-up, and a short white dress, that revealed far to much varicosity than he ever dared imagine that a pair of legs could bear. ‘Christ.” He thought. ‘She almost looks like an ancient Egyptian charioteer, kohled up against the sun and sand.’

“Ah, good you’re up.” She said, looking him up and down, daring to linger at the afore mentioned Private Area. “Merv remembered the message. Ordinaire Rouge is to meet you in our car park at five, and, it’s five!” She made a point of looking at her watch. “Do you need a hand there?”

“Um…no…err….thanks.” Foodge held his gaping fly together with one hand, and motioned Granny out the door, closing it behind her. He quickly donned his tracksuit, socks and shoes, slicked his hair back, then burst through the door, stumbling straight into Granny, which resulted in them collapsing onto the floor, his head coming to rest on her exposed décolletage.

“Oh, Mr Foodge.” She already had her bony, brown fingers around the back of his head.

Foodge shook himself free and had already broken into a sprint towards the staircase. “Not now, Granny!” He shouted, as he dove down the stairs.

Foodge found himself in the car park at the back of the pub. There, parked right next to his Zephyr was Fern’s battered Corolla, with Fern sitting behind the wheel. He waddled over. “Where’s Rouge?’ He asked, leaning against the driver’s door. If he had some sort of investigative skills he may have noticed that Fern was trembling, with tears rolling down her cheeks. She gesticulated towards the back seat with a shake of her head. “Are you having some sort of spasm? You need a doctor.”

Vinh Ordinaire Rouge stepped out of the back of the car, slamming the door into Foodge’s knee. “The silly girl thinks that I’m going to shoot her…gawd knows why.”

Foodge was now hopping up and down on one leg, with his own tears blinding him to what was going on. Wham !Granny crash tackled Rouge to the ground. “How dare you attack Mr Foodge, who has been awake all night looking for you, so that you and O’Hoo could be reunited!” Granny was already sitting astride Rouge, fists cocked, ready to fight.

“What! So you know the wherabouts of O’Hoo?” Rouge managed to wiggle out from under Granny’s skinny frame.

“Yes, we do!” Merv was already marching across the bitumen with O’Hoo in tow.  “Now, you two better work out what you’re doin’, because the wallopers ‘ll be on their way.” O’Hoo and Rouge fell into each other’s arms.

It was Granny’s turn. “What I’d suggest is that you two get the hell out of here, I mean, you’re the most wanted criminals in NSW, why don’t youz go interstate?” Granny had managed to sidle up next to Foodge, and started rubbing his knee.

With that, O’Hoo and Rouge were in the back of the Corolla. “Drive on, Fern, We need to see a man about a dog.  A greyhound !”

The trio was gone with almost squeal of Corolla tyres. Merv wandered back into the bar, to give Granny and Foodge some time.  He decided to rewind the getaway and then fast forward it so the Corolla tyres produced a tinny, but audible squeal like a real getaway.

“Granny.”

“Yes, Foodge.”

“It’s just that…”

Yes, Foodge.” Granny’s eyes were bright with romance.

“Let’s go inside for a drink.” Foodge made a great display of offering his arm, which Granny gleefully accepted.

Foodge 37 Foodge – Lost in Thought

31 Thursday Jan 2013

Posted by in Emmjay, Foodge Private Dick

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The_Thinker_Musee_Rodin

Story by Emmjay

Foodge sat at his desk.  There was no assignment on his plate.  This was not unusual but this time seemed to trouble half a dozen loosely-connected cells in the front of his brain.  They spoke to some of their friends in the facial muscles area who arranged to successfully organise a glum look.

“To successfully organise”.  Foodge resolved to have a word with Emmjay about splitting infinitives, but the resolution was narrowly defeated along party lines.  The caucus supported Emmjay’s contention that it is OK to split an infinitive along the lines of common usage and making it a more effective approach to aid reading.

Foodge had a deepening sense of ennui.  This was a recent development.  It was a new ennui.  The news was empty of anything that was actually new.  As usual, The UN was debating and resolving without making any tangible difference.  But Foodge felt that it was a more productive waste of money than war, for example.

News from the wars was bad.  Not surprising because all war news is bad for somebody, if not for everybody.  Foodge resolved to stop worrying about the wars and focus on his own priorities, which were, um, ah, oh yes, becoming gainfully employed. Or even ungainfully employed if there was at least a bowl of wedges and a glass canoe of Trotter’s Ale on the counter at the end of the day.

Being the kind of proactive sleuth that he sincerely believe he was, Foodge resolved to reopen the case of the morning paper and begin his research on the latest exploits of the Leichhardt Wanderers as they tilted towards another wooden spoon.  Granny said that they had more fuckin wooden spoons that that fuckin TV chef who always swears all the fuckin time.

Foodge remembered that he was supposed to be hunting for work and turned to the police courts reports.  The press was full of the great dry ice heist, but the case didn’t interest Foodge.  It left him cold.  Cold was his normal state and Foodge was determined to spend his next cheque on buying that fourth wall that his office was crying out for.  And maybe a door with his name etched in the frosted glass.  He wondered where etched glass came from and promised himself that he would find out one day but his eyes glazed over and he returned to the police reports.

A quick perusal of the police reports would reveal whose posterior was up against the wall, who the likely brief was going to be and if there was the whiff of police stitch-up, where the services of a master private eye would be most in demand.  Or even a private dick of modest proportions not unlike Foodge himself.

Foodge read that Detective Inspector Vinh Rouge had finally nailed Hedgie for over enthusiastic herb providoring in the car park of the Pig’s Arms and that she had been promoted to Inspector on the strength that the Commissioner had the smell of toasted narc czar in his nostrils.  Foodge new that Hedgie was just a humble bushie at the rough end of the long lawn running up to the Calabrian mansion of Caesar Nopportunity.  He was the target, but Foodge knew that Noppo had his friends in high places and that nobody, least of all Rouge was going to fang the black moriah up that crushed marble driveway and say “You’re nicked”.

Foodge was tired from concentrating for several consecutive minutes.  A thought crept into his mind, turned around three times, lay down and started to lick its wedding tackle.  Foodge sat back in his chair and waited to see what might happen next.

The thought got up and walked out into the street.  Foodge decided to follow.  After all, this was grist for the mill for a private dick.

Lacking a fourth wall to his office, Foodge didn’t have to worry about locking the door that he also didn’t have.

The thought was heading towards the Pig’s Arms.  Another thought joined it.  Foodge recognized the glass canoe full of foamy amber delight.  Foodge named this thought Trotter’s Ale.  Foodge always tried to stay with the play and drew the keys of his Zephyr from his pocket.  He was determined to get ahead of himself and be waiting there when his first thought wandered in.

Merv’s amnesia worked to Foodge’s advantage and he poured Foodge a schooner of Trotters without remembering that Foodge’s tab was close to the gross domestic product of Tasmania.  And the prospect of Foodge ever paying it off was as slim as America’s chance of clearing her mortgage to China.

“What’s on your mind?” asked Merv.

“I’ll know in a minute” said Foodge, anticipating the arrival of his earlier contemplation. Several glass canoes floated by and the prospects of the first thought ever returning to its owner cuddled up to Merv’s misplaced debt recovery aspirations.

Foodge’s staring into the middle distance was starting to unnerve Merv and so the publican turned on the pub’s new 800” flat screen TV – that was just a tad too large for the pub wall and several contestants on “So you want to be a Millionaire? were sitting in the Pig’s Arms Car park.  The giant screen successfully captured Foodge’s attention and he was fascinated with the possibility of massive wealth coming to some goose through the picking of a 1:4 short-priced favourite answer for a question so obscure that Barry Jones would be scratching his head – after a series of questions so inane that another Jones would find them personally challenging but an affront to all right thinking Australians.

“We are sorry to interrupt this program” said the faceless voice, “However, local Police are deeply concerned over the disappearance of Inspector Vinh Rouge, who failed to turn up to work today.  Police visited her home this morning and found the contents in disarray and a police spokesperson said that there was unmistakeable evidence of violence and they are deeply concerned over her welfare.  Viewers with any information were encouraged to contact Crimestoppers.”

Foodge wondered whether there was any connection between Vinh Rouge’s disappearance and that of his missing (and presumed lost) thought, and he ordered another Trotter’s Ale on the strength of his own concerns.

Foodge 35: The Dream

29 Thursday Nov 2012

Posted by in Big M

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Boxer on the Canvas – Painting borrowed from Emily Proctor

Story by Big M (at last !)

Bang…bang! The punches just came out of nowhere. Merv knew that the second one had shattered his right zygomatic arch. He stood, teetering for what seemed like half a minute, but, in reality, was half a second. Then the lights seemed to swirl, and the crowd roared. Then some guy hit the ‘down’ button on the elevator, and the big man took the express straight to the basement, then another guy pulled the fuses, and everything went black. Merv remembered the stench of the rough canvass, as he collapsed, face down, arms askew, unable to protect his face as he fell.

He remembered Foodge yelling from the side. “Stay down Mr Merv, he aint fightin’ fair!” (Foodge managed to forget his grammar at the fights).  The ref started the count and Merv knew that he had ten seconds to get the circuits in his brain working again, find his feet (which seemed like they were somewhere at the other end of the ring), stand up and look like he could continue the fight.

The ref was renowned for giving a fighter every chance to avoid a technical knock out, so usually slowed the count down, but, this time Big Bill knew Merv was in trouble, so counted to ten, nodded at the adjudicator, who rang the bell, then dropped to one knee to try to render some aid whilst the ambos wended their way through the wild crowd.

Merv remembered one voice. “Get up, you great lazy oaf, come on, your kids need you!” Granny was leaning over Merv, who was back in his bed, next to Janet, who was blissfully snoring away. “Get up Merv, you’ve got a sick kiddie to look after!” As she passed the whimpering infant to her dad.

“What do you think’s wrong?”  Merv was embarrassed that he had slept through the cries.

“I’d reckon it’s middle ear infection, by the way she’s been pullin’ at that right ear…you’d think her mother mighta noticed!” Granny clearly had another agenda that she wanted to push. “I’ve given her some Neurofen, which should start to take effect. In the mean time you could slip down to the Casualty Department and get her looked at. Five on a Tuesdee mornin’ should be pretty quiet.”

Merv managed to get the child seen by a nice young doctor, who prescribed some antibiotics, and promised to send the family doctor a note. Merv was back at the Pigs Arms in time for bacon, bum nuts and wedges, the child was back to her delightful, bubbly self, unaware that she had disturbed half the household. Merv quietly shovelled his breakfast into his mouth; occasionally rubbing his right eye in disbelief…the dream seemed so real. He had two problems to sort out, one, was the dream, where did it come from? Why was he dreaming about being knocked out, again? The other problem was Janet. Granny was probably right, she may well be the laziest mother in the world, she never got up to the twins at night, in fact, she seemed to have no maternal instincts at all!

Merv’s reverie was interrupted by a voice that emanated from a rather well dressed fellow in three-piece black suit and black Fedora. “Too early for a heart starter?”

“Foodge, you under cover?” Merv moved along the bar to pour a pint of Best.

“No, funeral today, one of the greatest Private Dicks ever to grace this city passed away last week.  “Nosey Newton.”

“Wasn’t ‘e the bloke who bashed up ‘is girlfriends?”

“No, that’s the actor. Nosey could sniff out a philanderer at fifty paces. There wouldn’t be any more bacon…or perhaps some eggs…or perhaps some wedges?” Foodge needed to fortify himself for the day ahead. “You seem to be down in the dumps, what’s going on?”

“Coupla problems, well, women problems, an’ this recurring dream.” Merv transferred another full plate to the empty place on the bar in front of Foodge.

Foodge blushed; he usually associated ‘women’s problems’ with minstrel station, or something worse.

“Why have you gone red, all uva sudden?” Merv was now busying himself with the filters on the coffee machine.

“Well, I can help with dreams, but, ‘women’s problems’, well…err…you’ll probably need a gynaecologist!” Foodge kept looking down at his second breakfast, hoping to avoid any eye contact with Merv.

“Not them sorta problems…problems with Janet, you know…relationships ‘n’ stuff. I put in twenty hours, some days, and she manages to do…well, bugger all. Granny and I have been up half the night with a sick kid, and Janet still hasn’t woken.” This was true, Janet couldn’t function on less than ten hours a night.

Foodge was relieved. “Well, I’m not immune to problems with women.” Which was true, in that, Foodge had no problem with making himself repugnant to women.  “And I can’t help with sick kiddies, but I, or rather, I know who can help with dreams…Rosie!”

“Rosie, as in ‘Rosie’s House of Pain’, Rosie? Merv stopped fiddling with the filter.

“Yes, but she hasn’t managed to help with my recurring dream. You know, the one where I wake up with a tattoo on my derrière.” Foodge nodded to the empty glass canoe, which Merv replaced with a fresh pint.

“You have got a tattoo on yer arse!” Merv was incredulous, would the kid ever wake up to himself? “But, you reckon Rosie can help?”

“Of course, but don’t tell her that I sent you…there’s still an issue of monies owed.”

Merv wasn’t surprised, but, at least Foodge’s bar tab was down to double figures. “Well, I might slip over there right now, while it’s fresh in me mind.”

“Nooo.” The effort of speaking whilst drinking had forced Foodge to aspirate some Best. He pulled a neatly pressed linen handerkerchief from his pocket (where did he find the money for these new clothes?). “Whatever you do, don’t knock on her door until after lunchtime, or else there’ll be hell to pay. I know?”

Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by the unmistakable screams from Janet.” Merv…Merv…where are you?  You there are nappies to change up here!”

“See you Foodge, enjoy the funeral.” Merv slowly climbed the stairs to the apartment above the bar.

Foodge 28 – A Hot Foodge Sunday

26 Monday Dec 2011

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Punting - for folks with just a couple of Oxford scholars

Story by Big Magnum

Merv had been pacing the floor behind the bar all morning. Two problems, one was the bloody Christmas decorations. He’d finally found two, foot high, tinsel trees and a red and green banner with the words ‘Merry Christmas’ emblazoned across it, then spent ten minutes sticking the damned thing up. Problem two was Granny keeping a shotgun in the hotel, so had decided that it would be best to get rid of it. The Pleece had an armistice for illegal, or unregistered, weapons, but that was now over. The miserly part of him knew that the Purdy was worth a few Oxford Scholars, so, rather than simply letting the piece go, Merv had started to think about ways to get rid of the gun and, get some easy readies. His ruminations were disturbed, not so much by a presence, but more by an aroma, Foodge had just staggered in, resplendent in his new track-suit and running shoes.

“Jeez, Foodge, it’s thirty five degrees out there, yer gunna die of heat exhaustion!” Exclaimed Merv, as he hefted another tray of glasses into the rack under the bar.

“Well, Merv, as you are fully aware, I missed our morning’s training session so I’m trying to make it up.” Foodge had been on surveillance all night, only managing to take a couple of murky photos of a man behind the wheel of the senator’s car. Later, the man in question would prove to be the hotel valet who was moving the car to the forecourt. “Anyway, thought I could procure some rehydration therapy here.” Foodge had an enthusiastic gleam in his eye.”

“Too right you can, Foodge, here’s a glass a water, on the house.” Merv pushed a glass canoe of cold water across the bar. “I’m not sellin’ you beer in that state!”

Foodge reluctantly took the glass, knowing that Merv was probably right. “Well then, Merv, what’s on the luncheon menu today?”

“Same as it’s bin for thirty three years, but, for you, Granny will knock up a salad.” Granny had been ‘knocking up’ a salad for Foodge for the last eight weeks, which, with reduced alcohol intake, and some training, had brought about a quantum improvement in his overall health. “While yer waitin’, yer can give me a hand.”

“Oh, um…er” Foodge, in spite of his improved fitness, was still averse to any kind of physical labour.

Merv motioned, with his index finger, for Foodge to lean in closer. “What do you know about guns?”

Foodge breathed a sigh of relief. “Sorry, don’t do shooters.” He’d heard Phillip Marlow say this in a film.

“No, not to shoot someone, I’ve got to get rid of Granny’s Purdy, so, thought I might try and sell it.”

Foodge’s pupils dilated. “Did you say a Purdy?? What sort of condition?”

“Sixty years old, and as good as the day it was made.”

“Mmm, let’s see.” Foodge had whipped out his iPhone, and started pushing keys. “Here you are.” He held up the device for Merv to examine. “Nineteen Thirty One model, under and over, sold at auction in the states for thirty one big ones.”

Purdy

Merv went weak at the knees, grabbing the bar to steady himself. “I thought we’d get a few hundred bucks for it, not thousands.”

“Yes, indeed, what you need to find is a high end gun dealer who’s willing to give you a fair price. The other thing you should do is do a Google search and find out what prices people are prepared to pay.”

Merv thought that Foodge was talking gobbly gook with the google business, so nodded and smiled. “Well, thanks Foodge, you’ve earned your keep today.”

“No worries, any Googling needs, I’m your man!” This wasn’t strictly true, as it had taken Emmjay the best part of two weeks to teach Foodge how to use the iPhone. Foodge was hoping that this would be another traditional Christmas spent sucking down Trotter’s Ale, imbibing wedges and regaling the assembled piglets with tales of derring-do, only to wake up on the floor of the Gent’s on Boxing Day. He was surprised to see the place filling up. Gerard and the Mysterious ‘H’ were the first in (he hadn’t seen young Viv pop in through the kitchen to start on the evening meal), followed by Emmjay and his First Mate, both dressed like Bogart and Bacall on a date.

A small band, composed of O’Hoo on the bass, Asty on the guitar, Dr Mick on the euphonium and DCI Rouge playing percussion, had started playing some new fangled pop music. ‘Steely Dan’, or some such thing. Sandshoe and Lehan Ramsay had started to dance, and were quickly joined by Atomou and his missus. The music was suddenly drowned out by the deep throated roar of un-silenced Charlies. Algy’s group had arrived! The party was in full swing, the music occasionally stopping for an oration by J.G Cole, Atomou and even O’Hoo.

Foodge was gob-smacked. It looked like becoming the family Christmas that he’d missed for so many years. “Merv, I think it’s time I shouted the bar, Trotter’s Ale all round!” Merv couldn’t help but notice a film of tears in Foodge’s eyes, but was polite enough to ignore it and started pouring.

“Yes, Foodge, Merry Christmas to us all”

Foodge 25 – Foodge Goes Under Cover

01 Wednesday Jun 2011

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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By Big M

Merv stood behind the Main Bar absent-mindedly drying glasses with a tea towel, and that’s when it occurred to him that he hadn’t seen Foodge for, not one, but two days. Foodge annoyed Merv much of the time, but, now in his absence Merv realised that he missed the goofy ‘private detective’. Merv hadn’t had much time, until now, to think about Foodge. Two coach loads of tourists had been in yesterday seeking the authentic ‘Inner West Pub Experience’, whatever that was supposed to be, but nevertheless a big money spinner, plus Bowling Ladies this morning, which stretched to ‘luncheon’, with ‘drinky poos’.  Janet had been at him to mind the twins during the day so that she could get some rest, as she’d only had nine hours sleep the night before. Poor Merv couldn’t get away from the bar, so Granny seized the opportunity to take the babies for a stroll to the park.

Merv tried to pour himself a lemon-lime ‘n’ bitters, but, all he got from the bar gun was cold, flat water, so, stuck his head under the bar to hook up a new cylinder of carbon dioxide. This went surprisingly smoothly for Merv, with only two scraped knuckles and a couple of curses. He emerged from under the bar to be greeted by the strangest sight; Foodge clad in Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts, short brown socks and brown brogues. The outfit was completed with a pair of wrap around sunglasses. “Ah, Foodge!” Blurted Merv, struggling to suppress a belly laugh.

“Not Foodge.’ Winked Foodge. “Undercover…big case…surf gang.” As he tapped the side of his nose with his finger. “Buddy ‘n’ Coke thanks, bartender.”

“Sure you don’t want a pint?”

“No, young people drink buddy.”

“I think you’ll find that’s ‘Bundy’ Foodge…sorry…sir.” Merv topped up the glass from the bar gun, only it wasn’t real Coke, or Pepsi, it was based on a syrup based on trial and error, more error, in fact, but, nevertheless generated a carbonated fluid that looked like coke, but had a flavour that was neither pleasant or sweet.

Foodge sat at the bar, and thirstily tugged at the straw. “So, bartender, any surfers in here today?”

“Well, given that we’re an hour and a half from the nearest beach by Sydney’s excellent public transport, well…no.” Merv applied a couple of bandaids to his skinned knuckles.

“Righto, thanks for the heads up. I’ll broaden my enquiries to some locale closer to the beach.

“Foodge, mate, I’ve got to tell you, you look like an English school teacher on ‘olidee’ in Ibiza. Has it occurred to you that infiltrating a surf gang may not be the easiest thing for a man of your age, pallor and sartorial taste?” Merv had started to pour another Bundy ‘n’ Coke, unasked.

“Could have a point” Reflected Foodge, remembering back to his last day at the beach when his swimming trunks had been torn off as he was dumped by a wave, and he had to wait for a lifesaver to swim out with a towel so he could maintain some semblance of dignity, much to the chagrin of the lifesavers on patrol.  That was the last time he would ever borrow a pair of yellow crocheted speedos from Emmjay.

“You’re right, I need to employ someone else, Fern, maybe?

“No, mate, fingernails.” Merv held up his bid, disfigured hand, wiggling his fingers.

“Emmjay?” Foodge raised his eyebrows in askance.

“He’s fit, he bodysurfs, but he’s no ‘surfer’.”

“I know, O’Hoo!” Foodge’s face lit up.

“You can’t employ a copper to do PI work.” Merv retorted as the area behind the bar darkened, as if subject to some local eclipse of the sun. Young Wes stepped through the doorway, and started to make himself a long black on the coffee machine. “Young Wes.” Merv nodded. “Djagetsum sleep?”

“Yeah, Uncle Merv. Fancy dress, Foodge.” Wes looked over the coffee machine at the comic figure before him.

“No, undercover.” Foodge shook his head and removed the sunglasses. “Make it a pint of best, this time, Merv. What are you doing sleeping during the day?”

“Assistant in Nursing at the Rissole (RSL) Nursing Home, doing two nights a week…love it!” Wes added a little cold water to his steaming mug. “Had a long term patient die last night, a bit upsetting, but he was ready to go.” Wes took a sip.

“Oh…err…what do you, err…do…” Foodge was uncomfortable talking about death, which seemed odd for a PI.

“Oh, just make them comfortable, hold their hand, if there are no relos around. Captain Rawlings’ daughter stayed until the end.” Wes was very respectful towards his patients, always calling them ‘mister’, or ‘sir’, unless they wanted to be named by rank.

Foodge thought it paradoxical that Wes, who was built like a brick outhouse, and had bested bikies, former boxers, and various unsavoury characters in his capacity as Pigs Arms bouncer, could be so gentle. “Well, I’m looking for someone to do some casual work, for me, as a PI, you interested?”

“Mid-semester break is coming up.” Wes stared into his mug. “ I was planning to take the bike for a run to visit mum.”

“I can make it worth your while, two ‘C’ notes a day, plus expenses.” Foodge tended to lapse into 1940’s Private Dick-speak, every now and then.

“What do I have to do?” Wes was warming to the idea of being a private dick for a week.

“Infiltrate the surf gang known as the Cronulla Sharks and warn them off this.” Foodge fished an iPhone out of his pocket, and expertly navigated to a photo of a tall, pretty blond teenager, who would likely fill out to become a tall, blond, beautiful model.

Both Merv and Wes were aghast that Foodge, not only owned a mobile, but that he could actually use the damned thing! “Who’s the chick?”  Wes was very interested.

“Imogen Stapleton, heiress to the Stapleton Mining fortune, who, incidentally, is underage.” Foodge glared at Wes. “Has been hanging around these surfers. I’ve been employed by the family’s solicitor to warn them off. By the way, Wes, can you surf?”

“Shortboard, Mal, boogyboard, bodysurf, anything really.” Wes shrugged his shoulders. “When do I start?”

Foodge held up his glass. ”How about right now?”

Foodge 14 Private Dick Photoshopping

29 Tuesday Jun 2010

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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.... Foodge had grown accustomed to the Daily Terrorgraph's sensationalist headlines

By Big M

Tuesday afternoon saw very little progress in the Local Member case. Foodge had started a file, which consisted of, the photos, and Mrs FitzPatrick’s business card, which Merv had managed to secure the previous morning. Foodge struggled to get comfortable, as the patrons had all been moved to the Ladies Lounge while Granny and Manne pressure cleaned “The Gents’. Evidently Merv had come across a full, automatic Fouler Wear stainless steel standuppery for an undisclosed amount. Granny was adamant that the entire room should be cleaned and repainted before installation.

Foodge had the photos fanned out like playing cards on the bar. He still struggled to make sense of the angle of the dangle, turning his head this way, and then that. He was sitting, wondering what the hell photoshopped meant when Merv piped up. “Well done, aren’t they?”

“Yes, lovely photos.”

“No, the photoshopping, beautifully blended, colour matches nicely, shadows fall the same way.”

Foodge suddenly realised that ‘photshopping’ had nothing to do with buying photos, but something to do with altering photos. “That’s if they are, indeed, photoshopped!” He retorted, thinking that he may have left the legal fraternity a little too early in life.

“Fair cop, you should get’em analysed. Waz is pretty good at this sorta thing.” Merv pushed another canoe across the bar. “I’ll point ‘im out next time he’s in.”

They both braced themselves for Janet’s ritual afternoon screaming session, but it never came. She was still in the grip of morning sickness, which lasted all day. Instead the pub was overwhelmed by the sound of big Vee twins. It was the Hell’s Angles, on their Charlies. Both Merv and Foodge visibly relaxed. The Angles started to wander in. Foodge was surprised to see Emmjay and FM, as they’d always rubbished American bikes. The last to enter the Ladies Lounge was The Professor, accompanied by Detective Chief Inspector Rouge, as well as Detective Inspector O’Hoo, who, thanks to Rouge’s influence, was still maintaining some semblance to a human

“Having a meeting, are we?”  Foodge was still a little hurt that his efforts in the de Sastri case had been overlooked.

“No, Foodge, not a meeting, a presentation.” The Professor intoned. “For services to the Hell’s Angles Motor Cycle Club, we hereby invite you to become an Associate, that is, non-geometric, member.” The Professor stepped forward and pinned a badge to Foodge’s lapel, shaking him vigorously by the hand. Each club member stepped forward, some shaking his hand, others embracing him, weeping openly.

DCI Rouge then took the floor. “I have been asked by the New South Wales Pleece Commishnar to thank you for you efforts in the aforementioned case, and am empowered to appoint you as a Special Deputy to the Pleece Force.” Rouge stepped forward, shook Foodge’s hand, and then hugged him tightly, whispering. “Thanks for looking after my little Gerald.” She had tears in her eyes. O’Hoo hugged him, grinning away. “There’s a big surprise.” O’Hoo, was, after all, a big child.

The Professor grabbed Foodge by the arm, taking him to the car park, the gang followed. “We’ve managed to find an old friend.”

There, parked in her usual spot, was Foodge’s Zephyr, idling as smoothly as when she came off the production line. Now it was his turn for tears. ”How…when…err.” He stammered.

“Surprisingly enough, Foodge, some of our members are mechanical engineers, and damned good mechanics.” Beamed the Professor. “Now, I think it’s time to party. Foodge was led back inside to the sounds of the Burnside Refugees, with guest bass player O’Hoo, and Emmjay on lead guitar. Merv had moved the pie warmer to the Ladies Lounge, and had stocked it with Fresh, Country Baked frozen pies and sausage rolls. Granny had hung up the water blaster for the day, and was busy cutting potatoes for her wedges. The Bowling Ladies had arrived with ham and tomato sandwiches, with thick margarine, on day old white bread, and had started to brew their trademark acrid tea.

Janet waddled down the stairs, convinced that this was the way a future mother of twins was supposed walk in the ninth week of pregnancy. DCI Rouge danced seductively in front of the bass player, whilst Emmjay’s First Mate attempted to teach the bongo player some musical concepts regarding cadence and rhythm. Merv was flat out behind the bar pulling pints of Trotters and Granny’s Best, whilst Granny was working her magic on the wedges. Even Manne was trying to be useful, by working as the bar useful.

The Pigs Arms was rocking. Angles danced with Bowling Ladies, whilst beer, wedges, pastries and sangers were consumed at a frenetic pace. Foodge was overwhelmed with the constant pats on the back, shouts of Trotters and smiles from well-wishers. Unfortunately, this just wasn’t his scene, and, ever the professional, he found his way up to the Nathan Rees Memorial Cinema, where, for the umpteenth time this week, he spread out the photos, staring whilst sipping a cleansing ale. The scruffiest, most unkempt fellow he’d ever seen soon joined him. “Gidday, I’m Waz.” As the newcomer thrust out a hand. “Believe you’ve got some photos need analysing?”

‘Waz’ set up a laptop, and his fingers were soon flurrying across the keyboard.  “So, you’re going to scan the photos into the computer to analyse them?” Foodge queried.

“No, I’m checking the comments on my various graphics and articles that I publish on-line.” Waz sneered at some of the text that flashed across the scree. “I only need to eyeball the photos.” He stopped typing, and looked at each photo. “Not photoshopped, mate.”

“So, they’re real?” Foodge was quick on the uptake.

Waz already had the laptop folded away. “Yep, see you.” Then wandered off.

Foodge sat and wondered how he’d break the news to Mrs FitzPatrick that the photos of the Local Member really were of his member.  Janet waddled into the cinema, supporting her non-bulging belly with two hands. Pregnancy suited her, Foodge reflected, even her crazy wandering eye seemed to make some effort to work in concert with the good one.

“You must be tempted.” Janet winked.

“Oh…er…um…a mate’s wife ‘n’ pregnant ‘n’ all.” Foodge’s cheeks coloured.

“No, you dill.” It was Janet’s turn to be embarrassed. “The photos. You could flog ‘em to one of the better papers, say, The Terrorgraph or Lewisham Bugle, for thousands. It’s a pity the Mirror’s gone. They’d pay tens of thousands.”

This had never crossed Foodge’s mind, not because he was a dill, no, he was honest, another personality trait that prevented him from re-entering The Law. “I’ve never thought about it. Thousands you reckon?”

“Yep, knew you wouldna thorduvvit, that’s why I suggested it.” Janet winked again, then waddled off in the direction of the flat over the pub. Pregnancy was really taking it out of her, besides ‘Mastercook’ was about to start.

Foodge realised that Janet was trying to give him a clue, but try as he might, he just couldn’t get it. Slowly, like dawn light filtering in through the high window of The Gents, where he’d woken many a fine morning, it dawned on him. Big Red had set him up to sell the photos to a paper. Foodge had been taken for a stooge.

photo borrowed from http://www.wtfoodge.com – a parallel universe – I suspect they borrowed it too……