tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56123587254923737012024-03-09T13:19:30.639+11:00Random Acts of WritingThese short stories first appeared in a competition based on random images emailed to participants.Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612358725492373701.post-66184240772320010702024-03-09T13:18:00.001+11:002024-03-09T13:18:37.027+11:00The Ketamine Konnection<p><span style="text-align: justify;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSd28a1be56TiB7uSSSbJV3kBAqT3Ba4QwTTL3aSLJEPiNELMg3OshvAS7DPV-pdG82ks4Hkudp1WNXNOisHT2zUEyvjYu7-yFRqSyFzYdzrpOo1nxDn2TG9bIuzTKPTBxKdYK42VLAt4iQl5udezTJb5dF46aTHWWcsQzwD4opV25wLLtCjBRIOKmy80/s892/The%20Encounter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="726" data-original-width="892" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSd28a1be56TiB7uSSSbJV3kBAqT3Ba4QwTTL3aSLJEPiNELMg3OshvAS7DPV-pdG82ks4Hkudp1WNXNOisHT2zUEyvjYu7-yFRqSyFzYdzrpOo1nxDn2TG9bIuzTKPTBxKdYK42VLAt4iQl5udezTJb5dF46aTHWWcsQzwD4opV25wLLtCjBRIOKmy80/w200-h163/The%20Encounter.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Crossing Il Capri’s threshold from Las Vegas’ Gates of Hell heat into
the cryogenic aircon of the casino hotel was one small step for Raymond
Halliday, one giant stagger for the South of the Border-born bellhop toting
three leather suitcases bound with buckled straps.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Cap askew, forehead damp, the porter wheezed: “<i>Señor</i>, the bags … now
they come with wheels.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Turning slowly, Halliday seemed surprised not at this insight into
modern luggage but that a minion could or, indeed, should speak. Satisfied the
staffer had nothing further to add, Halliday swung back towards reception, checked
in and was waiting at the elevator before the bellboy had made it halfway
across Il Capri’s expansive foyer.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Tuesday the 9<sup>th</sup>. A quarter of 11. Seventy-five minutes until
the production conference. Time to shower, punish the mini bar and rinse out
with Listerine Cool Mint breath freshener, roughly in that order.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The mini bar was better stocked than he’d anticipated. If he’d bothered
to check his Longines DolceVita watch when he finally reached the hotel’s
conference room, he’d have noticed he was late. No matter. Most of the seats encircling
a large lozenge-shaped table were empty. In the movie industry, timeliness was
for apparatchiks. Real players operated by their own internal “screw you” clocks. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Eventually there was enough above and below the line film crew present
to tackle the most important agenda item: lunch. By 1, the executive producers and
principal cast members still hadn’t arrived. “At least the workers are here,”
began the production manager.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Only Halliday didn’t laugh. With his back to the room, he was working
the buffet again, forking remnants of Maine lobster onto his plate. The manager
cantered through the production schedule. The producer, one eye on Halliday who
had graduated to spearing shrimp and scooping oysters, touched on budgets.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Director James Snide held up a hand. “When Raymond has finished prepping
for the End Times, perhaps we can get to the script changes.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Halliday heard only the final words. As a scriptwriter, they were two he
loathed, along with “early deadline” and “budget restraints”. Plus there were
elements within the script he couldn’t alter. Not unless he fancied sharing his
Coco-Mat king-size bed in his fountain-view room on Level 20 with a horse’s
head. If there was a single word which encapsulated any gangster’s approach to
business failure it would be “unsentimental”.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Snide’s assistant stabbed at a MacBook Air’s keyboard and the movie’s title
popped onto a wide screen on the far wall: <i>The Ketamine Konnection</i>.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span>“I’m thinking of changing
‘ketamine’ to something more marketing friendly,” said Snide. He paused for
effect. Halliday, with a gobbet of shellfish part way to his mouth, also paused
when his anal sphincter suddenly clenched. Was dope being cut from the movie? He
pictured that horse’s head with a risus sardonicus grin resting on his bedroom
pillow.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Snide continued: “How’s this sound – <i>The Special K Konnection</i>?
After all, Special K is a street name for ketamine.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Halliday’s sphincter relaxed. But not too much. As a screenplay hack he
could live with that minor change. As a man with debts to pay to Sláinte,
L'Chaim and Gānbēi (sadly, as he’d discovered, not a reputable, broad-church New
York loan firm) he was just happy to live. “Love it,” he said a little too
loudly.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Dudley Duncan the Prop Master, a louche young man in white linen, hurriedly
seconded Halliday’s support and gave Snide a kiss-ass smile: “So clever of you
to have the plot revolve something other than stolen old school drugs such as
coke, ice or horse.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Again with the horse? Halliday suppressed a shudder. “It was <i>my </i>idea.”
He swiveled to address the room. “Ketamine is the dope <i>du jour</i>. It was Matthew
Perry from <i>Friends’</i> mellow hallucinogen of choice when he hopped into
his hot tub for the last time. It might also make the user feel disconnected
and not in control. Or as I like to think of it: Tuesday.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">He gestured at the assistant who flicked onto the screen photos showing
a bulky khaki kitbag packed with small plastic sachets containing white powder.
The little bags had been consolidated into larger glassine ones. “I calculate
that at $100 per gram, the prop K will appear to be worth around $12 mill.
Street value, that is.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Nothing to sniff at,” said Duncan.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">To match the movie’s new title, the script needed to be tinkered with.
Halliday dutifully made notes then stared out the floor-to-ceiling window at
the forced gaiety of the Las Vegas skyline. The plot remained unchanged: two divorcees
on a cross-America road trip in a pink Corvette convertible pick up a handsome hitchhiker
lugging a kitbag. He’s stolen ketamine from the Mob. The women, in turn, steal
it from him. Neither the hitchhiker nor his former colleagues in crime are
happy. The women flee.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Up next on the agenda: the DP blocked out the following day’s shoot capturing
the divorcees exchanging a drug parcel after they’ve slo-moed towards the
camera, seemingly floating on the quivering heat of the desert sand. No
shortage of the latter around Las Vegas. It was a one hour 50 drive to the planned
Death Valley location. A 2<sup>nd</sup> unit director was already setting up just
off the CA-190. “Look ethereal,” had been Snide’s directive during rehearsals.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Wednesday the 10<sup>th</sup>. To Halliday it felt like pre-dawn. The
bedside clock insisted it was 0805. He finished dressing and wondered for the
second time in 15 minutes if lighting a cigarette would set off an alarm.
Perhaps he could wrap the room’s smoke sniffer thingee in a hand towel. A soft
knock on the door. Through the spy hole, Halliday saw enough fresh linen to flag
who the visitor was. Duncan was shouldering a canvas kitbag.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Heavy?” asked Halliday.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Duncan ignored the question. “It went well, thanks to me.” He heaved the
bag onto Halliday’s rumpled bed. “What better way to disguise real dope than
transport it in plain sight as a movie prop? A few busybodies questioned the two
identical bags. I said we needed a backup if the first got damaged.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“And where’s the dummy dope in the second bag?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“In the trunk of the Corvette. Our leading ladies are taking it for a
spin to the location site this morning. As you insisted, the real thing has a
green tag sown on the bottom, the prop has a brown tag.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">There was that sudden clenching feeling – again. “No,” cut in Halliday. “The
actual K is stashed in the bag with the brown tag, the dummy is green.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">On cue, the room phone chirped beside the clock. Snatching up the
receiver, Halliday heard the Concierge announce that Messrs Sláinte, L'Chaim
and Gānbēi were waiting for him in a limousine outside the hotel’s entrance. He
looked at Duncan. The two men chorused an obscenity. Approximately 78 seconds
later, they tumbled out of the lift into the hotel’s car park, scrambled into
Duncan’s rented Jeep and, after torching the rubber on its tyres, were
catapulted onto The Strip.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">After a moment, a black stretch limo squealed out of Il Capri’s
semi-circular driveway, sliced into the boulevard’s traffic, took a hard right,
then a left, then another right; all the time keeping the Jeep in sight.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">That quiet, sunlit morning, the corner of West Bonneville Ave and South
Grand Central Parkway was blessed with the presence of a black and white patrol
SUV. With their vehicle parked far enough onto the kerb to allow traffic to
flow, deputy sheriffs Kellaway and Branston tried to, firstly, avoid spilling just-bought
coffee on their crisp beige uniforms and, secondly, avoid any work.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Kellaway spotted the Corvette a moment before his second sip. Two scarf-wearing
woman in the front seat squealed with laughter as their hot pink car fishtailed
through the intersection. Within a heartbeat, it was rear-ended by a Jeep
which, while still hovering several inches off the ground, was T-boned by a
stretch limo. Melded together by momentum and twisted metal, the three vehicles
spun in a choreographed swirl before slamming into the black and white’s hood.
Scalding coffee seeped into the deputies’ crotches.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">A kit bag, hurled into the middle of the intersection by the impact, lay
ripped open. Hundreds of plastic sachets spilled white powder onto the asphalt.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Branston was first out of the patrol car, one hand on his holstered
weapon, the other covering his sodden fly. He reached the passenger side of the
Jeep as Halliday slowly lowered the cracked window.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The scriptwriter smiled: “Officer, I can explain everything.”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;"># # #</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">Copyright 2024 GREG FLYNN</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612358725492373701.post-67986620533572295522024-01-13T12:23:00.002+11:002024-01-13T12:23:34.848+11:00Dial 1300-687-337 for MURDER<p><span style="text-align: justify;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq1FHxYKVwwZ9dQ6H-q2YZC-JSVM85VQ82eigfHplBGxhNAO9lgBEhp0G6KAskgAabqk1pDTPct2hwIkUwE12IF_TmUQQszcUyfvvWU4W5ms8AT1Uh9M4IAH9-alXvq5obPtH3F0NKf7Zm8sw5b0N13xzB1Egl6lsiVz42HTydWhivp9OW9aM-ZpfAVGI/s640/Killara%20Phone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="425" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq1FHxYKVwwZ9dQ6H-q2YZC-JSVM85VQ82eigfHplBGxhNAO9lgBEhp0G6KAskgAabqk1pDTPct2hwIkUwE12IF_TmUQQszcUyfvvWU4W5ms8AT1Uh9M4IAH9-alXvq5obPtH3F0NKf7Zm8sw5b0N13xzB1Egl6lsiVz42HTydWhivp9OW9aM-ZpfAVGI/w133-h200/Killara%20Phone.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>It’s so hard to find a good murderer these
days. The new flush of wet workers<span style="color: red; text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="text-align: justify;">lacks the
sense of commitment we established killers bring to an undervalued industry.
Sure, if you’re casting around for someone to bump off a rich relative who’s
taking far too long to go to his and your reward, you could pop a Help Wanted
advert on 4Chan. A few hours later you’d have a queue of would-be villains at
your front door, many wearing vintage ice hockey goalie masks, plus an
uninvited squad from Five-O. That’s the trouble with cops, they’ve also got Internet
access.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">All I’m trying to do is earn a dishonest living.
I don’t charge GST and if my business had a LinkedIn account I’m confident its
posts would be peppered with Likes. My own dislikes include dark operators who
drift into my life, rain on my parade and then imagine they can simply drift out.
For example …</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span lang="EN-US">St. James Infirmary Blues</span></i><span lang="EN-US"> began playing. It’s a ringtone not
to everyone’s taste but I rather like it. The caller ID read: “Unknown.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Palmer’s Process Servers,” I said. “You name
‘em, we nail ‘em.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The caller was near traffic. I could hear it
rushing by. There was an intake of breath. “Hello?” The female voice was
quizzical. “I thought you’d be a man.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Not the last time I looked. Jilly Palmer
speaking.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“I’m told you do more than serve legal papers.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Let’s see. A stranger cold calls me, making an
accusation. I’d guess you’re planning to set me up.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“No. I’m planning to ask you to kill my
husband.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">She had my full attention.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“I’m in Bayswater Road,” she said. “Let’s meet
at <i>Madame Fifi’s Palais de Hop</i>. I’ll be wearing …”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Then came an unpleasant, hoarse noise. Choking.
“Bitch,” said a muffled male voice in the background. Silence. Seconds ticked
away.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">From my Springfield Avenue apartment, it took
me and my violin case a few minutes to reach the public phone she’d obviously called
from. The hanging handset was dangling above the footpath, still swaying. There
was no sign any of Kings Cross’s passing after-dinner crowd gave a hoot. Under
the awning outside Madame Fifi’s, a CCTV camera pointed towards the nightclub’s
front door and in the general direction of the payphone.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Inside the club, a tall gorilla in a
one-size-too-small suit blocked my path to the owner’s office. “I want to check
your CCTV,” I told him.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Bugger off, sweetheart,” said the gorilla.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“I wasn’t asking permission.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">He made a sudden move towards me then his body
convulsed and he lurched backwards, bursting through the door behind him and flopping
at the feet of an only slightly surprised Madame Fifi. Lighting a fresh
cigarette from the butt of an old one, she glanced down at the man and across
at my bright yellow cattle prod. My open violin case was in my other hand.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“I need to see tonight’s CCTV recordings.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Since you asked so nicely, Jilly,” Fifi said, skirting
the prone body and reaching up to a bank of monitors set into a wall.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I poured us drinks from her liquor cabinet
before watching the action on the main screen. Two men wearing hoodies jumped
from a pale van, ran to a slim, blonde woman in a lamé dress making a phone
call and tossed a bag over her head. Hey presto. The woman and the van vanished.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Fifi knew them. “Stone cold killers.” And the lady?
Caroline Lamb, wife of Richard “Baa” Lamb, entrepreneurial drug dealer -
picture Uber Eats except with crack and hillbilly heroin delivered to your quivering
hands.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I’d never spotted the wife before but, over the
past few months, I’d seen Baa flitting in and out of a Victoria Street terrace.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Now the thing about a lock picking kit is that it
doesn’t always work and it can make scratchy sounds like a mouse with mischief
in mind. There I was on my knees on the scruffy house’s doormat, jiggling a
wafer pick in the lock. Failure. Then the door swung open.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">He wasn’t wearing a hoodie this time but I
recognised him. No excuse immediately came to mind, so I smiled up at him,
unclipped the violin case lid and sent 5,000 volts through his testicles. Jaw
clamped shut, he rose half a metre off the hall floor and pitched forward onto
the mat.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">At the end of the hallway, light spilled out of
a room to the right. Baa and his other contract hit man had seen too many
Halloween-style serial killer movies. They stood either side of a bed wearing
operating gowns, rubber gloves and thin-lipped smiles. Baa held a mini
chainsaw, his new buddy gripped a flensing knife. Strapped to the bed lay a squirming
Caroline Lamb, unready for the coming slaughter.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">It was the sidekick who saw me first. “Who the
hell …?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Baa turned. “Get the bitch!”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“That’s the second time tonight I’ve heard that
word,” I said. “I really don’t like it.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Knife pointing at my throat, the wannabe killer
lunged. “Bitc…”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Ideally I should have opened the window first. As
his flying body shattered the window frame, exploding glass made a racket that
could be heard in Penrith. He landed on the street kerb and even from that
distance I could see his crutch was smoking. Note to self: perhaps lower the
prod’s voltage.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Baa raised his chainsaw. “There’s room on that
bed for two.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“You’ve cost me money and wasted my time,” I
said. “The first is a nuisance, the second unforgiveable.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Before I stepped towards him, I closed the
door.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;"># # #</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">Copyright 2024 GREG FLYNN</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612358725492373701.post-29973130191467059672023-11-04T13:14:00.005+11:002023-11-04T13:33:18.109+11:00Anchors Aweigh<p><span style="text-align: justify;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: normal; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAC_RhLNOu-EqfJ_rGDjpYVZ74k-NqBuY4SYO3L-Cq3g7C48qFPPtlKhyphenhyphenNgcqJMu6hSfqTA41isFQrMPh7y4Pvsom8TpqS9U1bCKLFPbOwVpAlgA4Y9DCFVWIYGtRvwU3hoC7Ecu4419diT4iX_tEnbCYBqo_q87zr7FI6gLW9I91J1vPc-B7GeRNfYns/s983/Killara%20Anchor%20Oct%202023.jfif" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="983" data-original-width="735" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAC_RhLNOu-EqfJ_rGDjpYVZ74k-NqBuY4SYO3L-Cq3g7C48qFPPtlKhyphenhyphenNgcqJMu6hSfqTA41isFQrMPh7y4Pvsom8TpqS9U1bCKLFPbOwVpAlgA4Y9DCFVWIYGtRvwU3hoC7Ecu4419diT4iX_tEnbCYBqo_q87zr7FI6gLW9I91J1vPc-B7GeRNfYns/s320/Killara%20Anchor%20Oct%202023.jfif" width="239" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;">Behind the ragged circle of men on the
wharf, two large almost rusted-through anchors leant against a stone wall. In
front of the group, the Port of Fremantle was abustle. A flock of barges ferried
Australian soldiers to stately troop carriers waiting on Gage Roads, a stretch
of white-capped deep water off the mouth of the port. A destroyer tailed by a
light cruiser, both with White Ensigns snapping in the afternoon sea breeze, nosed
out through the north and south moles to act as shepherds for the converted ocean
liners and their live cargo. Sprouting at the moles’ tips, anti-aircraft
batteries pointed their barrels at the empty sky.</p><p style="text-align: left;"></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">In the harbour, American, British and Free
Dutch depot ships, with broods of submarines tethered to their sides, lined the
southern wharf.</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">On that crisp day in the winter of ’42,
Fremantle – tucked far away from the battles of the Coral Sea and Midway – was a
safe refuge. Unless you happened to be a bookie’s runner.</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">The five men gathered on the wharf ignored
the naval traffic and distant troop ships. They stared down at a bloated body
with a yard-long, glistening anchor chained around the corpse’s ankles. Water
seeping from the victim’s loud checked jacket and powder blue trousers puddled
on the wide wooden planks.</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">Only Kent and a well-groomed man at his
side had taken off their hats.</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">The medical examiner, with a slight tremor
shaking his skeletal frame, stroked what chin he had. Kent looked up and asked:
“Was he alive or dead when he hit the water?”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">“Too early to say,” replied the doctor, his
battered Gladstone bag open at his feet. “But, either way, I can’t imagine he
was happy about it.”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">A snort of laughter came from the doctor’s
left. Police Inspector Patrick O’Halloran of Fremantle’s Finest was amused. At
O’Halloran’s shoulder, Lumpers Union organiser Johnno Johnson was less so.</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">“Stop pissing around and get this bloke outta
here,” he snapped at the doctor. “My men want to get back to work.” A dozen
yards away, the expressions on lounging wharf labourers gave lie to the claim.</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">“Right-o,” nodded O’Halloran. “We’ve seen
enough. Bag the body.”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">As Johnson raised a beefy arm towards the
wharfies, the smoothie at Kent’s side held up a hand. Manicured fingernails
caught the light. “One moment.” There was a pause for effect. “If those navy
divers scoping hulls for limpet mines hadn’t spotted </span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white;">my</span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;"> man, would he
have been found?”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">Martin Terrence Leary, bookmaker to all of
Perth and nicknamed (except to his face) “M.T” because that’s what your wallet
was like after laying a bet with him, didn’t wait for an answer. Tugging at
Kent’s coat sleeve, Leary moved away.</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">“That’s why I’ve hired you,” he said softly.
“Look at them – a quack who hasn’t drawn a sober breath since the Depression, a
copper whose laziness is only exceeded by his greed, and an empire-building
union thug.”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: red; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">“Johnston’s Popeye anchor tattoo is quite intimidating.”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">Leary allowed himself a tight smiled before
steering Kent towards the road. “Bobby Mahoney went missing five nights ago while
taking bets in pubs and along the wharves. The Dutch are tightwads but the
Yanks, Poms and our boys are mad punters.”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">“What’s left to bet on?”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">“The AIF turned Ascot racecourse into one
giant campsite but there’re still the country trots, the interstate doggies
and, frankly, anything’s fair game … well, fair-ish.”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">“A rival bookie?”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">“Any competitors are either careful or
dead.”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">Leary drew a 4 x 6 glossy from inside his
suitcoat. The natty Bobby smiled into the camera lens. “I hope you don’t mind me
paying cash. Putting a private investigator’s bill through my accounts seems
unnecessary.” The photograph and a plain, bulky envelope slipped into Kent’s
hand.</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">A few steps later they stood by Leary’s
Bentley 8 Litre, the rear door held open by a pin-neat chauffeur. “Find Bobby’s
killer or killers and there’s a bonus,” said the bookmaker.</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">“And then I turn them in to O’Halloran?”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">“I’ll save you the trouble. Meanwhile … a
lift?”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> K</o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">ent angled his wristwatch away from the
sunlight. “I’m on the clock. I’ll start now.”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">Visting pub after pub wasn’t an issue. Visiting
and drinking ponies of shandy seemed against nature but Kent kept sipping, kept
asking questions. In his pocket, the envelope lay like a talisman. Just one
phone call and his luck had changed. Maybe. Shaking heads and bugger-offs
strengthened the “maybe”. Either the bar flies were scared to admit seeing
Bobby or they had other motives. Telling the truth wasn’t an option.</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">Lunchtime. Day Two. One more phone call. As
he started to climb the stairs to his Mouat Street office, he heard muffled
ringing. The office’s locked door delayed him then, panting, he snatched up the
receiver. “Hello” came out in a gasp.</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">A woman’s smoky voice asked: “Louis Kent?”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">Another gasp.</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">“Is everything alright?”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">“Asthma,” he lied.</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">“It should keep you from shooting Japs out
of palm trees in the Pacific.”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">“There’s that,” agreed Kent.</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">“My name’s Polly. I hear you’re the private
dick who’s been asking about Bobby Mahoney.”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-color-alt: windowtext; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Normally, Kent would’ve chafed at the Yankie
slang but her emphasis on the second part of the job description gave her a free
pass.</span></em><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">At two, he edged down narrow stairs into
the Twin Anchors, an underground bar off High Street. In a far corner, a
handful of US navy personnel with gob caps askew, lit Chesterfields, drank
whisky and played poker around a small table. In another corner, three lance
corporals from the Australian 9<sup>th</sup> Division rolled their own, drank Swan
Lager and sized up the Americans. A mix of nationalities and uniforms lined the
bar.</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">At the staircase end of the bar, Kent’s
caller perched on a stool. Polly patted the stool beside her. Kent felt himself
picking up his pace. He imagined cartoon-like steam hissing from ears.</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">She ordered, he paid. They paced their
drinks as she explained she’d overheard two boozy customers – the bar’s not
hers – skiting about making easy money deep-sixing a bookie. Stretching across
to straighten Kent’s tie, she whispered: “Details cost cash.”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">He nodded, she continued. “I gather Bobby
saw Johnno Johnson and some of his blokes meeting Yank sailors in a cargo shed
on Friday night. There were crates of bourbon, cartons of cigarettes.”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">“Smuggling?”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">“Darl, it’s unlikely they were donating to
the war effort.”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">“Bobby was a low-level runner. Why would he
care?”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">“This isn’t about fags or grog. It’s about
who was there with Johnno.” Polly flicked her hair towards the mirror behind
the bar. “I’ll go freshen up. You can think about how much the mystery person’s
name is worth.”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">Only 70 percent of the customers watched
her walk through the rear door towards The Ladies. The other 30 percent were
playing poker.</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">Turning away, Kent squinted at the mirror. He
and his reflection agreed he was getting too old to hunt killers. After 15
minutes, he eased himself off the stool. With Polly there wasn’t </span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white;">that</span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;"> much freshening
up needed. Pushing open the rear door he felt it strike something solid.
Something solid in high heels. Polly lay on the scuffed carpet, convulsing. On
his knees beside her, Kent heard a grunted: “… ran.”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">“Which way did he run?” An empty question.
“I’ll call for …” he began. Her face tilted down, eyes finally shut.</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">Leaning forward, Leary lifted a Dunhill
lighter towards Kent’s cigarette. There was an almost imperceptible shake of
excitement in the bookmaker’s hand. “Great progress,” he said.</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">Crammed into Kent’s office and sitting on straight
back chairs, the pair were close enough to play pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake. With
his free hand, Leary briefly tapped Kent’s knee as an admonishment. “But you
still don’t know who killed your informant or where the murderer ran off to.”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">Kent shook his head. “Friday night. Johnston
is doing a smuggling deal with some Yanks. Obviously not the first. Bobby
blunders by. No need for anyone to panic – someone in the bookie business isn’t
going to snitch. But maybe there’s no need to tell the police. What if a cop is
already there … with his hand out? So, it could be ‘ran’ not as in ‘run’ but as
in ‘O’Hallo</span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white;">ran</span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">’.”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">Leary lit his own cigarette and exhaled at
the ceiling. “Police Inspector Patrick O’Halloran. Literally a greedy </span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white;">pig</span></em><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">.”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">“You indicated he was as bent as a nine bob
note.”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">Leary pushed back his chair as far as it
would go, which wasn’t far. “Mr Kent, I owe you a bonus. It’ll be here by six.”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">“You’re not planning anything rash, I
hope.”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><em><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal;">“Dear, dear, no. But, on the subject of
rashes, let’s just say there’s an itch I need scratch.”</span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><em><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"># # #</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">Copyright 2023 GREG FLYNN</span></p>Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612358725492373701.post-30709073990474380532023-09-19T20:08:00.004+10:002023-11-04T13:31:17.778+11:00The Ghost Writer<p><span style="text-align: justify;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikYT-nml50wojx0ieDlFLZGxoU7l98ld-W4A3f7bGqWGo4QgeSefyUUv08nhlliU0Nfk0FQu8Kl4IUazoMoFG6QLyDpgYuZw_KYUeNtS_ZQGR4aVThGxHB_6V05KID1iQ_vLPVRGhLsezV2tet34tS4sOrfmAkkZnHnrHAmBOc2J-P3FJ1Q4dha9-Uar8/s846/Killara%20-%20Empty%20Chair%20Aug%202023.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="846" data-original-width="564" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikYT-nml50wojx0ieDlFLZGxoU7l98ld-W4A3f7bGqWGo4QgeSefyUUv08nhlliU0Nfk0FQu8Kl4IUazoMoFG6QLyDpgYuZw_KYUeNtS_ZQGR4aVThGxHB_6V05KID1iQ_vLPVRGhLsezV2tet34tS4sOrfmAkkZnHnrHAmBOc2J-P3FJ1Q4dha9-Uar8/w133-h200/Killara%20-%20Empty%20Chair%20Aug%202023.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>Leather soles on polished marble. As I clip
clopped towards the hotel’s reception, the two desk clerks – over-groomed males
with practiced front-of-house smiles – looked up. Eye sweeps took in my small
suitcase and tailored linen jacket. Tusting and Huntsman respectively.
Perfectly acceptable appeared to be their joint decision but my kit wouldn’t
stop them running a credit check after I eventually ascended in the metalwork lift
to my room. That week, Nice was hosting a particularly unsavoury crowd: literary
folk.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Suitcase sitting by my right ankle, I rested my
hands on the white and gold desktop. “Graham Browne. With an ‘e’ – the surname
not the Christian. I have a reservation.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Welcome back, Mr Browne,” they chorused.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Back?” My surprise unsettled them.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Correcting a guest was presumably <i>découragé</i>
but the taller of the two receptionists took his career in his hands and a deep
breath before saying: “<i>En effet</i>, Monsieur Browne. You were with us in
February. Four nights. We have upgraded you to the same room.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Impossible. I’ve never stayed at Le Negresco.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">An awkward moment’s silence was guillotined by
the shorter receptionist. “<i>Je suis désolé</i>. No doubt an error on our
part.” </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The high room looked across Promenade des
Anglais to the late afternoon’s silver sea. I looked across the room. Blue,
beige, black, pink. In terms of interior design, there was a lot going on. Difficult
to forget.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Unpacking my suitcase, I dropped the formal invitation
I’d received to <i>Le Festival du Livre de Nice 1975 </i>onto an ornate side
table and chose the nearest of three closets to hang up my jacket. The
invitation specified lounge suits to be worn for the book fair’s opening night
but surely authors weren’t meant to dress like auditors?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The telephone’s clanging startled me. I picked
it off its cradle and my publisher immediately added to the alarm. His usual
Hooray Henry honking was gone. Brief pleasantries over, he gave a dry cough.
“Graham, I’ve just arrived at the hotel. Can we catch up for a quick drink at,
say, five-ish? There’s the rather delicate matter of that advance I need to
discuss. You’ve missed the deadline.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Advance? Deadline?” My visit to Nice was
becoming a string of one-word queries.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“We paid you on time, Graham, and … err … now
we’d like the first three chapters of that new novel you promised.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Rather than begin a stream of “what, what?” I
sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the phone in my hand. Yoram Housman’s
voice squawked through the earpiece. I’d stopped listening.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">It was happening again. Somewhere in the world,
someone with the high-end tastes of the Shah of Persia and the spending habits
of Elizabeth Taylor was impersonating me. It’d been three years since the other
“Graham Browne” last hijacked my identity and swanned from the Hotel Nacional
De Cuba to the Colony Room Club in London, running up bills and running out on
women. Digging through the leather compendium I’d stashed in my suitcase, I
found an ageing, creased Le Monde newspaper clipping mailed to me via my agent
by the irate manager of Paris’s La Tour d'Argent restaurant. The headline in the
entertainment pages read: “<i>Auteur célèbre dans une bagarre au restaurant</i>”.
The accompanying story claimed I’d thrown a punch at a waiter after he’d smiled
at my “date”. A flashbulb-lit black and white photograph captured a man baring
a vague resemblance to me being given the bum’s rush by waitstaff while a
peroxide blonde in stockinged feet beat their backs with her high heeled shoes.
La Tour d'Argent’s manager had demanded payment for two damaged chairs and the
unpaid tab. I’d pleaded that not only had I never visited his overpriced
restaurant, I was at home on Cap d’Antibes at the time.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Other documents in the compendium included a paternity
suit notice from a woman in Monte Carlo and a letter of demand from a Kentucky
horse breeder.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Then, suddenly, my doppelganger had disappeared.
Hopefully dead or in jail. But now …</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">A few minutes after 5 o’clock, I walked into Le
Negresco’s bar with its </span>walnut woodwork and, thanks to diligent <span lang="EN-US">Côte d'Azur </span>tanning, its walnut-coloured
guests. Housman appeared to have two drinks’ head start. I chose Ricard Pastis
de Marseille, he stayed with The Macallan. He accepted a cigarette and then clinked
glasses before he started banging on again about the advance and the late
manuscript. Apparently, I’d phoned him four months’ earlier with my plans for a
new book and a request for a “little something to tide me over”. In cash. I’d
then met with Housman’s junior partner Rosemary in a Soho bar I’d chosen,
signed the book deal, slipped the envelope of cash into my pocket and, finally,
patted her knee and suggested dinner. As I’d recall, said Housman, she’d
slapped my hand away.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">No, I said. I did not recall the
slap. In my 10 years with his publishing firm I’d never taken an advance in
cash nor met Rosemary. I reminded Hausman of the mystery man of 1972. At the
time I’d tagged him: “<span lang="EN-US">The
Ghost Writer”</span>.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Housman didn’t have the advantage
of a Riviera tan to stop him turning pale. He lifted his whisky glass and
tugged at his shirt collar. “I did think it strange. But authors are rather
offbeat. Shall we call the police?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I rattled the ice in my glass
before taking another sip. “Not yet. You and I can outwit the fake Mr Browne.
For example, what’s on 15 May?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Housman, with no ice to shake
around, emptied his glass. “That’s the day you’re to be French kissed by the new
Mayor of Antibes.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“He refers to it as being awarded
the Keys to the City for my sterling work promoting the area in my novels.
Those Keys aren’t simply symbolic. Not only can I go anywhere, I can do almost
anything. <i>Carte blanche</i>. It’s an irresistible lure for the impostor to
get involved in some way.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Before Housman could order
another round, I outlined how his firm’s public relations department should
beat the publicity drum to preview the event in the UK and French press. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">15 May. The hook had been threaded through the
bait. By now, the counterfeit Mr Browne would be swimming towards me to be
caught, scaled and filleted.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Sitting in an arched doorway in my relatively
modest villa in Cap D’Antibes, I could see the Alpes-Maritime peaks in the
distance. Smoke trailing from a Disque Bleu gave them a hazy, dreamy look.
Forty-five minutes to the ceremony. Easy. It was a less than 20-minute drive to
the event location on the marina below the towering Fort Carré.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Cigarette smoke still hung over the empty chair
as I calmly walked out the front door. On the pebbled driveway my two-tone Citroën
2CV sat at a jaunty angle. Two flat tyres on the right-hand side. An Opinel
knife’s wooden handle jutted from the rear tyre. <i>Merde</i>. It took me 60
seconds to reach the villa’s phone and another 30 before I realised the line
had been cut.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Standing at my front gates, I looked around. My
nearest neighbour was holidaying in Tahiti and, on the quiet backroad, there
was zero chance of a flagging down an available taxi. Panama hat jammed in
place, I headed towards a bus stop half a kilometre away. Thoughtfully, the
local Council had set up regular services to shuttle the Cap’s villas’ support
staff from the town’s centre to their workplaces and back again. The bus took 35
long minutes to arrive.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Clambering off at a stop just 200 metres from
the podium, I started what, for me, was a sprint. For others, simply striding. A
crowd of well-dressed people was moving en masse towards me. Was I going in the
right direction? <i>Merde - encore une fois. </i>The event had finished.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Two gendarmes began officiously herding the
departing throng off the wide boardwalk by the waterfront to allow a large black
Peugeot with pennants flying from both sides of the bonnet to ease its way
past.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Exhausted, I stood trying to catch my breath as
the car drew up alongside me. In the back seat sat the Mayor and a man who
looked distressingly familiar. There was a Panama hat on his lap. The window
slid down. The Ghost Writer produced an apologetic smile. “We’d offer you a
lift, old boy, but we’re off to paint the town red … and white and blue. <i>À
tout à l'heure.”</i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Before the window rose, he blew me a kiss.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"># # #</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">Copyright 2023 GREG FLYNN</span></p>Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612358725492373701.post-76617024362648149182023-05-13T12:32:00.001+10:002023-05-13T12:32:30.221+10:00The Cat’s Whiskers<p><span style="text-align: justify;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUT6gojeeec-fQgEiQWexeGns_Rc0p2tdP3TRFXEgTEV3Q4U3BcdriJ700GEuHQo_jiZjPKpTeVMtsCZ8My4gMRFxyJtaV_wFTLMfzuOFYSNf8JfRlWKB6r0tu1L57PIwI0rFU_6sa-hf3UjMVo163etEPU_dAylX67P_96NwPPVv4XCRC3g_rASrs/s211/wigblonde.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="211" data-original-width="162" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUT6gojeeec-fQgEiQWexeGns_Rc0p2tdP3TRFXEgTEV3Q4U3BcdriJ700GEuHQo_jiZjPKpTeVMtsCZ8My4gMRFxyJtaV_wFTLMfzuOFYSNf8JfRlWKB6r0tu1L57PIwI0rFU_6sa-hf3UjMVo163etEPU_dAylX67P_96NwPPVv4XCRC3g_rASrs/s1600/wigblonde.jpg" width="162" /></a></div><br />Pussy’s gone? queried Bow. Whereabouts unknown, confirmed the barman
without taking his eye off the tip jar. Estimate for the night so far: £10/7/6.
Very nice indeed. Seemingly, every queer in London was sardined into the Royal
Vauxhall Tavern, ordering Babycham, draught Carlsberg or Blue Nun, shouting
“cheers” and “bottoms up”.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Straightening his skirt before craning his neck, Bow tried to see over
the heads of the hooting crowd. He certainly wasn’t going to climb back onto
the bar’s countertop for a better view. As Pussy and Bow, the pair had just
finished their set with an encore of “All the Nice Girls Love a Sailor” and Bow,
unscripted, had paused. A likely lad had beckoned with a waved business card.
Purely to be sociable, of course, Bow had tucked it into his garter, turned and
realised Pussy had gone.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Why? Each night the two would accept glasses of bubbles from the manageress
after singing music hall ditties while strutting the wide bar. The highlight: watching
punters frantically scooping away their booze in case the performers’ high-heeled
shoes kicked the glassware towards the rafters.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">But no bubbles on that summer’s night, 26 July 1967. Ignoring drinks offered
by too-handsy Stagedoor Johnnies, Bow pushed his way to the Tavern’s concept of
a dressing room – a cramped space near the men’s loos. He changed out of a silk
blouse and a-line skirt into a blue suit, achieving a dour Clark Kent effect.
From super drag queen to being a drag. Off stage, Bow was a creased-brow worrier.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">A voice below his shoulder said in Polari, the gay slang: “How bona to
vada your dolly old eek again.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Bow wasn’t in the mood for banter. “I can’t find Pussy.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Women?” said the dandy little man with a shudder. “You never struck me
as the type, darling.” He resembled Truman Capote without the matching bank
balance. Capote chose Moscot Eyewear. Clive Johnson had to rely on National
Health spectacles. During a moment’s pause, Johnson, usually indifferent to
others’ feelings, sensed Bow’s concern. “Well … I saw him coming out of the loos,
still in full drag and on the arm of a dashing young man of, and I imagine
Pussy knows this already, very athletic build.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Nonsense …” began Bow before Johnson’s hand came up.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“This evening’s different. Look around. Everyone’s been following the
Sexual Offences Act debate in parliament. The wireless says the politicians are
still at it and tomorrow, with luck, we too can get at it without having our
collars felt.” Raising an empty glass, he swiveled around, hoping a passing
mary would fill it. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">In the warm South London night air, on the curving footpath wrapping
around the front of the venue, customers avoiding the crush inside stood
drinking and chortling. High up and only yards away, trains clattered on an
overpass’ tracks. Bow now had a lead. A few of the revellers had seen Pussy climbing
into the back seat of a plain, dark car with a man in a suit seeming to push
him.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">A Tube ride ate up more time, however Bow couldn’t afford a taxi. Thirty
minutes later he stood to attention at the Kennington Road police station’s
front desk. The building was as blank-faced as the sergeant studying him.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“You mean the pansy in the frock?” asked the sergeant.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Hamish McMahon,” repeated Bow.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Picking up a fountain pen, the policeman scrawled a note on a large
ledger. “And you’re his boyfriend?”.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Heavens, no. We’ve performed together for five years. We started off
dressing as singing nuns but found …”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“It says here he’ll be charged tomorrow with committing an act of gross
indecency in the toilets of some poof pickup joint in Vauxhall.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Why’s Hamish being kept in a cell?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“So we know where to find him in the morning.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The station clock above the sergeant’s desk read 8.25. Bow calculated if
he caught the Number 59 bus he’d reach Fleet Street in 10 minutes. El Vino’s
would still be open.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Open and doing a high-spirited trade. Given the street, there were
journalists from the broadsheets and tabloids who flicked him knowing looks as
he entered and lawyers from the surrounding chambers who ignored him. Except
one. At the far end of the wine bar, away from customers plopped on high stools
or propped against the dark wood counter, a tall man in an unbuttoned, pin-striped,
double-breasted suit which may have been fashionable two decades earlier seemed
to sense Bow’s presence. He certainly sensed a chance for a refill. “I’m
drinking the allegedly Good Ordinary,” he called out.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Bow stopped at the bar, ordered and paid in coins.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">At a small table wedged into a corner, Damian Wordsworth lifted the proffered
glass of claret out of Bow’s hand, nodded thanks and gestured at a chair. Bow
drank half his glass of hock before blurting out: “They’ve snatched Pussy.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Wordsworth didn’t raise his long nose away from the rim. “It’s always
hard to tell if it’s corked.” A final sniff then a lengthy pull. “I’m afraid if
this involves a brief, old chap, you’ll need to go through the clerk of my
chambers.” He saw Bow’s face fall. “But,” Wordsworth added, “I’m always
delighted to chat with half of my favourite double act.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The following morning, the barrister regretted both the claret and his
curiosity. With the Act to decriminalise homosexual acts in private scheduled
to be passed that day, why would the police bother?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Wordsworth was standing in a small holding cell which smelt of equal
parts urine and despair. There was a steel bucket in the corner, probably
holding both. Facing the lawyer, the still-uncharged Hamish Alfred McMahon, aka
Pussy, wig off, makeup askew, sat on a bed bolted to the wall. He retold the
story. Needing an urgent leak after his performance, he’d sprinted into a
toilet cubicle, left the door open, hoisted the lid and his dress and, seconds
later, heard the door close behind him and felt a tap on his shoulder. Then
came a muttered offer “to lend a hand.” Pussy had turned and said: “I beg your
pardon?” The shoulder-tapper, Constable Alan Radcliff – undercover and in his
best suit – later alleged Pussy had sighed “Look at my hard-on” before
thrusting himself forward.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Pussy gave a tired smile. “Untrue. I would’ve peed all over his boots.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">A steel gate clanged. They heard those same boots – and another pair –
in the corridor outside. The cell door was yanked back and, in Keystone Cops
style, Constable Radcliff and the front desk sergeant collided in the narrow
space before stopping inches from Pussy’s stockinged knees. Radcliff, after
checking his watch and smirking at his colleague, read out the charge and then recited
the caution: “You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if
you do not mention ...”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Neither Pussy nor his barrister said anything.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">In El Vino’s that evening, Wordsworth sipped claret and grimaced. On the wine bar table lay a fresh copy of the Sexual Offences Act
1967. Although passed by Parliament at 11.10am, it did not receive Royal Assent
from the Queen until 2.45pm. As Pussy had been charged after the Act was passed
but before the crucial Royal Assent for a crime allegedly committed the
previous night, could he be tried? Potentially. The Act did not state whether the
new emancipating law applied to offences committed prior to the legislation. Taking
another tentative sip, Wordsworth made a pragmatic decision. He was acting for Pussy
on a pro bono basis, so – bugger it – he didn’t plan to spend time in court.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">As he lit a long, filtered cigarette, he saw Bow approaching.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Do you have a plan?” asked Bow.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“<i>Plan</i> might indicate I know what I’m doing.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">It was Friday – to Sir Anthony Barrett, the Director of Public
Prosecutions, a day more sacred than Sunday. Ahead lay two glorious days of
shooting startled birds out of the sky at his estate. In the distance Big Ben
struck the hour. Barrett squinted at the stiff white card bearing the club’s luncheon
menu. Perhaps the baked turbot with potato crust plus a small carafe of
Sancerre.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Do you mind, Tony?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Barrett looked up as Wordsworth drew back the chair opposite. “And if I
did, Damian?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Such an enviable sense of humour and what a coincidence seeing you at
the club. I couldn’t miss the opportunity to pick your brains about a delicate
matter.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“If this involves one of your beastly clients, you can sod off and take
your chances in court.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Tsk, tsk, Tony … if only life was that straightforward.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">By the time Wordsworth finally pushed back his chair, Barrett had lost
his appetite. The DPP’s notes on a slim leather-backed scratch pad resting by
the untouched fish knife read: “Claimed entrapment. No witnesses. Charge laid was
two-fingered gesture at high-profile, history-making Act. Charge’s timing
relied on slowness of Royal Assent process. May reflect poorly on Her Majesty. Also,
Act unclear on prior offences. Positions <u>me</u> (he’d underlined ‘me’) as
meanspirited, out-of-touch zealot. Salacious press stories destined to run and
run.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Can I get you anything before I go?” asked Wordsworth.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Get the waiter to bring a phone to the table. I need to make a call to
Kennington Road police station.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"># # #</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">Copyright 2023 GREG FLYNN</span></p>Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612358725492373701.post-46697806371220859872023-02-09T13:30:00.001+11:002023-02-09T13:30:54.291+11:00Special Delivery<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRtMQmvGaEuCiDDZM_T1YEXqykhfVjYzdkvjglzLPUvyxl8hZnhvtGREt7PcEkCLhoPe0Qm9SVXNtS9_MClLmfutYLef0x3lc_Z5QV6e-HgIQdsan5rzKzwByvciWC6Iy9g1jGf97AY91v2J2CXYk9hTlvpvb6zv1swNZ4iHqp5hmq1-IKkSctXBu0/s675/Killara%20House%20Feb%202023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="500" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRtMQmvGaEuCiDDZM_T1YEXqykhfVjYzdkvjglzLPUvyxl8hZnhvtGREt7PcEkCLhoPe0Qm9SVXNtS9_MClLmfutYLef0x3lc_Z5QV6e-HgIQdsan5rzKzwByvciWC6Iy9g1jGf97AY91v2J2CXYk9hTlvpvb6zv1swNZ4iHqp5hmq1-IKkSctXBu0/w148-h200/Killara%20House%20Feb%202023.jpg" width="148" /></a></div> <span style="text-align: justify;">It could’ve been worse. It could’ve been Mosman Rowers. But, instead of
overhearing locals at the clubhouse honking at each other about bountiful investment
streams and blissful lives while poking octopus salad around their plates, Kent
listened to sprinklers on poles click-clicking like cicadas and swinging in
arcs to mist the en brosse lawns with measured sprays.</span><span style="text-align: justify;"> </span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">On one side of a low sandstone wall was a slate path, on the other a
long drop down an Angophora-clustered hillside to the bay where the
pleased-with-itself rowing shed sat admiring look-at-me pleasure craft moored
at an adjacent marina jetty.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">He’d parked outside on a curving road, imagining curtain-twitching
neighbours mistaking his ageing car for one belonging to house cleaners. High
above the Harbour waters, a breeze kept the late afternoon temperature down.
The wind had made the effort to cross the 4.5kms between Shark Beach, Vaucluse,
and Mosman Bay bringing with it a cool edge and the delicate fragrance of
self-satisfaction. The Eastern Suburbs were, after all, ever so superior to the
lower north shore and the capitalisation of the first letters was important.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The path led past beds of lavender backgrounded by espaliered olive and lemon
trees: Provence, packaged up and plopped right here. Before his finger could
press the bell, the front door opened with an audible swoosh as though the
house was desperate to suck in the real world. No such luck. A short, stocky
man in a white silk Mandarin-collared shirt looked Kent up and then didn’t
bother to look him down. The man had seen enough.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Kent extended his hand while stretching his lips into a facsimile of a
smile. “Clive Bagnole?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Don’t be silly. Mr Bagnole doesn’t answer his own front door.” The man
stared at Kent’s hand as if a leper was offering to high five him. “You’re
late.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Well, I …”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“This way and try to keep up.” Silk Top swung 90 degrees before scampering
across an entrance hall and down a wide corridor lined with artworks. More
corridors followed with more art. Feeling like Alice in Wonderland following
the white rabbit, Kent tried to memorise the warren in case he needed to show
himself out in a hurry.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">A final set of French doors framed a flagstone terrace. A tall man in a
Panama hat sat in a plantation-style wicker chair unleashing arrows at a target
20 metres away. He lowered his bow as the last two arrows missed the target and
sailed high over the cliff edge towards the foreshore below. “There’s something
satisfying about knowing an entry level Merc or Beemer parked down there might be
pincushioned,” the man said, reaching for a highball glass. “Tom Collins?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“No, I’m the P.I …”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Tom Collins is a gin and soda,” snapped Silk Top before hopping over to
a wrought iron drinks trolley.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“I’m Bagnole,” said the man, apparently to clear up any misunderstanding
that he’d popped in from next door to snaffle some Bombay Sapphire. He nodded
towards another chair.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Holding the chilled glass that’d been thrust at him, Kent sat, sipped
and tried for Smile #2. Bagnole didn’t return it. Instead he flicked a plain
envelope into Kent’s lap. Inside was an A4 sheet of paper pasted with individual
letters cut out of a newspaper.</span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR0B6SrG0I53R3gtYXqnCqb0E_PVcAZfgKPUg6kotQWp5xU7O-HMrUL5AqJQF4Kh0m0iqY2zefhUSiTPpIk21z37Ed4Usswb0feBtBdR0gxNukLYOPVPYgWHlFcRfN-wg05pD2hk4GZaTuoEnO9X0x4Lfn3ZZfV8uH4Vrlruckwup_qsmc1pm0t-uo/s1379/Threat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="57" data-original-width="1379" height="16" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR0B6SrG0I53R3gtYXqnCqb0E_PVcAZfgKPUg6kotQWp5xU7O-HMrUL5AqJQF4Kh0m0iqY2zefhUSiTPpIk21z37Ed4Usswb0feBtBdR0gxNukLYOPVPYgWHlFcRfN-wg05pD2hk4GZaTuoEnO9X0x4Lfn3ZZfV8uH4Vrlruckwup_qsmc1pm0t-uo/w400-h16/Threat.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Bagnole leaned forward. “I’m told they’re from the Daily Telegraph so obviously
nobody from Mosman sent it. And before you ask, I’ve no idea who these three
sisters are.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Not who, where. I’d say it’s the drop off spot. Katoomba.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Bagnole shrugged. “Wherever.” Gesturing at his manservant, he added:
“Ralph will deliver the ransom, you’re to ride shotgun. Are you armed?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“I didn’t realise this suburb was so dangerous.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“I’m not paying for facetious remarks. I was told you’re discreet and
not averse to rough stuff.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“That sounds like a Grinder profile. If you want me to tag along with
Ralph I’ll take half my fee in advance. Cash. Any clues on who kidnapped your
wife?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“If I knew who’d snatched that bitch Chloe, I wouldn’t need you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The drive to the Blue Mountains the following evening was long and
silent. Ralph, now in a black silk shirt, held the steering wheel of the
Bentley Continental GT convertible with his hands at ten-to-two. Kent, in a
suit, occasionally checked the side mirror to see if they were being tailed. At
8.50, the car slid to a gentle stop outside the Echo Point parking area. It was
shut. Having ignored the “closed” sign, five minutes later the men stood
side-by-side at the safety railing feigning interest in the rock formations
branded The Three Sisters. A canvas duffel bag lay at Ralph’s feet.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Wind from the valley carried the sound of waving tree branches and a low
buzzing. At 9pm, a small, dark shape outlined by pinpoints of light rose on the
other side of the railing. The drone hovered for a moment before circling over
their heads. A crackle. “You,” said an electronic voice from the drone. “You in
the suit. Take your coat off.” Kent slipped out of the jacket and raised his
arms to show he wasn’t tooled up. Fortunately, he wasn’t ordered to lift his
right trouser leg. A compact pistol in an ankle holster was strapped uncomfortably
against his sock.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Suit guy,” came the Dalek-like voice again. “Take the bag and drive to
the address that’s under the windscreen wiper of your car.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Mr Bagnole’s car,” Ralph corrected the voice. “And what about me? I
have my orders.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Then order an Uber back to Sydney,” replied the voice.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">A 45-minute drive. Again, it could’ve been worse. Kent might’ve stepped
around the lonely wooden gate that had no fence on either side, walked up the
rocky, overgrown pathway to the dour two-storey house with a single light in a
window, handed over the ransom money and then been killed by the kidnappers to
tie up any loose ends. Instead, he stood in a copse of trees that rose to the
right of the building, the duffle bag slung over his shoulder and the gun in
his hand. He could see the bright window with a desk lamp pointing downwards
and what appeared to be the outline of a person near a curtain. A person who
didn’t move. Fortunately, the person sharing the copse and standing 10 metres in
front of him was moving slowly as they concentrated on a device in their hands.
More buzzing. Another drone or perhaps the same one from Echo Point, rose and
turned in a wide sweep of the area. Then, sentry-like, it halted above the
house’s front door, presumably waiting to give the arriving bagman further orders.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Kent stepped up behind the drone controller. “Special delivery,” he whispered
into their ear.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">A female voice swore.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The pair climbed the stairs to the house’s upper floor. A shop window
mannequin propped up by a curtain created the illusion of a guard. It wore an
unconvincing wig, matching Kent’s unconvincing smile. The woman still appeared concerned.
I must keep practicing, Kent told himself. Holding up a photo Bagnole had given
him of the missing Chloe, he studied the woman. No doubt about it, she’d
kidnapped herself.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The story came out in a rush. Bagnole had twice threatened to kill her
if she left him. Kent didn’t ask why she’d want to leave. He’d met the man.
She’d recorded the second threat but was too frightened to go to the police. Over
the past weeks she’d refined the kidnap plans knowing Bagnole would pay up
purely out of pride, not out of love. Now she presumed Kent was taking her
back.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">What he took was her phone with the recorded threat on it. There was no
use playing it to Bagnole in an attempt to stop him going after Chloe. Bagnole
would probably agree then, within hours, send someone else to hunt down his
runaway bride. Kent planned to present the recording as evidence to two female
detectives who he knew wouldn’t brush off the threat. Bagnole needed to be
wearing his brown underwear when they came a’knocking.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“And this?” asked Chloe, her toe cap kicking the duffle bag lying on the
floor.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Kent bent down. “I don’t want to appear unsentimental but I’m taking the
other half of my fee. I imagine your no-doubt-soon-to-be-ex-husband won’t honour
his debt.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“The rest?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">He stood up slowly</span><span lang="EN-US">.
“You’ll need walking-around money. Mosman can be expensive.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span># # #</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">Copyright 2023 GREG FLYNN</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p>Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612358725492373701.post-59485717637810651992023-02-08T15:47:00.001+11:002023-02-08T15:47:49.435+11:00A Stand Up Guy<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir1QdDO1tqaEtLkbdTCX7Yj18mabwCF8MgI0IGuNOv_QRosFtxdhG1tBrtY-U2Ux3JfyWWivipTEynl16e-FH6wkTZgIhwRVDZDXonjCQ0eLgu8bcqWZZUr2gfAHv1vLNR2LZwOvTTshhN_9WMxtH9M9U8-HgA3xwnDski8x3DvgHKxYFqf83ECC_9/s275/comedy%20club%202.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir1QdDO1tqaEtLkbdTCX7Yj18mabwCF8MgI0IGuNOv_QRosFtxdhG1tBrtY-U2Ux3JfyWWivipTEynl16e-FH6wkTZgIhwRVDZDXonjCQ0eLgu8bcqWZZUr2gfAHv1vLNR2LZwOvTTshhN_9WMxtH9M9U8-HgA3xwnDski8x3DvgHKxYFqf83ECC_9/w200-h133/comedy%20club%202.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="text-align: justify;">A light rain began to fall. To avoid the dark one-way
street in Paddington, the Uber driver dropped me two blocks short of the club.
“Enjoy the walk,” he said as I slid from the backseat, trying to keep my show
jacket from getting wet.<br /></span><p></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Enjoy the one-star rating,” I replied.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">At the club’s narrow front door, Jenni was running
hard eyes over a queue before unclipping a tatty velvet rope and shepherding select
patrons through. Her uniform: black jeans, brown bovver boots and a Hello Kitty
T-shirt.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">As I slipped past, she whispered: “I’m
surprised they invited you back, Mr Something-to-Offend-Everyone. And … no
politics this time, Harry.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">I gave her what resembled a sincere smile. I’d
been practicing.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The hallway to the main bar and event room was
lined with photos of grandees who’d visited the club over the decades. Halfway
along was a framed black and white print of a nonplussed Bob Hawke in the </span>Sydney
Swans' <span lang="EN-US">nearby</span><span lang="EN-US"> </span>dressing rooms in ’84.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">A beery boofhead in a leather vest
leaned in close. Very matey. “Hey, that Hawkey. What a bloke!”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Every Australian male voter’s dream candidate,”
I said. “A high functioning alcoholic and serial philanderer.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Is that a joke, funny man?” A pause. “You
suck.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“At least I<i> </i>get paid for it.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">I felt my arm being clasped above the elbow.
“No politics,” repeated Jenni as she shouldered Leather Vest aside and steered
me further into the club.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Right on time. Above the din, I heard the MC tapping
the microphone with his fingertips. “Ahem, ladies, gentlemen and however else you
wish to identify – <i>everybody’s</i> money is good at our bar – here’s the man
… unless that’s too binary … very few of you have been waiting for. The one,
the only … and thank God for that … Harry Palmer.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">I took the steps up to the stage two at a time.
Given there were only six, that was the extent of my athleticism. Lifting the
mic off the stand, I faced the crowd as they ate, drank, stood at the bar,
flirted, checked their phones and generally ignored me. “Evening all. Excuse my
nerves. When you’re from the North Shore, it’s scary but thrilling being in the
Eastern Suburbs.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Everyone here is so glamorous. Take your drug
dealers with their bright white Lacoste sneakers and look-at-me cars.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“What must the cops be thinking when they see a
25-year-old guy with a fade haircut driving a $600,000 Lamborghini down Old
South Head Road at midnight? That he’s heading for his nightshift at the kebab
shop?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“On the plus side, you know the blow is halal.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Even the use of language in the Far East is different.
Up North, when we say we’re going to powder our nose we don’t mean two of our
mates will join us to cram into the end cubicle of a pub loo to do lines off
the cistern lid.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Across the Harbour, when we talk about drugs
and lines we mean queues at Chemist Warehouse.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Speaking of queues … they’re exotic here as well.
Have you experienced the cosmopolitan delights of Double Bay Woolies’ checkouts
just before sunset marks the start of the Sabbath? The Exodus is on. The only
other place you’ll hear so many raised voices and accents like that is in a
Shul in Jo’burg … or maybe St Ives.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“And I’d expected a <i>mazel tov</i> from you
for making it on time tonight. After driving over the Harbour Bridge I
rediscovered the Eastern Suburbs’ dirty little secret – there’s no parking …
anywhere.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“I drove with the windows up and doors locked to
find the kerbs lined bumper-to-bumper with ten-year-old VW Golfs covered in cobwebs
and leaves.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Why are you laughing? Yes, you in the Paddo
local dress code. A <i>sleeveless</i> puffer jacket. You rebel you. To get here
on time, I’ve parked across your driveway.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Pro tip: if you find an empty spot never
reverse into it. Right at that moment, a Mercedes convertible will nose into the
space while the driver shouts: ‘I was here first, darhhlink!’</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“You really should come and see our suburbs.
The streets are empty, no parked cars. It’s almost post-apocalyptic. I’m told
that after a nuclear blast, cockroaches will survive … but not in the North. We’re
obsessed with insects and cleanliness. The air smells of one part Mortein to
two parts Toilet Duck.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“You have your traditions too … like being ignored
by restaurant staff. North of the Bridge, restaurants are pathetically grateful
that someone, anyone, has turned up. Not here. At bills in Bondi, there’re
customers who’ve been waiting to see the menu since 2017.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Allowing more backpackers in just adds to staffing
problems. Venue owners will still train Irish barstaff to add lime to a drink by
picking up a wedge of fruit with the same hand they wipe their arse with,
squeezing it over the booze then dropping what remains into the glass. Presto! A
vodka and lime plus a side order of E. coli.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Consider yourselves lucky. To live a full
life, nobody needs to leave the East. During Covid lockdowns, residents here
shrugged – they were spoilt for choice … the beaches, the Harbour, the vibe.
When I was locked down, all I had near me were two retirement villages and a
coffee shop serving Nescafé.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“OK, I have to admit I lived in the East for a
few years – in a Rose Bay flat. It’s there I discovered that elsewhere in
Sydney people put things IN letterboxes but in the East they take things OUT.
Three credit cards were nicked from my post. It’s because banks choose plain
but instantly recognisable envelopes. My suggestion to banks: send credit cards
in envelopes with a fake pathology logo and a banner reading: ‘Returning herpes
samples.’</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Living in Rose Bay taught me the key to keeping
safe over here is to remember that Cadbury is lying to you: there’s not a glass
and a half in everyone.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“As for the greatest status symbol, forget a Harbour
view. Only wealth rules. If </span>Melissa Caddick <span lang="EN-US">staggered out of the water at Watsons Bay covered in
seaweed with a missing foot and wearing a sandwich board saying: ‘Make money
now, ask me how’ there’d be punters lining up, desperate to know how to get
rich quick.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Before I go, I should add that I was told
you’d be a tough crowd. Well, you won’t find me pandering to you to score some last-minute
applause.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“You’d never catch me pointing out the obvious
– just look at how gorgeous and how handsome you all are, sitting there perkily
on your beautifully-portioned moneymakers.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Am I right or am I right?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">I was right. Always pander.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Slipping the mic into place, I backed away.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Outside the club entrance, the rain and the crowd
had dissipated. Jenni was lighting a cigarette. Shaking another one out of a
soft packet, she lit it alongside hers and handed it to me.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">I let out smoke and a sigh. “As I once said to Dolly
Parton: ‘</span>What a way to make a living’<span lang="EN-US">.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Cowboy up, Harry. To quote Groucho Marx:
‘Nobody told you that you <i>had</i> to go into showbusiness’.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span><span style="text-align: center;"># # #</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">Copyright 2023 GREG FLYNN</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612358725492373701.post-10831405676647498362023-02-08T15:40:00.000+11:002023-02-08T15:40:08.284+11:00Breaking Vows<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHJsRK_pWTL5o-eyTl_2p3lBDTdk1jqS0XZ1ztakX9rTbjYgq3xipfhlXoOQQm0pPhWU8Y936VnVf_it1JXV21MF-qQ6cFwqQdRoBB78In4hhf2EM72vfoSeeLXNsDHkA6XjRbmlMgSZkmM33boQiZ-sJQr3hwT5oOeb1Cb4DpO417F_APJ2UV2Kb3/s800/confessionnal2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHJsRK_pWTL5o-eyTl_2p3lBDTdk1jqS0XZ1ztakX9rTbjYgq3xipfhlXoOQQm0pPhWU8Y936VnVf_it1JXV21MF-qQ6cFwqQdRoBB78In4hhf2EM72vfoSeeLXNsDHkA6XjRbmlMgSZkmM33boQiZ-sJQr3hwT5oOeb1Cb4DpO417F_APJ2UV2Kb3/w200-h113/confessionnal2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><i style="text-align: justify;">21 September 2013</i><span style="text-align: justify;">.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Lining up the items on a narrow table
in the sacristy, John O’Malley mentally ticked off his checklist: hipflask of Irish
whiskey, mobile with sports streaming and betting apps, earbud headphones, a
matchbox, a miniature ashtray and a half empty packet of Marlboro. Or perhaps he
should think of it as half full. He opted for half empty.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Slipping the cache into the pockets of
his cassock, O’Malley glanced at the wall clock, drew in a deep breath, gave a
soulful sigh and went into the body of the church.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Outside a cool drizzle was washing
urine off the footpaths of Darlinghurst. Inside the air smelt of day-old
incense with background notes of stale Virginian tobacco.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">He counted the parishioners in the
pews. Four. Let’s pray the rain keeps others away, he said to himself and the
Almighty as he made a half genuflection before the altar and headed for the two-person
confessional.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Leaving the booth’s rear door partly
open to let out smoke, he fitted a single headphone bud into his right ear so
it was hidden. He tapped the streaming app. Two-handed, the umpire was raising
the ball high. A pull of whiskey, a puff on a cigarette and, sliding back the partition
curtain, he sat waiting.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">One by one they shuffled in seeking a
sympathetic ear, a quick absolution and minimal penance. Amen to that, was his
approach. After 20 minutes it was three down, one to go<span style="color: red;">.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Number Four dropped rather than slid
into the seat. O’Malley felt the slight thud and, annoyed, squinted through the
partition. Having pimped up the screen with flywire, he could only make out the
bulk of a tall man, either bald or shaven headed, with a beefy nose and
prominent chin.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The rote recital beginning “Bless me,
Father, for I have sinned. It has been …” lulled O’Malley into – if he’d been
Buddhist – a meditative state. Then came: “Is it true?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“True?” O’Malley repeated, startled.
It was hard to concentrate on the football while being distracted by a
question.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“That you can’t tell anyone what I confess
to you?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Priests are duty bound by the seal of
the confessional not to disclose anything they’ve been told. I’ve vowed not to
break that seal.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“And you’ll wipe away my sins.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“That’s the general idea.” O’Malley tilted
the flask to his lips and took a sip. A moment later, he inhaled deeply on his
cigarette.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“I’m going to kill someone tonight. I won’t
be visiting another priest, so consider this a confession-in-advance.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">O’Malley gave a spluttering cough. “First
up, the sin involved is riding high on the Commandments’ Top 10 hits at Number
Five: Thou shall not kill. Secondly, you can’t show contrition for a sin you
haven’t yet committed.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“I remember all that going-to-Hell for
a mortal sin stuff from school. So I want you to hear my confession.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Was this the time to discuss the
minutiae of Catholic teachings? O’Malley decided on “no”. “I can’t absolve you
of a sin and indeed a crime you haven’t carried out. If you want my …” A squint
through the partition told him he was about to lecture an empty seat. The man
was gone and so was O’Malley’s interest in the footy. Closing the app, he lit another
cigarette.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Alone in the parish admin office, O’Malley
played the surveillance tape from a CCTV camera positioned high above the front
doors of St Mary Star of the Sea. The big man could be seen walking towards the
church at 2pm, 10 minutes before the confessional opened and the game began. O’Malley
printed off a screengrab capturing the man’s slightly upturned face. Later video
showed a thick neck atop broad shoulders as he strode away. On a far corner, he
went into a pub. The Green Man. Damn, thought O’Malley. The police phrase “…
known to frequent the premises” would apply to O’Malley and that bar. He needed
a partner<span style="color: red;">.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Sister Kate was in mufti, sneakers up
on a stool in the neighbouring convent’s TV room watching Oprah. O’Malley
tapped on the doorframe.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Johnny, boy,” she called out. “Come
and watch a billionairess lie to poor people by telling them all their wishes
will come true if they dream a bigger dream for themselves.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“That’s a bit judgemental, even for
you.” He was glad she was sitting down. Kate was about two centimetres taller
than him with a tendency to stand a little too close when they talked so he
could almost count the freckles on her upturned nose while noting the ice blue
of her ey … no, no, concentrate. “Care to run a dangerous errand?”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Standing on a corner opposite The
Green Man, O’Malley checked his watch. She’d been in there 30 minutes. Rocking
on his feet, he was conscious of the weight of the self-loading 9-millimetre
pistol in the pocket of his hoodie. He’d won the weapon off a drunken US sergeant
six weeks earlier in a card game on a coalition military base in Tarin Kowt,
southern Afghanistan. Who knew a young Australian Army chaplain was sharp at
poker? Scheduled to fly home the following day, O’Malley had ignored the
boasting blowhards around the small table. Within a week he’d be demobbed and
changing a khaki uniform for a black one.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Wearing a puffer jacket and jeans, Kate
came out of the pub with a skip in her step. Handing him back the printout
image of the would-be killer, she said: “A stranger insisted on buying me a
drink.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">O’Malley’s cheeks flushed. “Did anyone
know our man?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“I didn’t need to ask. He’s in there,
sitting with two mates. I was thinking of badgering him about the money he owes
you from that bet.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">It hadn’t been a well thought out lie,
but it was plausible. “There goes our man and one of his pals,” said O’Malley,
looking at the bar door. “Thanks, I must buy you a …” his voice petered out as
he tried to turn.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">She stopped him with a raised palm. “I’m
coming with you.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">They continued to argue as she pulled
him across the road and down a narrow footpath leading to a string of tarted up
terraced houses. The men they were following parted at a freshly painted front
door, with O’Malley’s penitent heading inside, the other walking off. The
priest and nun stood outside. “What are you going to do, Johnny?” Kate asked.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The voice behind them was as cold as a
publicist’s handshake. “Yes, Johnny, just what are you planning?” Standing a
metre away, a smartie with a smirk had his right hand hidden in the pocket of his
long coat, pushing something hard towards them. O’Malley hoped it was just a
gun.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">In a pin-neat living room, the big
man from the church was sitting in a chair while opening and closing his mouth.
Eventually a word tumbled out: “Unbelievable.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“I tailed them from the pub,”
said the smirker. “You have to admit Johnny has made it easier for us.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Nodding, the big man reached for a
snubnosed revolver on a side table and thumbed back the hammer. “Bless me,
Father, for I’m about to kill you.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Why?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“You’re too good at cards. You
took that drunk Yank’s money, gun and dignity. That’s why he boasted he and the
others would soon be rich despite your winning streak.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">O’Malley shrugged. “I’ve no idea
what you mean. Ask my parishioners: I’m a bad listener.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Who ignores a tip off about plans later
this year to smuggle Afghan heroin in returning army vehicles?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Trying to picture the card game and
the loudmouthed sergeant, O’Malley closed his eyes. Yes. He’d heard something
about Bushmaster armoured vehicles having extra padding for the trip home. “No,
can’t recall a word. But … I do remember you coming to confession. Again, why?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Delicious irony. You’d absolve me of
my sin of killing you.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">O’Malley moved his hand to his pocket.
Too slow. The smirker hit him hard behind the ear with something solid.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">He felt he was falling in slow motion.
The 9-millimetre appeared in his hand. Swinging in mid-air, he fired a shot which
blew a lamp off a far table. Then his shoulder hit the floor. The pistol slid
across the polished wooded boards like a hockey puck.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Kill him,” ordered the big man.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">O’Malley braced himself. Two shots
came a second apart.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Like a felled ox, a body crashed down
on him. Rolling onto his back, O’Malley pushed the body away. There was a neat,
dark hole in the middle of the smirker’s forehead. The big man had a matching
one.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Feet apart, gripping O’Malley’s pistol
with both hands, Kate gazed down at him. “It’s always a mistake to ignore the
woman in the room.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“You were in the armed forces?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Farmer’s daughter.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The dead mens’ eyes stared at
O’Malley. In turn, he looked at Kate. “What’ll we do?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“I’d suggest a vow of silence,” she
replied. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p> </o:p><span style="text-align: center;"># # #</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">Copyright 2023 GREG FLYNN</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612358725492373701.post-42901333155580117472023-02-08T15:33:00.002+11:002023-02-08T15:33:50.823+11:00Le Train Bleu – 1st Stop: Paris<p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwGbys4WlMsIV1HVSKQeM4us17dcEwYgBCbWcmO8S4hYERtO8a0nla437hVH32u99YKYkL9frL-KQxrhMZAvWdjR5qKv8f-w7mcxCvPnRsrBxx1p1Wj99J2lSL9tjfN7aLleWtMVQf7CNf6uUzKp596jsqBelXKin2wu5ISd3o507QxeVqhS3KnTlm/s249/Train.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="249" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwGbys4WlMsIV1HVSKQeM4us17dcEwYgBCbWcmO8S4hYERtO8a0nla437hVH32u99YKYkL9frL-KQxrhMZAvWdjR5qKv8f-w7mcxCvPnRsrBxx1p1Wj99J2lSL9tjfN7aLleWtMVQf7CNf6uUzKp596jsqBelXKin2wu5ISd3o507QxeVqhS3KnTlm/s1600/Train.jpg" width="249" /></a></div><span style="text-align: justify;">Possibly it was against the rules
but, then again, this was a French railway station so perhaps it was
compulsory. A well-dressed man was leaning through a train’s window kissing a
statuesque woman on the platform. She with her hand touching his on the windowsill,
her dress pressing against the side of the dark blue carriage. He shooting a
little cuff from his tailored suit sleeve as he bent forward. Steam from the locomotive
wasn’t the only thing rising. An audible “tsk, tsk” came from a straight-backed,
very-much-a-lady passenger watching the couple while also keeping tabs on her matching
Louis Vuitton luggage being hefted through the First Class carriage door by a
porter. The couple and porter were viewed with distaste.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">A month earlier Kent would’ve
decided it was none of his business, ignored the smooch and followed the snooty
passenger aboard. But that day, with a cold <i>La Manche</i> wind blowing down
his neck and an even chillier client to answer to, it was his business.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Carrying two leather cases, the slimmer
attached to his left wrist by a thin chain, he dodged around porters’ trolleys
and strode towards the kissing couple. The man, his skin colour signalling his Congolese
nationality, snapped his head back, almost clipping the top of window frame.
Startled, the woman turned then smiled. “<i>Jaloux</i>?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Not jealous, busy.” A long
whistle signalled departure. Climbing into the carriage, Kent left her and the
wind behind. The Calais-Mediterranée Express – <i>Le Train Bleu</i> – was
pulling out, first stop Paris then Marseille.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Relax,” said the kisser, patting
the space next to him in the single berth compartment.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Kent hesitated in the doorway,
considering the most diplomatic way to decline. “You’ve got soot on your cuff.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">In the neighbouring compartment, he
tossed the case with two changes of lightweight clothes, shaving kit,
toothbrush and a Schrade stiletto switchblade inside a cotton sock onto a luggage
rack. The satchel-style case stayed chained to his wrist. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Holding the case against his hip,
he walked slowly down the First Class carriage’s corridor with windows to the
left, compartments right. Only six were occupied, leaving two empty. None of
the passengers had bothered to draw their blinds. He recognised the grand lady,
she of the <i>tsk-tsk</i>. Squinting at a luggage tag dangling from a bag, he
made out “Lady Featherstonehaugh:
Cassis” just as the woman looked up from a small diary on her lap and glared at
him. Next was a mother brushing her baby daughter’s hair followed by a nattily
dressed man in his 40s distractedly toying with his hat, and finally a burly,
red-headed man in a checked suit reading an airmail edition of <i>The New York
Times</i>. A headline read: “Key to peace in the Congo”.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Peace? wondered Keen.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Albéric Tshombe was lounging in
his compartment when Keen walked back in, slid the door shut and pulled down
the blind.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“People may talk,” said Tshombe
with a smirk.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Again, Keen stopped himself. If they’d
listened to him in Kinshasa, it would’ve been chartered flights to Nice via
London and then a private limo ride to Marseille. Instead, Tshombe’s claim he
was afraid of flying meant the pair had sailed from Banana Point to Gibraltar
then onto Southampton; hired a chauffeured car to London’s Hatton Garden
followed, three days later, by a train ride from Victoria Station to Dover, the
switch to a ferry and finally the boarding of <i>Le Train Bleu </i>with its
blue and gold livery. A waste of time for anyone not charging his client by the
day. He looked down at Tshombe. The smirk had been replaced by a puzzled look.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“How’re you going to take a leak
with that case chained to you?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Carefully.” Keen took a seat.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“<i>And</i> carry it all the way
to Marseille? My advice: clip it to something in your cabin and cover it up.
That’s why I’m here – to give good advice.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">That did it. “You’re here because
your cousin Mobutu Sese Seko is Army Chief of Staff in the Congo …”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Now free from colonial
oppression.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“… and also free for Mobutu to
slip diamonds from the mines out of the country …”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“For safe keeping during these
unstable times at home.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“’Marseille’ and ‘safe’ aren’t
two words you often hear in the same sentence.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“That’s my business. Yours is to
guard the diamonds. That’s unless you’d like to return to being a mercenary.”
The smirk snuck back.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Kent had no intention of
rejoining “Mad Mike” Hoare and his unit <i>4 Commando</i> in the rainforest. Mobutu
may be a cold-blooded little shit but he paid in US dollars and travel was
always first class. With only minor disagreements, Tshombe and Kent had made it
from Kinshasa’s scruffy alleys to the dull, understated streets of Hatton
Garden to get a pro’s valuation of the diamonds. Knowing the chained satchel
held £607,019
worth of gems focused the mind.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The tinkle of the attendant’s
bell heralded lunch. An opportunity no-one missed.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">A waiter, working his way down
the dining car while ticking off a passenger list, reached Lady Featherstonehaugh, greeted
her and pronounced her name phonetically. She responded with a snort.
“It’s pronounced ‘Fan-shaw’.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The waiter gave a brittle smile.
Twenty years before, Gestapo officers had demanded he say their ranks correctly
while serving them meals on the train. But even this<i> Anglaise mal élevée</i>
was unlikely to pull out his fingernails.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The fashionably dressed man, no
longer fiddling with his hat, let out a sound like an owl’s hoot and leant
across the aisle towards Lady Featherstonehaugh’s
table. “I say, the staff need a refresher course in simple English. This
afternoon, one even called me Monsieur Lev-e-son-Gow-ers, just as it’s spelt. Any
fool knows you say: ‘Louson-Gore’.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Lady Featherstonehaugh covered her mouth with her hand,
flapped her eyelashes and gave a giggle.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Kent had two thoughts: “Up wrong
tree barking with that dandy, m’lady” and “Tournedos Béarnaise”. Tshombe ordered
the Asperges à la sauce gribiche. They agreed to share a half bottle of
Bordeaux.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Taking a sip, Kent wondered why
the English on the Continent had to be as loud as the American’s suit. He noted
the American was also having the steak, while the mother and child shared a plate
of pallid chicken. He watched Tshombe slice into the first white asparagus spear
before asking: “The girl at the station: a fond farewell or a final one?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“I saw you sizing her up, almost
literally, when she got on board with me at Victoria Station. I <i>know</i>
that you <i>know</i> she and I met on Saturday night in the hotel bar. So, Mr
Kent, let me explain again – your job is to watch the diamonds not watc…”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“And where is she now?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Heading home to Germany via
Belgium. The Calais to Brussels express left just after ours.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Kent relaxed. There appeared to
be no immediate threat except indigestion from the too cool meal. After lunch,
the passengers retired to the lounge car. The men smoked and avoided eye contact;
the women watched the light fade. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The Gare de Lyon had its bustle
on. Passengers and porters were scurrying, sometimes in the same direction. Leaning
back in his compartment with cigarette smoke drifting out the window, Kent wondered
why people became tense at airports and train stations. Anyone could see the
station’s departures board indicated <i>Le Train Bleu</i> would leave on
schedule. Ten minutes earlier, the two remaining First Class compartments had
been taken by a stoop-shouldered, frail woman enveloped from head to immaculate
shoe caps in mourning black who’d arrived in a wheelchair pushed by a grim,
gaunt man kitted out in a dark suit that he wore like a uniform. Chauffeur,
valet or military uniform, Kent couldn’t decide. The woman, a veil covering her
face, had being gently decanted into her compartment before the manservant
pushed the wheelchair towards the baggage car. A feu de joie of whistles
sounded, guards’ flags flapped and the train – another late model steam
locomotive – began to choof out of the Gare de Lyon into the Paris night.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">And they were back. Back in the
dining car. Fresh menus were sitting alongside spotless glasses, shining
cutlery and starched napkins.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Lady Featherstonehaugh and Leveson-Gowers were sharing a table
and sniggers, the latter presumably directed at their fellow passengers. The
American had brushed his hair and was making notes in a black leather compendium.
The mother and the now irritable child rushed through their meal. Kent assumed
the wheelchair woman and her manservant were dining in their compartments with the
blinds down.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Tshombe was 10 minutes late. He
dropped into his chair, flicked his fingers at the waiter – who’d decided the
Gestapo officers were better mannered than modern travellers – and ordered a
bottle of Krug.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Kent waited until the champagne was
poured to ask: “A celebration?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“The Old Testament urges us to
eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we die.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Raising his glass, Kent smiled:
“I’ll drink to that.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i>[Dear reader: the story will continue ... well, depending on demand]</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-AU"># # #</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">Copyright 2023 GREG FLYNN</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612358725492373701.post-3128161895158626742022-02-25T09:23:00.000+11:002022-02-25T09:23:15.939+11:00Mr Hewlow’s Holiday<p><span style="text-align: justify;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxkG32nY-WZ4jbUXwch64osklRelDInOipoZA-Y1ZDWUTLj_eVj6YVqLctATPa2kXGETH6dMKqZKY7kYpdk1PLDXOSxDmzcSmv5D2m6bErlQfLeISYUV8U-bVWDCsUbPt9xuDousodErJppH54Gj75a0U75qUg-zZ4QOWhYJErAgKNaGZ5pWfsbOg5=s452" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="452" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxkG32nY-WZ4jbUXwch64osklRelDInOipoZA-Y1ZDWUTLj_eVj6YVqLctATPa2kXGETH6dMKqZKY7kYpdk1PLDXOSxDmzcSmv5D2m6bErlQfLeISYUV8U-bVWDCsUbPt9xuDousodErJppH54Gj75a0U75qUg-zZ4QOWhYJErAgKNaGZ5pWfsbOg5=w200-h151" width="200" /></a></div>On the
bright side, there was a bright side to the <i style="text-align: justify;">Bord de Mer</i><span style="text-align: justify;"> B&B – when the
weather was clear. That morning, a pink horizon flatlined along the rim of the
English Channel and the sun’s rays struck the Victorian terrace smack in the
face. Moments later, the sun slid behind a thunder cloud mid-way between
England and France and stubbornly stayed there. On a good day, you could see
France from the Kent coastal town of Brudley. This wasn’t a good day.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">James
Hewlow, with his suitcase at heel, stood on the wide footpath in front of the
building, looked up, listened to his taxi’s diesel engine tick, ticking behind
him and was tempted to get back in. Instead he turned, paid and tipped, and
watched the cab draw away. Take me, take me with you, he wanted to call out.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">A
neatly-typed sign on the front door read: “No vacancies. Do not disturb.”</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">He tapped the
door knocker. One floor above, a window creaked open and a woman’s voice
greeted him with: “It’s dawn! Can’t you read?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">“Actually
it’s 7.20,” Hewlow called back, “and I have a reservation.”</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">The window
came down with a bang. A breeze, stiffened by droplets of cold Channel spray,
came off the water and misted his glasses. Placing his suitcase on the stoop,
Hewlow studied the street. The only bright markers were a red telephone box standing
to attention 50 feet away and, equidistant in the other direction, a Royal Mail
post box of the same colour also playing sentry. An elderly couple, bent
forward against the elements, took a lonely walk along the seafront. In the
summer of ’65, the town appeared unconvinced by its own <i>It’s Fun in the Sun in
Brudley</i> marketing<i> </i>campaign.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">The front
door swung wide. “Welcome to <i>Bord de Mer</i>,” croaked Audrey Conkwell. Her throat
needed lubricating as did her skin: too many Balkan Sobranies and years spent
by the water. With her left hand she held her dressing gown tight; her right
was buried deep in a pocket.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">“I’m James
Hewlow. Mother sent me.” He sensed her taking him in: tall-ish, blue suit and
dark tie, heavy black framed spectacles, blond hair parted neatly, cleanly
shaven. He’d passed the first test. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">“<i>Bord
de Mer</i>,” she repeated. “Geddit?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">“French
for seaside and a play on words on a place that offers board.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">Mrs
Conkwell drew her hand slowly out of her pocket. He’d passed Test #2.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">Leading
the way up narrow, carpeted stairs, she stopped twice for breath. With a hand
wave she indicated his room. It lay at the far end of the corridor facing the
cruel sea and an ice cream sign on the pier. “If you’d like to use the bath,
come and collect the plug from me – and return it afterwards. An industry-standard
charge of £1 applies for three baths during your stay. The daily cooked
breakfast is covered by your room costs. It’s served at 8.30 sharp, Mr Hewlow.”
She paused. “A Froggy-sounding name, that.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">“I grew up
in Sevenoaks,” he lied, and he knew she knew it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">Sitting on
the edge of a single bed, he could feel springs pressing up through the thin
mattress. The window provided a grim view of grey water speckled with foamy
chop. Normally, he’d sweep the room – carefully turning over the bedside lamp,
checking the backs of framed prints on the walls – but there was no need at <i>Bord
de Mer. </i>The place was certainly bugged.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">As he
entered the dining room at 8.32, three faces at the table lifted.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">Standing
at a sideboard, Mrs Conkwell was putting a silver domed lid over a slaver piled
with Kedgeree. “We thought you weren’t coming,” she said.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">At the
table, a woman in her early 30s dressed in a summer frock and light cardigan,
smiled at Hewlow, still in his suit. “Who’s the naughty boy? Presumably you’re
here to audit Mrs C’s books.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">Hewlow’s
hand hesitated before he tugged at his tie, slipping it off. “Holiday, in
fact.” He wondered if the woman always patted her hair while appraising a new
man in the room.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">With chairs
well spaced, two men sat either side of her. Neither appeared proprietorial. “Paul
Norton,” said the closest. “Rolly Pennock,” said the other. It was the woman’s
turn. “Cleo Laine.” Unlikely, thought Hewlow before giving his own false name,
then adding: “Mother sent me.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">“Well that
takes the fun out of it,” said Cleo. “We were hoping you’d be interesting.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">“Apologies,”
said Hewlow, lifting the lid off the slaver and helping himself to breakfast.
The aromas of smoked haddock, curry powder and rice took him back, but not to a
Sevenoaks childhood. A nearby Chemex Coffeemaker with Arabica beans from De
Bry's was another surprise – flavoursome, strong. Perhaps he might last the
week.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">Norton
scratched at a healed scar that ran from his forehead down his jawline. He
watched Hewlow take a second sip of black coffee before asking: “I haven’t seen
Mother in months. How’s that prick?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">“He’s busy.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">Mrs
Conkwell ahemed: “No talking shop, boys.” Holding a piece of paper at arm’s
length, she squinted at it. “9.30–11.30: at leisure; 11.30–12.30: poetry
recital by Mr Pennock followed by group discussion; 12.30–1.30: light lunch
after which you’ll all attend a screening of <i>The Ipcress File</i> at the Gaumont
Cinema. Mother hopes you might learn something. You’ll be back here in time for
tea and an early night.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">“I love a
Michael Caine flick,” said Cleo. She leant towards Hewlow as he forked rice.
“Has anyone ever said you look like …?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">He shook
his head to save lying again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">By 10.45,
Hewlow’s leather shoes were dusty and his feet ached. He wasn’t quite sure how
Cleo had convinced him to take a beach walk while Pennock went shopping for
linen slacks and Norton chose an early opener. Cleo had outpaced Hewlow on the
pebbled beach until they reached the almost empty pier. Side-by-side they
waited for ice cream, then he paid. Resting on the pier’s railing, they could
see <i>Bord de Mer </i>a half-mile off<i>. </i>A figure in a dark coat and hat
was taking the front steps two at a time. In seconds the person was inside.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">Cleo ran
the tip of her tongue over the ice cream. “I don’t trust those three.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">Those
four, decided Hewlow. It was going to be a long week. After being held in a Casablanca
basement for three months before killing his guards and hiding below decks on the
night ferry to Lisbon followed by a covert flight to London, he’d been ordered
by Mother to take leave at a MI6-approved lodging. “I’m told it’s very
relaxing,” Mother said while studying the tremor in Hewlow’s right hand. “The
other guests are Friends of the Family. They’re also enjoying a … a stress-free
holiday.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">With
minutes to spare before Pennock’s poetry turn, the pair walked back into the
B&B. Mrs Conkwell lay facedown on the hallway carpet. Behind them, the front
door opened and Norton and Pennock came in – the latter with a menswear-branded
bag, the former with a whiff of mid-morning whisky. “Dead?” asked Pennock.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">“Or very
tired,” said Cleo. Bending down, she placed two fingertips on the groove of Mrs
Conkwell’s neck. “Gone to her reward.” As she stood up, she pointed to a jagged
wound behind the dead woman’s ear. “Old school bullet. I’d say the killer used a
Webley.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">Immediately
a loud, circular blame game began with Norton, Pennock and Cleo shouting accusations
at each other. Hewlow held up his hand. “About 40 minutes ago, Cleo and I saw a
man in a hat and coat run into this building.” A pause. The two men facing him
were dressed in pale shirts and light grey flannels. “I imagine Mrs C greeted all
new arrivals with a service revolver in her pocket. The killer must’ve overpowered
her and taken the gun.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">“Oh,
really, Sherlock?” sniffed Pennock. “And do you suggest we call the cops?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">The
discussion was short. No police. Stepping over the body, they went into the
dining room. None sat. They stood around the room, backs to the walls. It was
agreed they’d phone The Cleaners, wait until men in overalls arrived with a large
hessian bag and mops and buckets, then they’d pack and leave.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">Norton touched
his scar. “Mother won’t be happy.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">“He’s not
paid to be happy,” said Hewlow.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">“Neither
was Mrs C,” added Cleo. “Shame. I was so looking forward to Rolly’s poetry
recital.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">After a
call to The Cleaners and with the corpse still in the hallway, they shared the
already-prepared lunch. The chat was desultory, the cold collation delightful. Later
Hewlow and Cleo washed up; Pennock and Norton played chess in the dining room.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">Nudging
Hewlow’s elbow, Cleo took a partly soapy plate out of his hands and polished it
with a tea towel. “Did you?” she asked.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">He didn’t
hesitate. “Of course. I prodded Rolly’s shopping bag open and saw ...”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">“Let’s
guess. Dark coat and hat? Some people will do anything to get out of public
speaking … or … I’d hazard Mrs C found a clue the Russkies had turned Rolly.
Shall I eliminate him or will you?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">Hewlow
handed her another plate. “<i>I’m </i>on holiday.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-AU"># # #</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">Copyright 2022 GREG FLYNN</span></span></p>Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612358725492373701.post-50694003962572452512021-08-18T13:26:00.005+10:002022-09-26T15:58:26.181+10:00Coldfinger *<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlFvfdX0h110dkGNXevhOe_WjOQ6iquvNUIzPg-6zepgXa_fNZHq5a9ktmDhkfDdsggJt01GzHpYwBlVv2xNgepFPrsNTFaJVPNHbdKMY8B_tIN-H6H77LZI0wDVx8_AokqiGSeqymX6_ad9vcPoJkB3BvqDwTNshjIdvKnbjWerCIX3cGZ-Wrws0D/s756/Coldfinger%20by%20Greg%20Flynn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="756" data-original-width="483" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlFvfdX0h110dkGNXevhOe_WjOQ6iquvNUIzPg-6zepgXa_fNZHq5a9ktmDhkfDdsggJt01GzHpYwBlVv2xNgepFPrsNTFaJVPNHbdKMY8B_tIN-H6H77LZI0wDVx8_AokqiGSeqymX6_ad9vcPoJkB3BvqDwTNshjIdvKnbjWerCIX3cGZ-Wrws0D/s320/Coldfinger%20by%20Greg%20Flynn.jpg" width="204" /></a></div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;">The door to M’s office bounced open. Without looking up at the
visitor or away from the sheaf of papers on his desk, M scratched a match, set
fire to the Mac Baren’s Scottish Blend in his pipe bowl and peered through the smoke
at the title on the cover page.</div></span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Top(ish) Secret,” it read, and so did M, out loud. “Do you think
the North African Desk is trying to be cute, Bond?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Dropping into the single visitor’s chair facing M, James Bond
crossed his legs. He stopped himself giving a little squeak as his inner
thighs, once again, pinched his privates. “Perhaps I should dress to the left in
future,” he thought before replying to M: “I wouldn’t trust that shower. Each
one strikes me as being a man’s man, if you’re with me.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">M was. Personally, he had nothing philosophical against the more
outré social lives of some at MI6 but, surely, by loitering in the St James
Park loos on a wet Tuesday night in February to pick up off-duty Guardsmen,
these chaps risked catching more than a cold? Intelligence gatherers needed to
focus on, well, gathering intelligence not worrying about that burning
sensation during urination.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">A glance at the clock on the wall behind Bond’s head told M that
his 7<sup>th</sup> best secret agent was late. “What kept you? Hopefully you
weren’t giving Miss Moneypenny a quick how’s-your-father in the storeroom
cupboard again.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Not since that accident when she knocked over a broom handle. Made
my eyes water. No, I was at my Jermyn Street tailors, Swallow & Lovett,
picking up some après ski kit.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Folding back the cover page, M gave a smile as cold as a
marketer’s handshake. “You won’t need a turtleneck sweater amongst the snake
charmers and hawkers of Jemaa el Fna.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Geography wasn’t Bond’s strong suit but it didn’t sound like an
Alpine lodge in Gstaad.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Marrakesh,” explained M.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Ah,” said Bond, regaining his confidence, “near Minsk.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Sighing, M continued the briefing. A criminal group called the Transvaal Cabal had based itself in the Moroccan city to facilitate plans
to run guns, stashed amongst dates and spices, across the borders into the Western
Sahara and Algeria to destabilise the governments.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“How dare they? Dates give me wind.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“It’s the guns we're after.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Of course,” said Bond, trying to keep up with the giddy whirl of instructions
and place names.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Oh, and one more thing,” said M. “Hands off Miss Moneypenny, at
least until she’s booked your flights.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Roger that.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Yes,” said M, tapping the Mac Baren embers into a glass ashtray,
“that’s what I’m afraid of.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">With a bump and a scream of engines in reverse thrust, the BEA
Vickers Viscount made a three-point landing before taxiing towards the
Marrakesh terminal.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">After the chill of the cabin’s air-conditioning, the dry desert
heat slapped Bond’s face as he descended the aircraft steps onto the tarmac. He
was a man who could tolerate a slap, as long as it wasn’t too hard and was delivered
by someone in suspenders – preferably a woman, although, given it was 1964, he
had Swinging London on offer.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Through the runway’s shimmering heat, he made out a slight figure
in a white cotton robe striding towards him, hand held out.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Welcome to Marrakesh, Mr Bond. I’m Omar Sharif, your driver from
the British Honorary Consulate.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“<i>Sawasdee khap</i>, Sharif.” All these international assignments
had taught Bond the advantage of conversing fluently with Johnny Foreigner.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“I think you’ll find that’s Thai,” said Sharif, plucking a leather
suitcase from Bond’s hand before pitching forward onto the hot ground.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Careful there, lad. It’s heavy. I’ve got half of Q’s arsenal
stitched into the lining. And you’ll ruin your frock.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“It’s a gandora …” began Sharif before realising Bond had lost
interest and was lighting a Morland of Grosvenor Street cigarette while
standing near a jet fuel bowser. “This way, Effendi, hurry!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Dusted with dust, the black Mercedes careered through the Medina’s
narrow streets, scattering stallholders and panhandlers, and splattering the
odd wayward hen. In the backseat, Bond watched the scenery and the occasional
shaken fist slipping past the car’s grimy windows.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Damn’d unusual looking churches, eh, Sharif?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Actually, they’re …”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Synagogues. Silly me. I know you Middle Eastern chappies and your
new-fangled religions. All saffron robes, shaven heads and rice begging bowls
in there, I fancy."</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Another stamp on the accelerator sent the car forward, taking out two
cyclists and a wide-eyed donkey. Ten minutes later, a screech of what remained
of the brakes heralded the Mercedes’ arrival in an alley off the sprawling
Jemaa el Fna marketplace. Locking the car then fixing a clamp to a front wheel,
Sharif led Bond up steep stairs on the side of a drab building to a rooftop
terrace: Le Grand Balcon du Café Glace. “نلقي نظرة على ذلك!” exclaimed Sharif, waving
at the massive open-air marketplace below. Acrid smoke coupled with the aroma
of roasting lamb entrails rose to meet them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">At a faux bistro metal table overlooking the square, they sipped heavily-sugared
fresh mint tea from chipped glass tumblers while Sharif pointed out the sights
– one in particular: the Transvaal Cabal. A few yards away, the Cabal members
were crammed awkwardly around a circular table drinking lukewarm orange cordial
and arguing over the lunch bill.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Sharif whispered descriptions, starting with the Chairman:
Leonardo Duffy, aka Coldfinger, a bolshie-looking party in a black suit, possibly
whipped up by a 24-hour-turnaround tailor Kowloon-side. He affected a Kabbalah
bracelet and a moistened cigar stub. <a name="_Hlk74317200">Adonis Van Graan, a
carefully sculptured greying beard graced his chin; eyes as dark as sin sat
either side of a patrician nasal bridge. </a>Dickie Brand, his shaven head,
black T- shirt fitted over another black T-shirt, and signature dyspeptic
grimace had prompted his <i>nom de guerre</i> – Sour Man. Blade Cravings,
bifocals perched raffishly on the end of a broken nose, had a reputation for
taking bribes, barbiturates and, when visiting aged care homes, biscuits off
the residents’ afternoon tea trays. Tom McArran, onetime editor of the
Marrakesh Express newspaper before being fired for feigning he was planning a
Michelin Star-style rating supplement featuring the city’s bordellos and then undertaking
an intensive, cost-free sampling program. Chris “Numbers Man” Tagalog,
described on his Interpol Wanted poster as a certifiable chartered accountant –
with the law enforcement agency confirming it wasn’t a typo. Al “Twinkle Toes”
Prance, given to practising optimised search and entry when frisking newcomers to
the Cabal’s HQ. Madeleine Dubois, currently being hunted by France’s Direction
Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure. She claimed to be Mauritian or Mauritanian
depending on who’s asking. Mary Carberry, alleged to have at least three
husbands on the go, one in Sydney, and known to barmen from Shanghai to
Kinshasa for her opening line: “Usually I don’t drink alcohol but it’s been a
difficult day.” And, finally, a crafty smirker who’d renamed themselves Greg
Flyin after a penis implant in Bangkok – and now wore a buttock tattoo reading:
“Pussy Nomore.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">With the dispute over the bill settled – Cravings picked up the
tab while holding a dampened hanky to his new black eye – the gang separated,
with only Duffy pausing to study the two nearby men. A moment later, he tiptoed
away.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Lips atremble, face bright, the Riad El Fenn’s receptionist peered
up at the tall, dashing guest.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Don’t look so needy, my dear,” said Bond. “Frankly I’d never get
any assignments finished if I bonked every eager beaver.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“I was going to say you have a piece of mint leaf stuck between
your teeth.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Graciously he allowed her to carry his suitcase to his first-floor
suite. Stepping through the doorway, Bond smelt a mix of old goat and sour
grapes. The Walther PPK 7.65mm pressed against his Sea Island cotton shirt
beneath his unstructured linen jacket gave him little comfort. Sitting in
armchairs were Duffy, Van Graan and Cravings. Brand, wearing heavy work boots,
lay on the bed, snoring gently – an empty bottle of complimentary Spéciale Flag
pilsner gripped tightly.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><a name="_Hlk74317151"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“How’d you …?” Bond started.</span></a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk74317151;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“You
booked into this place under your own name, Mr Bond," said Duffy. "You really must be more
spy-like. Do you know who we …?</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk74317151;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“The
Transvaal Cabal, so called because you four come from Cabal.”</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk74317151;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Van Graan
was on his feet, tattooed knuckles raised. “South Africa!”</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk74317151;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Bond appeared
confused. “Sawth a·fruh·kuh? Never heard of it, old chap. Anywhere near Minsk?”</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Flicking a Bic lighter under his cigar stub, Duffy inhaled, then
blew a stream of smoke towards Bond. “I know what a worldly man like you
secretly desires.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Fast cars and Chinese food!” Bond paused. “Or perhaps it’s Chinese
cars and fast food. Either way, do you expect me to talk?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">“No, Mr Bond, I expect you to die.” Duffy stopped himself,
looking apologetic. “Oops, sorry, it’s too early for that line. It should be: no,
Mr Bond, I expect you to dine. To dine on chicken tagine with preserved lemon
and olives while two belly dancers pleasure …”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">Through the door burst Sharif, hot-heeled by a squad
of Sûreté Nationale police, blowing whistles and pointing weapons.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU">Bond frowned. “I hope you’re not going to be a bore
about this, Sharif. Duffy over here was just making an interesting offer.”</span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-AU"># # #</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span lang="EN-AU">* Yes, yes, I know – copyright. But I’ll have a
chat with Ian Fleming later in Heaven. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;"><br />Copyright 2021 GREG FLYNN</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span lang="EN-AU"><br /></span></i></p>Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612358725492373701.post-20034640769320269952021-06-22T17:05:00.007+10:002021-08-18T17:17:35.821+10:00The Hotel Dick<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihKq2wum13AX1xzvFiwcoSdLWsHXVBTZHxGAmz4J1t5tYn5ordLBb6_vbQWSv_nCA1-HQUYBh_o9Dwhtc6gkDayHaqKZBKR6W3oD-SC5fZKo5z0P1PagLmrrWGt_PsEecohm-0KAZUiR0/s600/Hotel.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="400" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihKq2wum13AX1xzvFiwcoSdLWsHXVBTZHxGAmz4J1t5tYn5ordLBb6_vbQWSv_nCA1-HQUYBh_o9Dwhtc6gkDayHaqKZBKR6W3oD-SC5fZKo5z0P1PagLmrrWGt_PsEecohm-0KAZUiR0/w133-h200/Hotel.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><span style="text-align: justify;">The faded pink flamingo pattern on the shower curtain
added a perky touch to the death scene. Face down and naked in the bath with a bathroom
bowl brush on a handle emerging from between his buttocks, the dead man
appeared to have clutched the curtain when he fell. It formed a less than
spotless shroud.</span><p></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">Halfway down the corridor on the 5</span><sup style="text-align: justify;">th</sup><span style="text-align: justify;"> floor
of the Hotel Fritz, the shared bathroom offered bilious green tiles, a slightly
off-kilter washbasin, a cracked mirror, a toilet with a loose wooden seat and a
shower/bath combo that had been ready for a scrub since VE Day. Four years
later, it was still waiting.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">There were three of us crowded together in the room.
Technically, four of us but one – the victim – didn’t have a choice. Hard by my
side stood Lieutenant Jeff Keen, a detective from NYPD’s 1st Precinct:
“New York’s Less Than Finest” as it was known to those living south of Houston
Street. Flicking open a matchbook, he tore off a match, lit the end of a cigar
stub and flicked the brunt stick into the toilet.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">Bending closer to the body, I used a pencil to lift up
the curtain. On the victim’s left buttock, lipsticked lips had left the mark of
a perfectly shaped, bright red kiss. The man’s left ear was encrusted with
blood and the handle of a machete-like knife protruded from between his
shoulder blades.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">Keen peered down. “From experience, I’d say it’s
murder. Who’s the vic?”</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">“Harry McVie. ‘Happy Harry’ to his friends and
enemies.”</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">From behind us came a snort. Leaning against the
bathroom’s open door, the hotel receptionist Annie Lane was holding a tiny
white Pomeranian under one arm while blowing a perfectly formed smoke ring
towards Keen and myself. “That’s what he had – </span><i style="text-align: justify;">zero</i><span style="text-align: justify;"> friends.” Annie took
another pull on her cigarette. The dog gave a yap, struggling to be free.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">Keen looked me. “You’re the House Dick. Who do you
like for it, Kent?”</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">I gave what I hoped was an insouciant shrug. “Part-time
hotel detective, Lieutenant.” For a discounted room rate, the owners of The
Fritz, so named because it was hoped unwary punters would mistake it for The
Ritz, asked that I kept the criminality within their Spring Street fleabag down
to an acceptable level. In return, I sat in my room most days, attempting to
write a hard boiled crime novel based on my PI experiences, and twice-a-day at
midday and midnight I walked the hotel’s floors trying to avoid trouble. “Let’s
look at the evidence.”</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">Lifting his left hand and squinting at his wristwatch,
Keen sighed. “Sounds time consuming.”</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">“Murder is so inconvenient,” I said. “We’ll start with
Harry’s business – drugs. Marijuana, cocaine and amphetamines, mainly.”</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">Keen’s eyes came back into focus. “And you didn’t tip
us off?”</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">“I never saw him dealing,” I lied. The week before I’d
bought a little something to take the edge off. “He wore a gold earing in his
left ear to give him a piratical look. Now his ear lobe and earring are gone.
But we do have an addition – the bowl brush jammed in his posterior. It’s brand
new …”</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">“Unlike anything else in this dump,” said Annie. A
fresh cigarette dangled from the corner of her lips while limp strands of her
once blonde hair swung a little too close to the glowing tip.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">Tapping the side of the brush handle with my pencil, I
explained to Keen that we had a Fuller Brush salesman named O'Riordan staying
on the same floor. Two rooms down was Major John Butler, a longtime guest who
retired from the British Army to live in New York. He kept wartime memorabilia.
At the far end of the corridor was a small room which was usually rented by the
hour by Vanessa the Vamp who enjoyed men’s companionship on a short-term basis.
She wore scarlet lipstick and was the kissing type.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">Keen lobbed his now smokeless cigar butt into the
toilet’s off-grey water. “Vanessa the Vamp? Is that her real handle?”</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">Annie and I exchanged a wide-eyed glance. “We take
people at their word,” I said.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">“I get the Fuller Brush guy’s connection, but the
Major?” asked Keen.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">“He served in India and Nepal, and that looks like a Gurkha’s
kukri knife.”</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">Keen slapped his pockets as if searching for another
cigar. I knocked a Chesterfield out of a soft packet and he lit up. He didn’t
thank me, instead he crouched down and reached behind the washbasin stand. A
balled-up piece of typing paper was wedged there.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">Triumphant, Keen straightened up and read from the
page: “’From the window that opened onto the roof-top sun deck a roscoe
sneezed: </span><i style="text-align: justify;">Ka-Chow! Chowpf!</i><span style="text-align: justify;"> and a red-hot hornet creased its stinger
across my dome; bashed me to dreamland.’"</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">It was my turn to straighten.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">Keen was smirking. “Well, well, is that the work Mr
Chandler, Mr Hammett or …” he paused “… Mr Kent?”</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">“Why don’t we have some refreshments in the office?” I
suggested.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">Keen was squeezing past me and heading for the door
before I finished the sentence.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">To reach the office, we edged our way behind the
reception desk. On it, a full ashtray sat next to a thumbed copy of Agatha
Christie’s </span><i style="text-align: justify;">Murder on the Orient Express.</i><span style="text-align: justify;"> In the dusty office, I took a
bottle of bourbon and an almost clean glass from the desk drawer and handed
both to Keen. “Enjoy.” He did.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">Putting her dog down gently, Annie drew on another
smoke. “I could do with a stiff one.”</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">Neither Keen nor I bit. I found a glass for her.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">Both of them were now seated, looking up at me, awaiting
a performance. For a moment, I tried to remember if any of us had closed the
bathroom door. It could wait. Happy Harry certainly wasn’t in a hurry.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">“So, I’m now in the frame just like Vanessa, the Major
and O'Riordan. Convenient.”</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">“Very,” agreed Keen, pouring an extra finger of
bourbon atop the first.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">“From experience …” I began, echoing the Lieutenant,
“… I smell a rat.”</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">Tilting her head back, Annie swallowed her drink.
“You’re in the right place for that.”</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">“I mentioned ‘frame’ and that’s what I’ve been – as
have the other three.”</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">Keen shook his head. “Unless you four bumped off Harry
to heist his dope.”</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">“I’d have hoped a New York cop would’ve been more
trusting.”</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">The glass halted near his lips. “Such a kidder. The only
thing that’s going to get you off a very big hook is a sign from God.”</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">“It’s obvious. The scarlet lipstick mark, the military
knife, the bowl brush and my manuscript – an early draft, by the way – were
planted by someone who has access to every room.”</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">“You,” cut in Annie.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">“Actually, I was thinking of …”</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">Her dog gave a snuffle, strolled past us and squatted
in a litter box almost hidden by the office door. A look of serious
concentration scrunched up the Pomeranian’s already pinched face. A neat pile appeared
on the litter. The dog’s rear paws kicked litter over the pile. Not enough.
Sitting atop the steaming heap shone a gold earring.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">Keen finished his bourbon in a gulp.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">Reaching across, Annie took the bottle off the desk
and poured a last drink. “I can explain …” She did. It didn’t help her case.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">Watching from the hotel office window, I saw Keen put
his hand on Annie's head and guide her into the back seat of a patrol car. Another
officer, with the dog on a lead, heaved the animal in beside her.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">In a life of mistakes, Happy Harry’s literally fatal one
was to accidentally kick the dog as he strolled past Reception to head upstairs
for a shower after a hard day spreading good cheer and cut drugs around SoHo.
The Pomeranian had leapt at Harry’s ankle, Harry had leapt forward shouting “Next time,
I’ll kill that mutt!” and Annie had leapt to her dog’s defence. It took her 30 minutes to
check who was in their room and, if unoccupied, to take one potentially damning
piece of evidence. Just as in Agatha Christie’s novel, the answer to
“whodunnit?” would be “everyone”.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">Annie had waited outside the bathroom until she heard the
shower curtain rings clacking when Harry pulled back the plastic sheeting. Her
master key turned in the lock, the Major’s kukri knife swung down, the Fuller
brush was pushed home, a butt kiss followed and, finally, she took my piece of
fine writing and jammed it behind the waterbasin stand. In revenge for the
kick, her dog had leapt into the bathtub and chewed Harry’s ear – and earring –
off.</span><span style="text-align: justify;"> </span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;">I could forgive Annie for icing a dealer and trying to
frame me but screwing up my masterpiece? Never.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"># # #</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">Copyright 2021 GREG FLYNN<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p><span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span></p>Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612358725492373701.post-79392226811069345582020-12-10T17:12:00.000+11:002020-12-10T17:12:55.363+11:00Adventures on the Small Screen*<p><span style="text-align: justify;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgueQ8iWmA-9opbbasokxWaCroVTF_N2xuL0U0UTH7GK6IDjy3PxE_N4ElWD3o-sFmo49HSmVcGvpo_1hF_jxr394N8r5Eiul_xOy6B8Ell5ibndqf7FZPwePSGXIzGz7bsRDpePwHiaM4/s350/Before+Fame.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="250" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgueQ8iWmA-9opbbasokxWaCroVTF_N2xuL0U0UTH7GK6IDjy3PxE_N4ElWD3o-sFmo49HSmVcGvpo_1hF_jxr394N8r5Eiul_xOy6B8Ell5ibndqf7FZPwePSGXIzGz7bsRDpePwHiaM4/w180-h252/Before+Fame.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>Fame is a fickle mistress. Fifteen minutes
after that moment you thought she only had bedroom eyes for you, she’s flinging
woo at another punter.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In the ‘90s I arrived in Sydney with one goal:
to become a famous scriptwriter. With a dog-eared suitcase and a copy of William
Goldman’s <i>Adventures in the Screen Trade </i>tied together by string, I
stepped off an Ansett flight from Perth and spent half my savings on a taxi to
Kings Cross.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cracking open my hostel room’s sash window, I
peered down into an alley to admire colourful locals thoughtfully sharing a hypodermic
needle.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Sneering at me, one character revealed a lack
of dental hygiene rarely sighted outside a chimpanzee enclosure. “What the duck
(I may have misheard) are youse lookin’ at, runt?” The insult, perhaps another
misunderstanding on my part, seemed harsh given I stood six feet and a quarter
inch in my Dunlop Volleys.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Carry on, mate,” I called while struggling to
push the window shut. I discovered later the only people in Sydney who called
you “mate” were the police: “Put your hands on the bonnet, mate, and assume the
position.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Stretching out on a lumpy mattress which exuded
the faint aroma of performing seals, I reached for Goldman’s opus. My bookmark
– a faded black-and-white photo – fell out. The camera had captured my big
sister Peta and I holding hands, with me kitted out in a schoolboy-sized pea
coat on presumably Perth’s only cold day of the year. It was a talisman. Good
luck lay just around the corner. Actually, <i>Madame Fifi’s Palais de Hop</i>
lay just around the corner. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">That evening I stood outside <i>Fifi’s</i>. <i>Hey
Big Spender</i> was being beaten into submission by a live (up to a point)
band. The bouncer, looking me up and down as if I’d broken wind, demanded an
entry fee. I explained that, in WA, entertainment venues were simply happy to
see you. Grasping my jacket’s lapels, he lifted me off the footpath. “Well, <i>here</i>
you can duck off!” Two thoughts: should I get my hearing checked and would the
stitching hold?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Inside the club and $5 lighter in the kick, I
ordered a Reschs DA. After two sips I asked the barmaid, who must’ve been
chilly in that see-through crop top, if she’d accidentally served me a schooner
of dishwater. Her reaction wasn’t as solicitous as I’d hoped.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Fighting a gag reflex, I took another pull of
the beer and watched the first act take the stage to give what appeared to be a
history lesson. Two women of indeterminate age (although I’d charitably
determine: their early 40s) began recreating scenes from the Third Reich,
that’s if SS officers had worn peek-a-boo bras, black latex corsetry and thigh-high
jack boots. To give them their due, and enthusiastic patrons did just that by
thrusting folding money into the lasses’ knickers, the writhing performers were
keen to test the strength of the holding screws on their poles.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Back in my room, with the dresser pushed
against the door, I reminded myself of what William Goldman had written: “Nobody
knows anything...... Not one person in the entire motion picture field knows
for a certainty what's going to work.” But my breakthrough would be different.
It’d be on Australian TV. There, everyone knew everything.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Light from an outdoor neon sign, reflecting in the
room’s mirror, spelled out <i>a-l-o-C – a-c-o-C</i>. Smiling at the thought of
my first scriptwriting meeting the following day, I drifted into a sleep only
occasionally broken by screams and sirens.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Al Bundy Productions in Artarmon was tucked
inside a dull office building that’d seen better days. Those days being circa
1960. Next store was a motel whose architect had possibly once dined in a Spanish
restaurant. Both dominated a stretch of Pacific Highway noted for small
businesses which closed within a month of opening.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A receptionist watched me enter the office
foyer before standing, picking up a copy of Woman’s Day and heading to the
Ladies. Waiting, I sat on a leatherette bench admiring upsized portraits of Bundy’s
soap opera stars lining the walls. More money had been spent on teeth whitening
than talent.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A door bounced open. A tall cove in a paisley
shirt, tight trousers and a tighter pout sniffed: “You’re late.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Actually I was on time but your receptionist
has, literally, pissed off.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“What? You were waiting to be formally announced?
This isn’t a Jane Austen novel. Real scriptwriters walk right in.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Head writer Clint Barber had an office with
faux timber walls, a melamine desk and an uninterrupted view of a brick wall. Leaning
back in his chair, he expelled a heady mix of Aramis, Alpine cigarettes and
smugness. “So, you’re the hack from Dunbuggeringup?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Perth.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Same, same … the point is: journalists rarely
cut it in showbiz. If you hadn’t schmoozed Al Bundy during that interview for <i>The</i>
<i>West Australian</i>, banging on about your scripting talent, you’d still be
sitting on some beach spitting out sand blown by the Fremantle Nurse.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“The Fremantle Doctor. It …”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“On the bright side, you won’t be wasting my
time for long. I assume you’ve watched <i>Sons and Lovers</i>.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“No need, I’m a big fan of </span><span class="acopre">D. H. Lawrence</span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">. His nuanced ...”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Is he the drunk who wrote <i>Number 96</i> and
<i>Skippy</i>? No matter. Bundy’s <i>Sons and Lovers</i> is a TV soap about the
real Australian suburbia: dry retching, dry humping and, for the wealthy few,
dry cleaning. It’s stripped four nights a week on Nine. We need writers with a
gift for stopping TV viewers reaching for the remote. You’re starting on
dialogue. We give you an episode’s outline; you punch out the dialogue. Can you
manage it or would you like to catch the next camel train back West?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I screwed my baseball cap in my hands. “Wow,
Clint, how can I ever thank you?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“By coming back tomorrow with a final draft.” Leaning
forward, he lit a cigarette with a Bic lighter, blew peppermint-scented smoke
towards my face and said: “Off you go, Orson Welles.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">At seven o’clock, alone with a boxy TV set in
the hostel’s communal lounge, I switched to Nine. Thirty one minutes later,
with hands shaking, I was standing at <i>Fifi’s</i> bar ordering a Reschs with
a Reschs chaser.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Have you seen <i>Sons and Lovers</i>?” I asked
the barmaid.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“I’m not keen on D. H. Lawrence,” she replied,
lifting her shoulders back and her chest up. “I’m more a Graham Greene kinda
gal.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Quite,” I said, finishing the first glass.
“But the excuse for entertainment I watched tonight will snuff out the last creative
embers of life in your soul.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“My tip: improve your chat-up lines,” she said,
turning away.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The hands on my watch crawled towards midnight.
A sheet of pristine paper was rolled into my portable Remington.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The episode’s storyline was plausible enough. A
light aircraft carrying four of the show’s more sexually active characters had crash-landed
in a paddock of an abandoned sheep/cattle/check-what-the-hell-they-herd-in-that-area
station outside Broken Hill (or Katoomba, depending on budgetary constraints). With
a storm closing in and with barely enough food and barely enough strategically-torn
clothing, the four must spend the night in an empty farmhouse. Empty save for
two beds and a ghost.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The outline read:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">FADE IN. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">INT. CREEPY FARMHOUSE. DUSK.</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span lang="EN-US">Mikey, Roxy, Chikka and Babe enter. Mikey
flicks a light switch. Nothing. The only sound is the wind signalling the
coming storm. Babe hugs herself for warmth. Chikka opens the door of a rusty
fridge and leaps backwards at what he sees. Roxy goes into a cobwebbed bathroom
and begins unbuttoning her ripped blouse. Looking into a cracked mirror, she sights
a ghostly shape looming behind her.</span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">With two fingers, I began tapping:</span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">ROXY<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Screams.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Four-thirty p.m. Pacific Highway, Artarmon. Flipping
my script’s pages, Clint Barber paused, lit a fresh cigarette off the stub of
his old one and sighed: “Jesus wept.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Well?” I asked.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“I’ve never read anything like it.” He checked
his watch, swore and punched the intercom button on his desk. “I’ve just
received a late script. Get it to the rehearsal room <i>stat</i>. We’re almost
out of time.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“So, you’re going to use it?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Yes,” he said, massaging his temples with his
fingertips. Strangely, I seemed to hear another “duck”.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Weeks later, a watery local beer in hand, I
watched in primetime as Mikey, Roxy, Chikka and Babe<i> </i>mouthed my
dialogue. At the close, the speeding credits even spelt my name correctly. The
angst of that night and day in my room giving mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to a
cooked turkey of a TV show had been worth it. So I thought.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I never heard from Barber or Bundy again. The
following month, a new, less-than-likeable character in <i>Sons and Lovers</i>
was named after me. Fame of sorts. Then the series was cancelled.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">* </span></b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Based on a true story. Only the
names have been changed to protect the guilty.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"># # #</span></p><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: justify;">Copyright 2020 GREG FLYNN</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612358725492373701.post-76093100840986998422020-09-30T11:53:00.000+10:002020-09-30T11:53:25.695+10:00Give the Devil His Due<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxWdOtL8qvAIVe56HpYcqWr3YmOKOSZtErwRbk-Sd8nxAR0IVjV7iQODDDraviE-sRwEVeI6-4UqzBEmebDdIya-LNU0ywEIypUbjrpaTHAUtJ_TY7YcTFHtMBidCslfeC2cQWWGI_BQg/s1227/Bodypaint.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1227" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxWdOtL8qvAIVe56HpYcqWr3YmOKOSZtErwRbk-Sd8nxAR0IVjV7iQODDDraviE-sRwEVeI6-4UqzBEmebDdIya-LNU0ywEIypUbjrpaTHAUtJ_TY7YcTFHtMBidCslfeC2cQWWGI_BQg/w200-h132/Bodypaint.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Frankly, I had a devil of a time getting accepted for the
new reality TV series. Finally, after the auditions, I found myself in a makeup
suite getting what I deserved – a full body wax, a fake tan (I chose “burnt
mahogany”) and teeth whitening so dazzling my smile could be seen from the
Moon.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A magazine advertisement initially lured me in: “How’d you
like to sleep with strangers for money?” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>I was puzzled. The copywriter appeared to be alluding to –
what’s that word again? Oh, yes – prostitution. Naïve little me. The
advertiser’s logo (No Shame Productions) should’ve set the scene. Whoring?
Sure, but only by its most priggish definition. The producers were laying (pun
intended) on tropical island accommodation, brand name booze and industrial
grade prophylactics. Plus a chance for limited fame while dating, if that’s the
euphemism, social fireflies in a show stripped like the cast across four nights
a week.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>With the perkiness of a Carry On movie script, the advert
teased potential contestants: “You’re invited to Devil’s Island. In this Eden,
you’ll be tempted by very succulent apples. Underwear is optional but we’d
recommend a fig leaf in the moist jungle. Tingling surprises await you in
paradise.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Was one of them Gonorrhea? I wondered. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>After I’d handed my new PR adviser the ad, he suddenly
froze. Immediately I assumed that like most publicity people he couldn’t read.
In fact, he’d inhaled shreds of loose tobacco from the cap of his cigar. After
he’d spat them into his pocket square, he’d recovered enough to embrace me.
“Eureka, bubala!” he’d shouted, which surprised me since he was neither ancient
Greek nor Jewish.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Twenty-four hours later, we were in an airline VIP lounge,
Queensland bound. Normally I’d have flown myself but the flack was keen to give
me a more modern image.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Just before he tipped his head back to drain another glass
of the lounge’s complimentary domestic sparkling wine, he sighed: “Those giant
leather-like wings which suddenly sprout from your shoulder blades, the
gleaming horns rising up from your forehead and, let’s face it, the fiery but
bloodshot eyes are putting the punters off. To get your numbers up and attract
the less evil amongst humanity, you need to be more approachable. This TV show
will humanise you.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My Devil’s Island audition was held in a Gold Coast
industrial park warehouse. The PR guy waited outside in a chauffeured limo,
buffing his nails. “I’d hate to see you being humiliated,” he said.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Inside the warehouse, three men and a woman sat behind a
wide desk. As I walked in, no one looked up. “Take your pants off,” said one of
the men.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Reaching for my belt buckle, I said: “Spoiler alert. I don’t
kiss on the first date.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The woman raised her head, squinted at me and shuddered.
“I’ve just had lunch. I’d like to keep it down, so keep your pants up.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“You don’t know what you’re missing,” I said.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I’m missing seeing my $28 chorizo, corn and avocado salad
again.” She gave another squint. “Name?”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Lucifer O’Beelzebub. My friends call me ‘Lucky’.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Not after this program airs,” she said. Plucking a silver
toothpick from her purse, she began digging between her lateral and central
incisors to free some embedded dry-cured pork sausage.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Their first question was predictable. Hobbies? I thought of
replying “Stealing the souls of the dead” but I went with “Pressing dried
wildflowers into poetry books.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">All three men were unimpressed. “You’re going to have to
butch it up, big boy,” said one. “What say we write down: ‘Wrestles wildlife’?”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Now you mention it, I recall the Emperor Vespasian giving
me the thumbs up in the Colosseum after I’d dismembered a lion with my teeth.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“The Colosseum? The one at Caesars Palace Las Vegas?”.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I held back an urge to reach across the desk and tear his
heart from his chest. But, to be fair, they weren’t auditioning me for
Mastermind. “The very one,” I replied.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After 30 minutes of questions ranging from current STDs to
sexual preferences (“Everyone in this room looks good to me,” I reassured them,
prompting the woman to throw up a little in her mouth) I made it through to the
next round.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Round #2 questions included: “Can you take criticism?”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I only respect the opinions of the people I respect.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“We’ll put that down as a ‘No’,” said the woman.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A week later I was flown to the Whitsundays on what I
thought was Con Air. Fortunately, the other passengers turned out to contestants
too. Who knew neck tattoos were the dernier cri amongst Australia’s jeunesse
dorée?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">With limited foliage on the sun-seared island, the producers
had opted to bring in stands of moping palm trees to encircle our makeshift
camp. The island’s few other pieces of greenery held cameras running live feeds
into a control room with an adjacent makeup suite, all crammed into an
air-conditioned Nissen hut. The hut also featured a septic tank. Crew only. The
contestants’ “toilet option” was a short shovel and a squat behind a clump of
scrawny melaleucas.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’d pictured Versace bathrobes, fine soaps and 24x7 bar
staff preferably wearing pants (the only thing I want popped into my Negroni is
an orange peel garnish). The reality of reality TV was less of a fairytale:
narrow camp beds, the sponsor’s warm rum in flagons, and cold showers from a
rainwater tank with a seagull’s carcass floating on the surface.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To the seagull’s credit it was more animated than the show’s
host, Tab Porter – a former actor whose career peaked on the superbly-scripted
‘80s TV soapie, Sons and Daughters. Stitched together by the A-to-Z of plastic
surgery (from Abdominoplasty to Zero-Work-Without-Prepayment), Tab was proof
that walking and talking at the same time was an overrated skill. Moving made
his scars stretch.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The program’s premiere at 7.30pm was live to air, revealing
scenes of we 12 contestants splashing each other in the shallows of the
island’s main beach, romping, giggling and trying not to step on the venomous
stonefish lying motionless on the ocean floor.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So as not to startle the viewers, I’d tucked my tail into
the back of a pair of candy pink board shorts. My cloven hooves were covered by
Crocs clogs. My new tan, the result of body paint being smeared on by squeamish
staff, gleamed as I strolled out of the water.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The lighting crew had lit the beach like the night trots. My
body threw three shadows across the sand when I reached Tab who was standing
rigidly on his driftwood master-of-ceremonies stage. He smelt slightly of one
part rum to three parts cola.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“And here’s our first contestant, Lucifer O,” Tab shouted in
the general direction of Camera One. “His hobbies include fighting lions
barehanded in Las Vegas.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Turning, I gave the camera lens a 6,000 Lumens LED smile.
“My friends call me …”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Moving on,” interrupted Tab. “Luc, how’d you like to choose
one of the lovely lady contestants for your First Night Date?”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The word “lovely” threw me. I studied the half dozen women
arrayed along the shoreline, ankle deep in seawater. None were strangers to the
potential of collagen-enhanced lips to attract either spawning trout or men
eager to kiss inflated wine cask bladders. And, metres away, stood those very
men, currently out of camerashot but still preening for an imaginary audience.
Drawn from society’s leper colony professions – advertising, marketing,
property development, journalism and search engine optimisation – the men
didn’t appear to be the types a woman would give up her virginity for.
Admittedly, that particular gift was unlikely to be an option for these female
contestants.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Pointing to a tall, golden-haired woman on the far end of
the lineup, I attempted to be gallant. “She’s Botticelli’s Venus come to life,
of course minus the scallop shell and …”.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Wrong,” said Tab, peering at the teleprompter. “She’s
Marilyn M. Come over here, sweetie.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Pausing to sneer at him before slipping on a pair of
slingback high heels, Marilyn then tottered across the fine sand, finally
reaching Tab and myself after only two stumbles. Brushing the sand out of her
hair, she gave me a look I imagined she kept in reserve for males unlikely to
cut the mustard.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“You’re a perfect match,” declared Tab. “Marilyn meet Luc,
the only thing small about him is his talk. And Luc, you won’t be surprised to
hear your date tonight is a glamour model. Why don’t you two sneak off
somewhere private?”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Alone except for a cameraman, soundman, assistant director,
production runner and makeup artist, we settled on part of the set resembling a
beach bar.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Apparently torn between fleeing for her life and staying in
camerashot, she leant forward. “Is that a forked tongue?” </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“It’s very à la mode where I come from.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In reality, I pictured a long, lonely night ahead.
Nevertheless, I edged closer: “What do you model, Plaster of Paris?”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p></p><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"> # # #</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: justify;">Copyright 2020 GREG FLYNN</span></p><div><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612358725492373701.post-65485911503649509762020-07-22T16:50:00.001+10:002020-07-22T16:50:35.948+10:00Dear John is Here to Help<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQKzdwLU0cPGfs0DpxQYlNIXQ5YV96hBNPXrJm0vRSustSixCFoMu9YRO9I8Id4Mp27mBLrS5kQzXzT166L7O2eIhLR9L9RNLJgVZVfzYrRUDDwBILaCNkrHWHNo-arjRRHDsSwXzK-ys/s1600/Iron.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQKzdwLU0cPGfs0DpxQYlNIXQ5YV96hBNPXrJm0vRSustSixCFoMu9YRO9I8Id4Mp27mBLrS5kQzXzT166L7O2eIhLR9L9RNLJgVZVfzYrRUDDwBILaCNkrHWHNo-arjRRHDsSwXzK-ys/s200/Iron.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US">DEAR JOHN:</span></i><span lang="EN-US"> I’m a virgin when it comes to writing to newspaper
advice columnists but not in other ways, if you’re with me. Once a worldly-wise
woman with a dab of <i>Passioné </i>by Lenthéric behind each knee, I now spend
my time at an ironing board in the kitchen giving my husband’s collars blasts
of steam from a Sunbeam Alpha (pro tip: ensure the temperature is above the two
dot [••] setting). Between hisses, I picture myself on a Hyannis Port sand dune
near the Kennedy compound or browsing the walk-in cheese room at Fourth Village
Providore. Anywhere but here. I’m in a rut and, Dear John, you could be my
saviour. What sensible and sensitive tips do you have?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">Abby,
Marrickville, NSW<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US">DEAR ABBY</span></i><span lang="EN-US">: Pull yourself together, I’ve got my own
problems. How’d you like to sit here each day shovelling out an Inbox clogged with
self-pitying, mewling correspondence from overly needy people? If you’re
looking for a saviour, try your nearest Cross. Frankly, your carping is adding
to an already difficult time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">This morning, after a fibre-intensive breakfast
of All Bran Original sprinkled with Metamucil – the combination gives an
orange-flavoured kickstart to your interior plumbing you won’t regret provided when
you go out you’ve got a handy map showing public toilets – I found myself in Aisle
11 of Woolworths. There’s something immensely depressing about playing dodgem
cars with shopping trollies propelled by demented shoppers who’re either kitted
out for the Virus Apocalypse or, worse, who’re unaware of social distancing
norms and insist on frotting as you bend over for competitively priced products
on lower shelves. That’s provided there are any products. Today there were no
loo rolls. Again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">I’m not asking bovine, stampeding customers to grasp
the theory of supply-side economics, simply to understand the concept of supply
and demand. The former can’t keep up with the latter if you’re stashing multiple
packs of Sorbent Hypo Allergenic Toilet Tissue under the loose floorboards in
your spare room. Even the recycled toilet paper had gone. Not literally
recycled, which might prove confronting for the hygiene faddists who’d also made
off with the Glen 20, but that uncomfortable and presumably planet-saving blend
of radiata pine chips and sandpaper with brand names like iCare. Sure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">Once back in the main shopping centre, I held my
breath for the three-fold benefit of avoiding inhaling a certain virus as well
as the odour of Chemist Warehouse discount colognes and the smug stench swirling
around shoppers whose trollies held 3-ply, botty-pampering delights, valuable
beyond the dreams of Croesus. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">To steel myself for the horror of facing
moaning missives such as yours, Abby, I took out a second mortgage to purchase
a coffee as bitter as the barista who concocted it. At least at McDonald’s the
franchisees do you the courtesy of not even pretending the beverages are: (i) drinkable
just because they’re squirted out of a $16,000 La Marzocco Linea Classic &
Linea PB machine; (ii) meant for anything other than taking away the taste of other
products on sale. Macca’s new Cheesy range, for starters. From the photo you so
thoughtfully attached to your email and which I immediately deleted (although
not before zooming in on your hair. Abby, you can’t make the most of yourself
without a good conditioner) you look like a woman who’s no stranger to the
delights of the Golden Arches’ Loose Change menu. With the Cheesy offerings, one
bite into the deep-fried Olympic discus of processed – I’m going to say – ‘mozzarella’
squished between bun halves, and your childhood hopes and dreams of one day
leading a rich, fulfilling life will explode as you (note: trigger-warning metaphor
upcoming) step on a landmine of low-density lipoprotein cholesterol. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">But enough about you. On my way home, I noticed
the Health Department was boosting the stocks of marquee leasers by erecting another
pop-up drive-thru COVID-19 testing site. Frankly it’s a waste of taxpayers’
money when Macca’s, KFC et al have much-frequented drive-thrus. Here’s a chance
to upsize the Governmental approach. Surely even those thousands of Flat Earthers
with their tinfoil hats and antennas made of wire coathangers who refuse to be tested
– fearing nursing staff (aka alien lizard creatures encased in human skin) are
using swabs to ram 5G-enhanced microchips into patients’ sinus cavities – will
comply if the spotty teen handing them a dinner box of encrusted chicken
privates then leans across and, through the car window, forcefully prods a
cotton wool bud on a 150 millimetre-long stick up their nasal passage?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">However, if Solyent Green-style products, chips
(non-micro) and chilli goop don’t lure the Conspirati to testing venues, then
Governments will need to sharpen their comms. It’s no use prattling on about us
all being in this together when it’s obvious that society’s privileged are
having a very good pandemic, thank you very much, and will sail through, emerging
relaxed and with better tans. The less privileged will stagger out the other
end of the crisis, broke and broken. Alas, it was ever so. As we slouch towards
The Future what do you think, Abby, of a Government message stating 'Abandon
hope all ye who enter here.'? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">But who’s interested in my views on optimising
global health strategies? They don’t resonate with the haute bourgeoisie who
think just because they pay for a newspaper subscription and have my email
address that they can badger me about trifles. Only yesterday, a citizen of some
godforsaken parish such as Mosman or Rose Bay was bleating about the price of a
panini at a local boatshed café. Here am I with my sanity barely held together
with Prozac, Paxil, Wellbutrin, Effexor, Ritalin and Focalin. Should I care if an
aioli and pesto-smeared foreign bread is on a menu at $25? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">To ward off the worrywarts perhaps I should
brick up my front door and … no, wait, let’s refine that concept: brick up
others’ front doors. Sydneysiders should be on alert. If they twitch the curtains
one day and spot a gent of a certain age plodding down the street with a wheelbarrow
stacked with burnt clay bricks plus cement, hydrated lime, sand and water then they’ll
know who it is. On third thoughts, that won’t stop people who plan to pester me
having access to Gmail and the Internet. Unless, of course, they’re with
Telstra. Please, don’t start me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">Back to your email. I see you’re in Marrickville.
A good suburb for a witness protection program. Who goes there? I haven’t
visited for years. I recall that last time I was standing on the main drag’s
footpath attempting to shove a freshly-assembled gyros, possibly spelt ‘yeeros’,
into my mouth before an unkempt sans-culottes exuding a startling aroma of
stale tobacco and fresh urine, attempted to touch me up for a few coins to fund
his cosmopolitan lifestyle. I failed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">My problem is that I have kind eyes. Vagabonds
and other mendicants take me for a softie. They’re right, Abby. That’s why I’m
in the Advice Column business.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> Copyright 2020 GREG FLYNN</o:p></span></div>
<br />Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612358725492373701.post-33418000539105221312020-07-22T16:45:00.000+10:002020-07-22T16:45:20.984+10:00The Customer<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-_NZ0ijGKaFCzMU4NA2hX23tfelVK1teY1L3y3KS39F663yn6kuFFitC1dpdRmRqCBuZBpglrhqMS-Hg4j41sKTHY-jhyF5XbkWtn0sSD4If3fOqfvXjJC2-XIv4a119LCgoT9dH6bsg/s1600/The+Door.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="773" data-original-width="1030" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-_NZ0ijGKaFCzMU4NA2hX23tfelVK1teY1L3y3KS39F663yn6kuFFitC1dpdRmRqCBuZBpglrhqMS-Hg4j41sKTHY-jhyF5XbkWtn0sSD4If3fOqfvXjJC2-XIv4a119LCgoT9dH6bsg/s200/The+Door.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="text-align: justify;">From:
Glenn Gazman (</span><a href="mailto:glenn@sincerepr.com.au" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">glenn@sincerepr.com.au</span></a><span lang="EN-US" style="text-align: justify;">)</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="text-align: justify;">To:
Reg Quilty (</span><a href="mailto:regq@danmulligans.com.au" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">regq@danmulligans.com</span></a><span lang="EN-US" style="text-align: justify;">)</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Sent:
21 July at 2:54 PM <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Subject:
My order <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Dear
Mr Quilty<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I’m
a busy man and you, with the hopefully well-deserved title of Manager, Dan
Mulligan’s Liquor Barn, will also be busy – so I’ll cut to the chase. But
before I do, let me say how refreshing it is to have a man back in charge at my
local Dan Mulligan’s after what seemed an eternity with your predecessor Mrs
Fitzpatrick lashed to your bottleshop’s mast like Odysseus struggling to avoid
hearing her customers’ siren song. She not so much captained a proud vessel as
ran a pirate ship that just happened to sell alcohol. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Mrs
F was an increasingly inflexible woman over such petty matters as purportedly unpaid
accounts. Savvy operators who get jiggy with it see me as an “influencer”. At
my semi-regular candlelit suppers, my guests often take a sip of wine and
exclaim: “Good God, what the hell is this?” Immediately this offers an
opportunity for me to pump Dan Mulligan’s tyres and, at no cost to you, detail
the offerings in the Bin Ends container en route to the right-hand cash
register. Which reminds me, I’d like to once again complain about the range of
snacks arrayed near that register. Presumably some marketing department bunny thought
selling biltong (surely against health regulations forbidding flyblown, airdried
strips of zebra meat) would give an international bent to the store’s otherwise
ho-hum offerings. Frankly, all it does is attract South Africans. Many a time
while browsing Mrs Fitzpatrick’s rack, I found shouts of <i>“Hey boet! I had a
lekker day today!”</i> deeply depressing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Now,
where was I before you distracted me? Oh, yes, my order. I’m writing to you
from a suite in one of Canberra’s better hotels, in fact, from my recent
experiences, the only accommodation in town with clean bedsheets. After a tiring
day advising ungrateful PR clients, there’s something off-putting about
throwing back the sheets to find short black hairs (either from a small man
with alopecia or the nether regions of either sex) scattered willy nilly. I’ve
taken to packing a portable Crime Scene Investigator ultraviolent light to wave
over hotel bedlinen. Any trace of dried bodily fluids has me demanding a new
room or at least a decent discount on the room rate. Pro tip, Mr Quilty: if you
accept the </span>discount<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">
then sleep on the outer edges of the bed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Obviously
being marooned in the nation’s capital with 286 kilometres between my digestive
tract and an acceptable restaurant has prompted thoughts of marbled beef
matched with that remarkable little Emu Plains Syrah you keep for your shrewder
customers. A man with a worldly view such as yourself will immediately spot my casual
use of the French word for Shiraz (although “Syrah” does sound disturbingly
Middle Eastern unlike “Shiraz” which is obviously Australian in origin). It’s
these nuances that, like a Mason’s handshake, give we oenophiles a secret
frisson, although <i>entre nous</i> I’m not certain I know what a Mason’s handshake
feels like. Occasionally when greeting clients I feel an odd pressure or tickle
on my hand but I never know if they’re a Mason or pleading: “You up for a booty
call, Glenny?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Ah,
clients, Mr Quilty, they’ll be the death of me – or vice versa. Let me add,
lest there be another misunderstanding with the police such as the time I stood
in a carpark outside a client’s office and shouted at his window: “I’m going to
kill you, you mendacious mother …” that the jibe was in jest. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">With
me in the publicity business and you in retail, we’ve both seen the best and
worst of humanity. In a just world, the corporate frauds I’m forced to pander
to and the Moaning Minnies you have to tolerate would be dressed in orange
jumpsuits and breaking rocks in a chain gang. Thirsty work. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Speaking
of which – my order. Being in Canberra, I’ll need one of your team, this time preferably
someone not on parole, to deliver my weekly mixed dozen to my home. Feel free
to add in any complimentary bottles you feel will frot my palate. Delivery this
evening will be fine. At around six, my cleaners will be wrapping up, so your
chap can wait outside until they’re finished then carry the wine into the
kitchen (careful with the new benchtops, they’re Silestone). The cleaners are
an odd couple. Not a word of English between them so your delivery man should
speak loudly and slowly. I call them Kim and Kim. At least one of them has to
be named that, am I right? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Let
me know how it goes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Best
regards<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Glenn
Gazman<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">--------------------<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">From:
Reg Quilty (</span><a href="mailto:regq@danmulligans.com.au"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">regq@danmulligans.com</span></a><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">To:
Glenn Gazman (</span><a href="mailto:glenn@sincerepr.com.au"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">glenn@sincerepr.com.au</span></a><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Sent:
22 July at 8:01 AM<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Subject:
re: My order <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Dear
Mr Gazman<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Now
there’s a coincidence. I was scheduled to write to you about your account. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I
must admit I didn’t know my former colleague Frances Fitzpatrick very well, but
she’d never struck me as a person with a nervous disposition. Nevertheless, in
her last three months in this job, Frances developed a facial tic which made it
difficult to apply her lipstick straight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">As
she stormed out the office door, she flicked me your account file and used a descriptive
term … it’s here somewhere … ah, yes. She referred to you as “that prick.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Nevertheless
at Dan Mulligan’s we’re not people to hold grudges no matter how well deserved.
Besides, I’m keen to claw back the $2,385.25 you owe our company. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">So,
despite the accounts team chorusing “Are you insane?”, late yesterday afternoon
I dispatched our new delivery man Trevor with your mixed dozen plus a
complimentary bottle of limoncello with a difficult to read Use By date. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Trevor
reports that when he arrived in near darkness, your front door was open and he
could hear voices and stifled laughter. He popped his head through the door and
was greeted cheerfully by your cleaners who (i) are Filipino; (ii) speak fluent
English. Rosamine and Ernesto were standing in the hall discussing what
appeared to be an electronic cucumber which they’d found in the drawer of your
bedside table. They invited Trevor to give his opinion as to why a single man
would have such a device and what it could be used for. A consensus was quickly
reached: the treatment of … and I admit I’ve had to Google the spelling of this
word<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_Hlk32758444"> … haemorrhoids</a>. We’re having an office sweep on
a range of suggestions, but the smart money is piling in on the original
conclusion. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Apparently
(and, Mr Gazman, I’m simply repeating what I’ve been told) you’d again failed
to leave money for your cleaners. Trevor was so moved by Rosamine and Ernesto’s
plight that he offered them your mixed dozen and the Italian liqueur. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Such
a gesture is against company policy and a sackable offence. However, across the
office we all agreed: given your involvement, we’ll make an exception this time.
BTW, our lawyers are currently drafting a letter of demand for the $2,385.25.
We won’t charge you for last night’s wine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cheers<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Reg<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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# # #</div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> Copyright 2020 GREG FLYNN</o:p></span></div>
<br />Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612358725492373701.post-48856144872678455082020-06-12T17:00:00.001+10:002020-06-12T17:00:39.838+10:00Mr Lonely Eyes<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgavrQkh2JNsGDTB9KZEQZ9eZkj3_7ETljEJbaAlwjGDCAGmsPi-aYM1Hb-XW8bK-kiFHess_EA7w-wj6Qo3D9GXQLkNzJL2M1SXTPadQ3ZgetgIuwFKrDrm3F0PX20YF-BcxOZKkw3AM0/s1600/Killara+-+Night.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgavrQkh2JNsGDTB9KZEQZ9eZkj3_7ETljEJbaAlwjGDCAGmsPi-aYM1Hb-XW8bK-kiFHess_EA7w-wj6Qo3D9GXQLkNzJL2M1SXTPadQ3ZgetgIuwFKrDrm3F0PX20YF-BcxOZKkw3AM0/s200/Killara+-+Night.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Heaven
isn’t that heavenly. So many goody two shoes and so intense. You wouldn’t
believe how draining it is to listen to St Mark debating theology with Joan of
Arc. Ideally, one would speak in Aramaic, the other in a 15<sup>th</sup>
Century French patois and you’d be spared listening to the endless discussions.
But no. English is now the lingua franca in Paradise. Choosing a common
language had been a difficult decision for God, and Lord knows he’s judgmental
on most matters. Bach and Brahms had lobbied for German but Dietrich and Einstein
pointed out Germany had let the team down at least twice in the 20<sup>th</sup>
Century. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I
was restless and, admittedly, lonely. What I needed was a holiday. Or
“vacation” as JFK called it. What with his serial skirt chasing and Mafia links,
I could only imagine President Kennedy jumped the Pearly Gates queue because
he’s a Mick. I’d raised that matter <i>sotto voce</i> with the Buddha – between
his reincarnations – but he’d shrugged and whispered back: “Life is
unsatisfactory so what’d you expect of Death?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Alright
– a vacation. Plus a chance to meet people who were less shouty. Try making
small talk with Moses. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I
asked around. Florence Nightingale suggested the Crimea – apparently it was delightful
this time of year if you avoided typhoid, cholera, dysentery and the Russian artillery
batteries. Abraham Lincoln mentioned Washington D.C. If you liked the Arts, it
had quite a vibrant theatre scene. Richard the Lionheart recommended a crusade
in the Holy Land but I couldn’t tell if he was being ironic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Finally,
Captain Cook took me aside. Timing was key, he said. He’d visited the Hawaiian
Islands twice and everything had been rather jolly. For example, his crew had
traded iron nails for sex although Cook doubted the practice was still
commonplace. Then he’d gone back to the islands again by which time the locals
had discovered the English visitors weren’t gods. His mistake ended in an
unseemly squabble in which he’d been stabbed in the neck on a beach. Apparently
that took the spark out of his tropical break. Therefore, said Cook, pick a
peaceable time such as 1938, sitting nicely between one World War and the next,
and just long enough after the Great Depression that restaurant food was
passable if unadventurous. This from a man who provisioned his ship with salt
beef, salt pork, salted cabbage and, to add variety, salt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“When
you say ‘peaceable’,” I asked, “isn’t ‘38 the year Hitler and Mussolini finally
got their own ways with Czechoslovakia and Ethiopia?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Neither
are here to confirm the dates, so why don’t you choose a sunny location in a
land well away from men in polished calf-length boots? Perhaps in the fabled
land of America.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A
parchment map showed us that Los Angeles was as far away from the Old World as
I would get. So, L.A it would be. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The
sun was brighter than I was. I’d only asked for 24 hours on Earth. Feeling the
warmth of the Californian sunshine, I realised my mistake. Too late now. Just
one day. Fortunately, Charlie Chaplin had given me a <i>Must See</i> list. “You
might bump into me,” he’d added. “There’s an existential thought.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I’d
popped into “the present” behind a bus shelter on Wilshire near Westwood
Village. A bus drew up, its door sprang open and a driver smiled down at me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“I’ve
no money ...,” I began.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The
door closed in my face and off he drove. Welcome to L.A.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I
blamed the hellish admin in Heaven. There I was in a well-cut three-button
suit, soft collared shirt, silk tie, co-respondent shoes and empty pockets
except for a linen handkerchief with the monogrammed initials “J.C”. Nice of
Him to lend it. But no dollar bills.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A
car seemingly the length of the Boulevard slid to the kerb, almost brushing my semi-brogue
toe caps. I smelt him before I heard him. “Well, just look at you! You’re
positively glowing.” He was right. We call it the Halo Effect.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The
lavender and vanilla aroma of<i> Pour Un Homme</i> by Daltroff hung like
mustard gas over what I guessed was a Packard Speedster Eight Boat-tail
Roadster Runabout Convertible with top down and driver up for it. Without
leaving his seat, he held out a hand with a pinky ring the size of his enlarged
pupils. “Brandon Hirschfeld. Agent to the stars.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Leaning
over the passenger door, I took his hand in mine, held it and introduced
myself: “Frank.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Hirschfeld
quickly extracted his gripped fingers. “Easy, bud. We’ve only just met and
besides I pitch woo strictly at dames. But if you like it the other way, this
town can certainly accommodate you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I’m
being too needy, I told myself. Behave like the Living. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Hirschfeld
flicked open the passenger door. “Jump in, Frank. We gotta talk. With your
angel face and lonely eyes and my talent to light the blue touchpaper under
careers, this could be your lucky day.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Could?”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Hirschfeld
pressed the accelerator. The Packard’s slipstream dragged the word across the
car boot. Frank was going to Hollywood.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The
brakes were eventually applied on North Vine outside a single-storey building
with a Spanish Mission façade festooned with Brown Derby restaurant branding.
Flipping the keys to a valet parking attendant, Hirschfeld draped a linen
jacket over his shoulders and led me by the elbow into the high-ceilinged
interior featuring leather-lined booths, white jacketed waiters and the smacking
sound of arses being kissed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A
menu magically popped into my hand and then disappeared. Hirschfeld handed it
back to the waiter. “Frank’s having the Cobb salad, if he has a chance to eat.
It’s time to work the room.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Shoulders
were squeezed, air was kissed and handshakes as flabby as the owners were
delivered. Avoiding the movie stars dotted around the room – over there, Clark
Gable and Carole Lombard, a little closer, Errol Flynn and Olivia de Havilland –
Hirschfeld fluttered between David O. Selznick, Sam Goldwyn and Victor Fleming.
“Ignore those deadbeat actors,” he hissed to me. “They’re competitors. Only schmooze
studio heads and directors.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Hirschfeld
did a final round before dropping back in our booth and stabbing his fork at
the Roquefort in my salad. “I’ve spoken with Vic Fleming. Can you throw open a
window in your diary at three today?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“I
don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I …”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Great.
I like my clients to be flexible. Your audition is on the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer
lot. Vic’s shooting a little tale called ‘The Wizard of Oz’. You’re up for the
role of Tin Man. Fortunately, the actor who’d got the part – Buddy Ebsen – is
highly allergic to the aluminum dust used in the character’s make-up, so you’re
in. Unless the dust kills you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It
didn’t but the other actors did. I’d struggled through two lines of dialogue
and an itching face when the verdicts came in. “Too young,” said Ray “Scarecrow”
Bolger. “Too smooth,” said Bert “Cowardly Lion” Lahr. “So handsome,” said Judy
Garland. The latter comment did it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“I
warned you to stay clear of actors,” said Hirschfeld. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“It’s
a movie. How could I avoid act… ?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Don’t
get so defensive,<i> bubbeleh</i>. Just because you made one mistake doesn’t
mean I’m giving up on you. Yet. We’re on our way to see a wannabe director
named John Huston. He plans to helm a private eye caper called ‘The Maltese
Falcon’ but he’s getting push back from Warner Brothers. Your fresh face –
although it looks a little raw and dusty – could get him over the line with the
studio.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Tall,
well dressed, Huston was standing on a sound stage on the Burbank studio lot.
Pulling a slim cigar from a leather case, he thought about Hirschfeld’s
suggestion. “No. We’re a year or more away from shooting.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A
gold Dunhill lighter materialised in Hirschfeld’s hand. He held the flame
beneath Huston’s cigar tip. “Even Bogart had to be discovered. This kid could
make your picture.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Only
because it’s you,” said Huston, signaling to the crew. “We’re trying some mood lighting
effects. Fred can be the stand-in.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Frank,”
I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Close
enough,” cut in Hirschfeld.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">On
the film set, the detective agency’s name – Spade and Archer <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>– <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>was
stenciled on an office window facing a painted backdrop of the Golden Gate
Bridge. “Lower the Venetian blinds,” called Huston. “And you, Fred, stay still.
Lights!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Standing
there, trying to appear thoughtful, I heard a technician swear: “He’s throwing
no shadow.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Huston’s
voice came out of the darkness. “Get it right. It’s not as if he’s a ghost.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Actually,”
I interrupted, “there’s something you should know.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Five
minutes later, the Packard was streaking down West Riverside Drive. A cigarette
holder gripped between his teeth, the wind pulling at the jacket on his
shoulders, Hirschfeld’s voice was muffled: “Every actor needs something to
differentiate them and, boy, your’s is a doozy. Next stop: 20<sup>th</sup>
Century Fox.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“But,
but … I’m due back soon.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Hirschfeld
tilted his chin skywards. “Pshaw! This is showbiz. Heaven can wait.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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# # #</div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> Copyright 2020 GREG FLYNN</o:p></span></div>
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<br />Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612358725492373701.post-37628878206525530152020-04-29T11:35:00.000+10:002020-04-29T12:00:42.900+10:00The Price<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWMW_A3bF0YGwTdjGbDDCaHXSSeJg0X6oGp8Sd_dCbUuNm72O-jljXhwOel2wRfz0RdG0BD9-sdX4HbH328MMmwbNyTrFjI4Fd-rk5t2_DZBDJOsqev7y7N4D2fAcWBbSlA1ZC8u2pCIk/s1600/Killara+Leather+April+2020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWMW_A3bF0YGwTdjGbDDCaHXSSeJg0X6oGp8Sd_dCbUuNm72O-jljXhwOel2wRfz0RdG0BD9-sdX4HbH328MMmwbNyTrFjI4Fd-rk5t2_DZBDJOsqev7y7N4D2fAcWBbSlA1ZC8u2pCIk/s200/Killara+Leather+April+2020.jpg" width="150" /></a><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Slippery
from the previous night’s monsoonal downpour, Lan Kwai Fong was a tangle of
interlocking alleys smelling of wok-fried sesame oil or stale cat urine,
perhaps both. Brushing aside a ragged upstart in a coolie hat who tried to panhandle
me, I reached Lee’s Restaurant just as a shower of what I hoped was rainwater sprinkled
over my hair. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Sandwiched
like a dowdy spinster between a neon-lit tattoo parlour and a newly-opened
Swinging ‘60s sex toys shop, the restaurant appeared uncomfortable in the louche
setting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">With
my reputation in the Colony, I’d expected Lee’s staff to kowtow. Instead, a
snaggle-toothed youth in a stained singlet appeared from the kitchen and jerked
his thumb towards a backroom. A hand-lettered sign was pinned to the door by a
dagger with a fleur-de-lis motif handle. The sign read “Privates”, possibly a
misspelling, possibly not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The
aroma of HK$5 cigars mingled with even cheaper aftershave seeped from the room.
</span>Inside, a <span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Samurai sword
from the Japanese Occupation hung directly behind the only table. Evenly spaced
around it, three wastrels in suits concentrated on their bowls of Lee’s Famous Upside
Down Fish Soup, so named because that’s how the prime ingredient was usually
found floating in the restaurant’s tank. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Instinctively,
I touched the Saturday Night Special in its holster beneath my jacket. It gave cold
comfort. Westerners, or as locals would sneer: “<i>Gweilo</i>”, the trio were
mixed in height, physique and sartorial choices but all looked as if they’d
soap the wedding ring off their dead grandmother’s finger. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">With
a flimflam artist’s confidence, a black-suited man at the table gestured for me
to sit before he resumed slurping. His sole piece of </span>jewellery<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> was a fake Longines watch hanging a
little too loosely from a hairy wrist. With the shoulders of a Turkish wrestler,
the bedroom eyes of Cary Grant and the dining manners of Henry VIII, he devoured
the meal while, to his left, a gaunt party picked at pale flesh in a bowl. The
sleeves of that one’s suit, bedecked with the wide pinstripes favoured by the male
cast of <i>Guys and Dolls</i>, dipped occasionally into the broth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The
third cove had careful hair and beard and an equally careful way of studying the
food pinched between his chopsticks. “Is this shellfish?” he asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">His
accent made me feel for the gun again. A South African. Suddenly, Mr Pinstripes
poked a lump in his bowl while whispering “<i>vis</i>?”, Afrikaans for fish.
Another one. I was about to push back my chair and leave when Mr Black Suit thrust
his bowl aside. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Welcome,
I’m Leonardo Duffy – my many friends call me ‘L.D’. This (pointing to Mr
Pinstripes) is Slade Cravings and you’ll have heard of Adonis Van Graan, <i>ja</i>?”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">With
manicured nails, Van Graan flicked the underside of his beard: “I’m in advertising.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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I stifled <span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">an urge to make the Sign of the Cross, but this time I did inch my chair
away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Pulling
out a monogrammed leather wallet, Duffy produced a well-used business card: <i>Leonardo
Duffy, Chairman, Global Imports PLC</i>. A Pedder Street address and local
phone number sat next to a crossed-fingered logo. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">As
I attempted to put the card in my pocket, Duffy took it and slipped it back in
his wallet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“I
specialise in shipping the finest Cuban cigars into Hong Kong and Macau,” he
said. He held a half-smoked stick towards me. The band above the cigar’s chewed
end was boldly printed in red and gold.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I
leant closer. “Havana is misspelt. There shouldn’t be an ‘r’ on the end.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“We’ll
correct it on the next print run,” cut in Cravings. The soup dripping from his
sleeve created a small puddle on the table next to a Mahjong dice. He looked
like a county cricketer gone to seed. The yellow tinge around his pupils
indicated he was no stranger to the pleasure of the opium pipe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“My
reputation proceeds me, of course,” I said.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cravings
and Van Graan shook their heads. Duffy sighed. “Let me introduce Fruity
O’Flanagan, the Colony’s most expensive private detective.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“And
the best,” I added. “Half the fee in advance plus a modest 17% markup on
disbursements.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“We’ll
come to that,” said Duffy. “First, here’s the job. Find our longtime accountant
who fleeced us of 50 large – American not Hong Kong dollars – and dump her and
her sidekick in the Harbour.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Can
they swim?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Van
Graan’s lips slid back over almost perfect teeth. “The question is academic.
You’ll have <i>dealt </i>with them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">As
I sprung to my feet, the back of my chair hit the floor. “What do you take me
for?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Duffy
held up a calming hand. “We’ll double your fee.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Tell
me more.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Ten
minutes later, after dropping a few foreign coins into the palm of the still
babbling coolie outside Lee’s, I leant back in the rickshaw trundling me
towards Central Ferry Pier No 7 and called encouragingly to the consumptive
pulling the vehicle: “Chop, chop! No waste-y time-y.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The
Telegraph</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, the
Colony’s main English-language rag, took up the basement of a decaying Kowloon
Side building. I had two editorial contacts there – neither had drawn a sober
breath since the Siege of Chongqing. When I arrived they were gloomily
considering the bottoms of empty glasses. The taller of the two, Stan Valet, a painfully
thin grifter with a narrow-brim black fedora tipped over one eye, had his feet
on his desk, a heel placed either side of his Olivetti. The other, Jim McArran,
with a quick temper, quicker fists and a tattoo of Hemingway (or Marilyn
Monroe, it was hard to tell – it’d been a bargain-priced tattooist) on his
forearm, was balling up copy paper and tossing it towards a wire basket. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I
placed a fifth of whisky next to Valet’s right shoe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">McArran
missed the bin. “You want something, eh, Fruity?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Jim,
if <i>you</i> don’t want<i> </i>that drink, I …” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Snatching
the bottle from the desk, McArran pulled out the cork with his teeth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Valet
attempted to sit up. “Did I ever tell you I slept with Leonard Cohen’s …” he
began, before sliding to the floor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Hiring
these two was a risk but I needed to move quickly before the Triads beat me to the
stolen loot. I gave the pair the brief: help me find the missing accountant Madeleine
Dubois and her accomplice Mary Carberry, and receive a cut of Duffy’s pie. I
didn’t mention the body-dumping business. Even journalists have standards and
they’d want a bigger slice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The
hunt took 12 hours. By late evening I was standing outside a gin joint in Wan
Chai. Through the open shutters came the sound of a Chinese zither torturing a New
Orleans jazz standard. The bouncer, wearing a Mandarin-collared golden shirt matching
the colour of his remaining incisor, gave a stiff bow. “<i>Fùnyìhng</i>, Mr
Fruity.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Perched
on bar stools, Madeleine and Mary were sheathed in shimmering silk cheongsams. With
the indulgent face of a Loreto Sisters Mother Superior, Madeleine held a
lighted taper to the tip of a Sobranie that a shaky Mary was attempting to keep
still. I waited for them to topple over but both were made of sterner stuff,
and that stuff appeared to be 99% Plymouth Gin and 1% Noilly Prat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“<i>Nǐ
hǎo</i>, ladies.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">They
turned, looking at me as if I was going in and order of focus. Attempting to
introduce myself, I stopped as Madeleine waved away the need. “Fruity
O’Flanagan. Who else would wear a white linen suit after sunset?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Unsteadily,
the pair climbed down from their stools and tottered on stilettos to a corner
booth. Patting the banquette, Mary called: “Get us another round, Fruity, then
get your fat arse over here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In
the booth’s candlelight, both women could be mistaken for being 21. Admittedly,
the single candle threw off a dim glow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“You’ve
been naughty, my dears. L.D would like his money back.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Madeleine
lit a long-stemmed pipe. I doubted it was Davidoff tobacco. “You’d have saved a
lot of time if you’d just stopped to talk to our coolie outside Lee’s. He was trying
to pass on our offer. Every man in a tropical weight suit has a price.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The
thump of my fist on the table made their glasses jump. The tabletop’s
stickiness made it difficult for me to lift my fist back up. “What do you take
me for?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">This
time it was Madeleine holding up a calming hand. “We’ll quadruple whatever L.D
is paying you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Tell
me more.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
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# # #</div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "calibri" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Note: </span><span style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Any <span class="markxnwhremr5" data-markjs="true" data-ogab="" data-ogac="" data-ogsb="" data-ogsc="" style="border: 0px; color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">resemblance</span> to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.</span></i></div>
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Copyright 2020 GREG FLYNN</div>
<br />Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612358725492373701.post-27732567333712246322019-12-06T15:30:00.000+11:002019-12-06T15:30:35.618+11:00The Case of the Poison Quill Letter<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0m60MoefIM_u3e_rxBXs2oZFfNsKdzOA_wpeDy8E8dhq7UAhvSCuhlxYUcA2RxN64NqgEX2c1j55HzlJ37YqgndAeIpD1oatgWKgf_fBn4obayjv7AbQcfqperW9S9Asfj4eQka5x7C0/s1600/thumbnail_Blank+paper_+With+wax+seal%252C+quill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0m60MoefIM_u3e_rxBXs2oZFfNsKdzOA_wpeDy8E8dhq7UAhvSCuhlxYUcA2RxN64NqgEX2c1j55HzlJ37YqgndAeIpD1oatgWKgf_fBn4obayjv7AbQcfqperW9S9Asfj4eQka5x7C0/s200/thumbnail_Blank+paper_+With+wax+seal%252C+quill.jpg" width="132" /></a><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Taking the corner of Marylebone Road and Baker
Street at speed, the hansom cab bounced on the cobblestones, throwing me
sideways against the door. Moments later, the cab halted outside 221B. Tossing
coins towards the driver, I shouted my thanks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Inside the building, I took the stairs two at
a time, passing a startled Mrs Hudson on the landing. A pile of dirty cups and
plates rattled on tray she was carrying.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Throwing open Sherlock Holmes’ door, I dropped
my medical bag and rushed towards the body slumped in a high-backed chair near the
fireplace. His skin was cold to the touch but there was a faint pulse in his
bony wrist.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“What on Earth are you playing at, Watson?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Startled, I jumped back. Holmes stretched, yawned
and stared down at my bag. “Excellent. We’ll need that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“But, but,” I spluttered. “Thirty minutes ago
one of the Baker Street Irregulars came hammering on my surgery door claiming
you’d been poisoned. The boy was obviously terrified.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Or a wonderful actor. I’d given the urchin a
halfpenny and told him if you were here within the hour, I’d give him another.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“You do realise I’m busy with my practice?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Precisely, Watson. Why else would I bother
with the theatrics? I need your help with a rather interesting case.” He
gestured towards the bag. “But first I would like you to inject me with cocaine
– a seven percent solution.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I refused. If a patient required it, I was
willing to give them cocaine to dull pain or improve mental function but Holmes
had neither need. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Perhaps later,” said Holmes. Languidly, he
reached across to a side table and used his thumb and forefinger to lift up what
appeared to be a piece of thickish paper with a red wax seal in the bottom
corner and, across the front, a single paragraph written with neat penmanship.
“The lad would’ve been more accurate if he’d said ‘almost poisoned’. Before
that jezail bullet at the Battle of Maiwand cut short your army career, you’d
made quite a study of Afghan and Indian poisons. So, please smell this.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I leant towards the dangled item, noticing for
the first time it was more like parchment, some sort of pale animal skin. A
disagreeable aroma arose from the ink. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Strychnos
nux-vomica</i> from the strychnine tree.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“What a gift you have, Watson. In seconds,
you’ve confirmed findings that took me an hour of tests. Strychnine at such
strength that one touch means death. Earlier today, there’d been a knock on the
front door. When Mrs Hudson opened it, this roll of parchment lay on the mat,
the deliverer gone. The roll had been left by a blousy woman in a red and black
brocade dress, ornate hat, elbow-length gloves and walking with a slight limp.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I clapped my hands. “Holmes, it’s my turn to
be astounded. Your powers of deduction are extraordinary.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Actually, I saw her through the window while
playing my violin. Nevertheless, when Mrs Hudson handed me the roll I was
tempted to immediately open it. But curiosity got the better of my curiosity,
if you follow me. As I held it close to examine the seal, I smelt the foul
odour. That saved my life.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Buttoning his smoking jacket, he carried the letter
to his workbench at the far end of the room. On the crowded benchtop, a Bunsen
burner flame flickered beneath a large glass pot of pale green liquid. Picking
up various objects, he managed to hold down the edges of the parchment so we
could read the schoolboy standard writing:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“I am down
on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the
last job was. You got no chance of nicking me Shylock.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I was puzzled. “That phrasing sounds …”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Artificial,” Holmes cut in. “An educated
person attempting to appear less so. The writing itself is stylised as if done
in a classroom. As for the instrument used to write it, well, fortunately I
recently completed a monograph on the history of quills. This note was written
with a metal nibbed quill by a tall, left handed person by candlelight.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Tentatively I thumbed what felt like Vellum.
“And this?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Using a pipette, Holms drew up green liquid
from the bowl and let drops fall on the parchment. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It sizzled. “Human skin, Watson. Our letter
writer has gone to some lengths to ensure this untanned skin has been scraped
or dried under tension, giving it a medieval look.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Shylock? A misspelling?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“A Shakespearean allusion, I’d hazard. As in the
Bard’s ‘If you prick us, do we not bleed?’ A threat, indeed, from Jack the
Ripper. To quote Henry V: ‘The game's afoot.’”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The horse pulling our cab seemed possessed. We
sped through the dusk, avoiding crowded streets. Holmes had no need of diluted cocaine.
This was the excitement he craved.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“There’s only one pen shop in London still
selling quills with metal nibs – Wellings of Whitechapel,” he said as we raced
down Commercial Road. “We must get there before it closes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Holmes was out of the cab and into the shop
before I’d finished paying the driver. When I entered, Holmes was standing in
front of a glass-topped display counter, admiring ranks of pens inside. The
golden glow from tall candles on the counter set off the pens’ polished
barrels. “Exquisite,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">On the other side of the counter, a waistcoated
man in late middle age, almost as tall and thin as Holmes, was slipping pound
notes into a cash register drawer while carefully writing details on a nearby
pad. Pushing the drawer shut, he gave a small smile. “Can I be of assistance?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Actually, I’ve found just what I was looking
for, Mr Wellings, or should I say ‘Mr Ripper’?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The smile broadened. “Without doubt, Mr Holmes,
you’re the world’s greatest consulting detective.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Holmes took a step back, keeping his eyes on
the man’s hands. “Why bother to poison me?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“The Peelers are fools. They’ll never catch
me. But I knew one day, in some way, you’d get involved. I decided to act
first.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“I assume the woman who left the parchment was
a Working Girl you hired.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Lots around these parts, willing to do anything
for a few pence. What gave me away?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“That unique quill you used led us here. And
there you were, writing with your left hand in that overly neat script, each
stroke bringing you closer to the hangman’s noose. Plus the droplets of candle
wax – on your countertop and on the parchment you sent me.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It was the Ripper’s turn to step backwards. “Purely
circumstantial evidence, and I have alibis for the night of each of the Ripper’s
five romps. As I said, Ladies of the Night will do or say anything for a
handful of coins, even lie.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Calmly, Holmes drew an ageing service pistol
from his pocket. “Regrettably, you’re probably correct. You could indeed escape
the gallows. Therefore, it’s fortunate for society you were the victim this
evening of what the broadsheets may call ‘a robbery gone wrong’.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">He pulled the trigger. “Case solved, I’d
venture, eh, Watson?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"># # #</span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Once again - apologies to Arthur Conan Doyle</span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Copyright 2019 GREG FLYNN</span></div>
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<br />Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612358725492373701.post-32723791494804637372019-07-31T13:43:00.002+10:002019-07-31T13:43:56.526+10:00The Simple Art of Blackmail*<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzzMX17W2SZ_VAJgkE6dk6SWzbJpbY9WRs79cKVrwJqv7dBhjtUSY4jgz6Xpk3jHrLCllcWeyGpTh1KGW8tN7hOJjXRRpiUYwLnMXV1OCmCOFJSUJcwn6qVsqSwzHUSTpP48daUyTsAgI/s1600/Dreaming.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="643" data-original-width="564" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzzMX17W2SZ_VAJgkE6dk6SWzbJpbY9WRs79cKVrwJqv7dBhjtUSY4jgz6Xpk3jHrLCllcWeyGpTh1KGW8tN7hOJjXRRpiUYwLnMXV1OCmCOFJSUJcwn6qVsqSwzHUSTpP48daUyTsAgI/s200/Dreaming.jpg" width="175" /></a></div>
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Lips
glacé cherry-red. Raisin-dark hair swept back. Skin pale as blanched almonds. A
slight whiff of brandy. She reminded Kent of …</div>
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“Fruit cake?” Sylvia Preen asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Taking the smallest slice from the proffered plate,
he tried to balance the cake on the edge of his saucer. Milky tea from the cup
slopped onto it. Abandoning the challenge, he placed the lot on a delicate
table beside his chair.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Over Sylvia’s shoulder, a Catalina flying boat with
RAAF roundels slipped away from its moorings and began picking up speed across
Freshwater Bay.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In those distracted seconds, she’d morphed from delectable
Peppermint Grove baked goods to avian predator. Her head was tilted to one
side, eyes fixed on him. A seagull sizing up a discarded chip.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I’m surprised a fit man like yourself isn’t in the
Services.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Invalided out,” Kent lied.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She appeared unconvinced. “I read in The West this
morning that we’ve retaken Kokoda from the Japs.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Then I’m definitely no longer needed.” Leaning
forward, he held out a soft pack of cigarettes. They lit from their own
lighters. “And I read Mr Preen has had an unfortunate accident.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“If your idea of an accident is someone being
stabbed in the back while wearing silk pyjamas at dawn on our private jetty,
then yes.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You want me to find his killer?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Heavens, no, Mr Kent. The police asked me if my
husband had any enemies. I handed them the Perth telephone directory.” She
ashed her cigarette. “But I’m giving the matter more thought. Meanwhile, you’ve
a reputation for being discrete – a private, private detective. I want you to find
a very compromising sketch of me. I’m being blackmailed.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Fifteen minutes later, Kent stood in the shade of a
peppermint tree, the river foreshore a few feet away. A seagull, balanced on
one leg, studied his polished shoe caps. Behind him, the Preen mansion almost
blocked out the western sky. In front, dinghies bobbed at peace. He didn’t want
to leave.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The car’s steering wheel was hot to the touch. Windows
down, the beginnings of a sea breeze drying the perspiration on his shirt and
suit jacket, he headed for Fremantle. His was one of the few civilian vehicles making
their way into the port. The roads were crowded with Allied trucks, the
footpaths with gob caps, duck caps, officers’ peaked caps. As he slowed at a
busy corner, a pair of US Shore Patrol masters-at-arms, watching for Unauthorised
Absence bluejackets, peered into the back seat of his car. In return, Kent
considered asking them for American cigarettes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Polari’s rented room was above an Italian
restaurant. A knock on the room door went unanswered. Kent checked off a list
of other places Sylvia suggested. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Searches of the first two pubs proved fruitless.
Leaving the third, he saw the white singlet, the distinctive star tattoo on the
muscular shoulder and the newsboy-style cap moments before their owner turned
into a laneway. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Polari!” Kent shouted. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The man could run, Kent gave him that. Left at the
first cross street, right at the next. Twice, three times Polari thumped into the
backs of ambling sailors. Obscenities followed the pair as they sprinted
towards the wharves. High chain-link fences stretched west and east. Polari
stopped, turned, pulled a switchblade from his back pocket and flicked it open.
Kent bent forward, fought to catch his breath, straightened and tugged a service
revolver from his jacket. “Bang, bang.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Polari’s room seemed crowded even with just the two
of them. A cast iron bed, a woollen crocheted blanket, a quilted cover. By the
window, a large format book of sketching paper stood on an easel. The effect: austere
but homely. Except for the artwork on the walls. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Kent gestured for Polari to sit on the bed. “You’ve
a way with …”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“The ladies?” Polari cut in.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Erotic illustrations. Are these the originals?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Of course, the world’s navies are in town. Those
boys only want copies. This is a sweet little business.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Gun still pointed at Polari’s chest, Kent leant across
and tore a sketch from the wall. Sylvia Preen had at least had the decency to
wear suspenders. She looked younger. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Polari protested as Kent folded the paper and tucked
it into a pocket. Ignoring him, Kent pulled open the top drawer of a wooden
dresser. A crisp British merchant seaman’s identity card was tucked under three
singlets. More protests. Kent held up a hand. “Fake ID? Jumped ship? Purveying
pornography? Oh, wait, I forgot blackmail.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“The last one’s not as lucrative as you’d imagine.”
Polari straightened up. “Do I get my knife back?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I’ll think about it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The maid said no. No Mrs Preen wasn't at home and
no he couldn't wait until she returned. Lips drawn back to approximate a smile,
he turned away. The breeze from the slamming door cooled his back. To the right
across the bay, the impressive bulk of a yacht club sat on a low hill. Along
the foreshore beneath the club, short jetties poked into the Swan River. A
figure in white stood out from their bleached, grey wood. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As he approached, he could see the familiar tilt of
Sylvia Preen’s head.<o:p></o:p></div>
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"Is this the jetty where your husband was murdered?"
<o:p></o:p></div>
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"Are you making conversation or would you
genuinely like to know?"<o:p></o:p></div>
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"Both."<o:p></o:p></div>
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She pointed to a dark stain on the wooden planks. A
pause. “And the sketch?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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He drew the folded artwork from an inside pocket.
“To be fair, it’s quite a good likeness.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Her hand shot out, snatching the paper away. One
quick glance to confirm it was the original then the tearing began. Within
seconds, a flutter of pornographic confetti floated down to the water. A
cluster of blowfish nuzzled the wet paper before losing interest.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Side-by-side they watched the paper drift amongst
the pylons. Touching his arm, she asked: “What are you thinking?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Kent didn’t react. He was thinking the now very rich
merry widow had lured her unpleasant husband down to the jetty, killed him and
was about to put the knife-happy Polari in the frame for the murder. But first
she’d needed that sketch off the artist’s wall. Even a Fremantle copper would’ve
recognised her – with or without underwear. If this was a just world I’d immediately
turn her over to the police, Kent reflected. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But there was something more important than instant
justice. His invoice. “I was thinking we should celebrate with a drink and with you
paying my bill.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Cash or cheque, Mr Kent?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“In this case, cash.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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# # #<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">* I’m
extremely remorseful for the countless copyright infringements in this story<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<o:p> </o:p><span style="font-size: 8pt; text-align: right;">Copyright 2019 GREG FLYNN</span></div>
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<br />Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612358725492373701.post-38435391979701486302019-07-08T15:26:00.001+10:002019-07-08T15:26:43.665+10:00Folly & Sin<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6SBe4BMtG27Abnem5Zocl0Q4DU-84-wEA5DgncJkaY_r8vcKiCSC_83FJT9cFL1DWLvI5Cwa1x9L9yEBKsvEaLcrs-IYZirJ5nYML2q6A2glpGAFhSYmh9LX4Fh6n6wo9AOIA1nFpvJ4/s1600/Carnivale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="618" data-original-width="360" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6SBe4BMtG27Abnem5Zocl0Q4DU-84-wEA5DgncJkaY_r8vcKiCSC_83FJT9cFL1DWLvI5Cwa1x9L9yEBKsvEaLcrs-IYZirJ5nYML2q6A2glpGAFhSYmh9LX4Fh6n6wo9AOIA1nFpvJ4/s200/Carnivale.jpg" width="116" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The vaporetto bumped
twice against the </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Palazzo Pisani Moretta’s jetty before being hit by the wash of
bigger, smarter vessels all competing for a berth. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The night air felt as damp and cold as Inspector Boscolo’s knickers.
Next time he’d stand throughout an open boat ride. He needed fresh underwear, a
cheroot, a grappa and a pee. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Another wave smacked against the port side,
knocking Boscolo into the arms of First Sergeant Fabbri. Catching the
inspector’s elbow, she helped him up the short gangplank. On the crowded jetty in
their ornate masquerade ball costumes, they looked as they felt: extras in an
extravagant production to distract people with golden lives. If he had their
money, Boscolo decided, he’d be at home with Tuscan tobacco, a full glass and
an empty bladder. And wearing men’s underwear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Everyone is here.” Fabbri said. “At least try
and look fabulous.” Spinning, her gold and black costume caught reflections off
the Grand Canal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Clumsily, Boscolo began rotating, his own ornate
skirt almost scraping the wooden jetty boards. “How can you tell who’s famous? They’re
all masked.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Titling her head towards the palazzo’s steps,
she indicated the paparazzi pack baying at new arrivals. The shouts gave an ultimatum
– lift your masks or we won’t shoot. The Clooneys obeyed. Pitt and partner
followed, masks tilted upwards. Paltrow too. They hadn’t flown 9,868 kms to be
passed over in a red carpet photo op.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<pre style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Stepping forward, Boscolo found himself briefly minus a shoe. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Porca vacca!</i> One of his high heels had caught between the boards. It’d been Fabbri’s idea for them to frock up for the event. He’d complained about the indignity of a senior <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Carabinieri </i>investigator being in drag.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Fabbri pointed out, again, that their suspect like most Italian males would assume a woman wasn’t a threat unlike a costumed man in a codpiece and a cocked hat.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The target? Venice’s most audacious jewel thief: </span><i><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: IT; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Il Gatto Nero</span></i><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: IT; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></pre>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“And the photographers? What’ll they make of
an unmasked, middle-aged, stubble-cheeked man in a dress?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“This is showbiz. There’re no surprises. But when
we pass them, keep your mask on, take my hand, stare into my eyes and pretend
you’re my girlfriend.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">For a moment, a very collegial thought crossed
Boscolo’s mind but this was neither the night nor possibly the decade to pursue
it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Inside the 15<sup>th</sup> Century palace, with
the temperature struggling to rise one more degree, <i>Il Ballo del Doge</i>
was swinging coolly. Trays of drinks circulated, as did the bejewelled guests. The
event’s theme was </span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Folly & Sin. There
were a</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ir kisses and knowing touches. A tall man in a silver, apparently
sprayed-on catsuit approached Boscolo and rested a hand on the inspector’s
shoulder. “Such fun,” said the stranger. “Aren’t you loving it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“It’s my first masquerade ball,” Boscolo
replied, failing to disguise his voice. “I’m determined not to enjoy it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">In surprise, the man took a step back, then
one forward. “Now this just got interesting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Reaching out, Fabbri tugged at Boscolo’s sleeve.
“Time to eat, <i>bello</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">As the two police approached, platters of <i>bigołi
in salsa</i> and <i>fegato ała venesiana</i> were being ferried to long
communal dining tables. Boscolo was tempted, but nature was not so much calling
as shrieking. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Fabbri led the way into the female toilets,
suggesting he gather up his skirts and back into a cubicle. “I’ll make certain
you’re not disturbed.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">This is the apex for what passes as a career,
thought Boscolo as he felt blessed relief. A moment later, a small explosion
and all went black. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Screams, gunfire, more
explosions, more screams. In the dark, he clawed at the door lock. It was just
that. Locked. He felt for the toilet lid, slammed it shut and clambered towards
the old fashioned overhead cistern. With a push, he was up and over into the
next cubicle, landing with a thump on the woman inside. “This is as undignified
for you as for me,” he said, twisting the door lock open. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">In the blacked-out ballroom,
the screaming continued. Pulling off his mask, he slapped his sides. Somewhere
inside the folds of his costume was his Beretta. “Light some candles, <i>idioti</i>!”
he ordered. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Around the room,
lighters flickered and a serene golden glow slowly lit up a less than serene
scene. He found his gun. More screams. “Armed police!” he shouted. Even to him,
it sounded unconvincing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“My jewels!” wailed a
woman to his right. “Your jewels? What about mine?” cried another to his left.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Struggling to flash
his </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">polizia </span></i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ID and
instead exposing<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>his upper thigh,
Boscolo blocked the path of a panicky security man. Details were sketchy. There’d
been a series of explosions knocking out the electricity supply. A gun had been
fired. Someone had moved swiftly through the ballroom, tearing necklaces and
earrings from their owners.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Il Gatto Nero</span></i><span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Boscolo knew it. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">And </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Fabbri? Where’d she gone? The exits were jammed with squealing
guests and staff. Boscolo pushed his way to the main stage and exited, left. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Immediately, he tripped, catching an edge of
curtain to break his fall. Fabbri was lying on her back across the passageway.
Her mask was torn off. Blood smeared her forehead. That way, she pointed, that
way.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Boscolo staggered upright. Kicking off his
shoes, he took two long strides before falling over the hem of his dress. This
time he crashed onto a giant papier-mâché stage prop – a pirate’s treasure box.
The lid and sides crumbled. Inside was a large black silk bag, its contents
slipping out: one set of night goggles, multiple diamond necklaces, a cluster
of pearl earrings … and then a metallic click.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Fabbri was standing above him, her gun pointed
at his head. “I’ll take those,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Would you mind also taking this damn outfit?”
he asked. “It’s served its purpose.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“You’ll have to admit, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Commissario</i>, it was all terribly clever. Who’d guess a mere woman –
and a copper – was the thief?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Will you be leaving a forwarding address?
It’d save me a lot of bother later.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Reaching down, she began scooping up the
jewels. Stretching across, he grabbed her ankle and pulled hard. She came down
on top of him. Rolling, they crashed into the backstage bric-à-brac, her gun
disappearing beneath a stack of hat boxes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">From the stage wings, a smooth voice called
out. Boscolo twisted his head to see.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Silhouetted against the light, the man in the
silver catsuit was standing with his hands on both hips. “This is my kinda
party. Mind if I join in?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Fabbri shook herself free. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Francamente</i>, I’d rather surrender.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"># # #<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: 8pt; text-align: right;">Copyright 2019 GREG FLYNN</span></div>
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<br />Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612358725492373701.post-57389708444642032542019-03-21T12:02:00.000+11:002019-04-01T09:46:24.575+11:00The Man Who Shot Hitler<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">[Inspired by true events.]</span></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpk55QHdBkm1uTloThUpsOuCsoHAAglA2Cr4nkqgUkrFFUQoXj3enJdjVOzdh0wD7RNmP7VgaXnGR0GL7_0hcymL8s1LZdrk7t-V-18Cl8L_-A-zAHEO0AzvMG4KGiJ8_qDWljLLOyTRA/s1600/Killara+Train.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="794" data-original-width="536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpk55QHdBkm1uTloThUpsOuCsoHAAglA2Cr4nkqgUkrFFUQoXj3enJdjVOzdh0wD7RNmP7VgaXnGR0GL7_0hcymL8s1LZdrk7t-V-18Cl8L_-A-zAHEO0AzvMG4KGiJ8_qDWljLLOyTRA/s320/Killara+Train.jpg" width="216" /></a></i></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Papers.”
An order, not a request.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Without
looking up, Müller reached inside his coat, withdrew a tattered identification
document and handed it to the official. Feet spread for balance in the swaying
railway carriage, the official studied the paper then peered down at the
household brush salesman with his frayed shirt collar, dowdy suit and large,
battered sample case tucked under the seat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Müller
offered a small, tight smile. It wasn’t returned, his identification was.
Through the soot-spattered carriage windows, the Schöneberg district was a
blur. Ten minutes later, the train drew into the station servicing the Berlin <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sportpalast</i> arena.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Waving
away a porter, Müller lifted the sample case onto the platform and braced
himself before carrying it into the street – a beaten man, facing another day
explaining the merits of stiff coconut</span> fibre<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> bristles to disinterested <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hausfraus.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Excited,
chatty Berliners pressed around him as they made for the indoor arena. The lure
of Hitler, the nation’s 1930s matinée idol, drew them to the ornate, domed
building. Müller felt himself being swept along by a rush of men and women in
hats and youths in brown shirts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Near
the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sportpalast’s </i>main entrance, Müller
found the toilets. An odor, equal parts disinfectant and stale urine, rose to
meet him. Choosing the furthest cubicle, he placed the case on the toilet seat
and popped the latches. A <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">SS </i>uniform
was tucked neatly inside a false bottom. In the cramped cubicle, he struggled like
a contortionist to get out of his suit and into the uniform. The calf-hugging,
polished boots were tight, uncomfortable. Pistol checked, Müller left the case
on the seat and used a hairpin to lock the cubicle door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">As
he rejoined the crowd, he heard the command: “Papers, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oberleutnant</i>.” Definitely not a request. The lieutenant flashes on
his uniform didn’t require deference. Two <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wehrmacht
</i>guards, both edgy, blocked his way. It wasn’t personal. Wearing a sidearm, he
expected to be stopped. This time he handed over two crisp documents, the first
his identification, the second on a white card giving him permission to stand
in the front ranks at the rally. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The
older guard handed back the documents together with a smile. “You’re with the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">SS-Standarte. </i>Congratulations. Is my old
schoolfriend Dieter Schmidt still creating mischief there?”<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A
trap. Tipping his head slightly to one side, Müller said: “There’s no Dieter
Schmidt in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">SS-Standarte.” </i>He met
the guard’s gaze. “Perhaps he left before I joined.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Perhaps.
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heil Hitler</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Touching
his heels together with a casual click, Müller turned away. A calculated guess
and the white card allowed him to edge down the busy main aisle to reach the apron
of the stage just as the event host, Reich Minister of Propaganda Joseph
Goebbels, crossed to the podium. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Standing
with a handful of fellow officers, Müller looked up towards Goebbels’ pale face
and prepared to wait out the introductory speech. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Finally,
the Führer appeared. A wave of noise from the audience’s roar washed over Müller.
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sieg Heil!”</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Perspiration
ran down both sides of his body. Wiping his right palm on his jacket, he drew
in two breaths, pulled the Luger from its holster, aimed and began pulling the
trigger. He lost count of the number of times. Possibly three, no more. A blow from
the right knocked his pistol aside, the following punches sent him to the
floor. The rage was animalistic. Boots flailed, spittle showered down. Then he
felt himself being dragged away, his heels gouging parallel tracks in the
floorboards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Lashed
to an ornate, upright chair – a stage prop, Müller decided, even through the
pain – he kept his head back to try to stop the bleeding from his nose. His
right eye was partly closed, puffy, pummelled red. Around the room, silent men watched, waited.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Goebbels
entered. Thin, neat, supremely confident, he looked at the men. “Get out.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">No-one
moved. “Are you disobeying orders?” Goebbels asked, his voice soft. Within
seconds, he and Müller were alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Goebbels
held his face close to Müller’s: “Do you know of H. L. Mencken?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“The
American writer?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“I’ll
forgive him his nationality for this one quote: ‘The whole aim of practical
politics is to keep the populace alarmed, and hence clamorous to be led to
safety, by menacing it with an endless series of hobgoblins, all of them
imaginary.’”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Like
you and me, Reich Minister.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Precisely.
And I must congratulate you. Extraordinary shooting. But what else could I
expect from the marksman hero of Passchendaele, even if we lost that battle?
Indeed, if your aim had been two centimetres to the left today, we would have
lost the Führer too. All Germany rejoices that he was unharmed.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Müller
felt a cigarette being pushed between his lips. A lighter flicked. Hands still
tied, he tried to draw in the smoke.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Goebbels
sounded almost apologetic. “Obviously I can’t untie you … yet. The crowd now needs
to see my men load you into a car. The message will be clear: a piano wire noose
awaits any traitor.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Müller
opened his mouth, the cigarette falling to the floor. “When can I see my family?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Let’s
see. How many times have you created such wonderful assassin disguises? Three?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“This
was the fourth.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“A
threatened nation is an obedient nation, so I think one more attempt on the Führer’s
life this year should be sufficient.” There was a moment before a cold smile
appeared. “You can visit your family before that date.” Another pause. “To
encourage you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Müller
could feel the blood drying in his nostrils. Painfully, he closed both eyes,
picturing his wife and two sons. Goebbels had allowed him to see them once in the
last three years. The coming meeting would be different. In Müller’s apartment,
sown into the lining of his mattress, he had hidden fresh papers, beautifully
forged. His contact who created so many fake identification and travel papers in
the past had succumbed to that most elemental of emotions – greed. Finally, Müller’s
family would escape Germany. He would stay. At the next rally, the bullets
would fly two</span> centimetres<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">
to the left.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="text-align: right;">Copyright 2019 GREG FLYNN</span></span></div>
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<br />Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612358725492373701.post-41498745093488605612018-05-01T13:21:00.000+10:002018-05-31T09:13:51.389+10:00The Cremorne Falcon*<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimUa176VU0qQNsyatXt8zFyQl3Rw3wbxFM5VZo3VpmZWW2APTdMPCui3tYP2llw3maTTqAKNuab9lJjI0Zj8wj0md7dSk7Sv-ZGhJJDEEME123TCVKaGJCnEQe5-DgKFooyZMcJ9fYrKI/s1600/cinema2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="472" data-original-width="630" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimUa176VU0qQNsyatXt8zFyQl3Rw3wbxFM5VZo3VpmZWW2APTdMPCui3tYP2llw3maTTqAKNuab9lJjI0Zj8wj0md7dSk7Sv-ZGhJJDEEME123TCVKaGJCnEQe5-DgKFooyZMcJ9fYrKI/s200/cinema2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The romance had gone out of his life. Not, of course, the
rumpy-pumpy, at-it-like-rabbits style of romance. Oh, no. That he could always
get, although hopefully without having to pay for it next time. Lifting his
chins slightly, Lester smiled at his reflection in the thick glass window alongside
the digital film projector. Chicks dig guys in the entertainment industry. Prime
example: the woman who stacked zucchinis so provocatively at the Big Bear
supermarket. He could tell she was gagging for it by the way she became slightly
nervous when he pushed his shopping trolley purposefully down her aisle. But,
frankly, women could wait, he had other priorities. Rubbing his tummy in a
circular motion, he stifled a belch. Priorities like dessert. Plucking a
choc-top from the small freezer at the rear of the projection room, he pivoted,
took aim and kicked a Digital Cinema Package carrying case across the floor. Limping
forward, he checked his watch. It was time to plug the DCP’s hard drive containing
tonight’s film into the server. That’s where the romance had gone, into a damn
server. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When the cinema’s management recently mothballed his cherished
movie projectors, he was told digital was the future. Really? Gone was the
almost erotic rhythm of his work: spooling out the end of a 35mm film, lacing it
onto sprockets, checking the magazines were firmly in place. Now he was a mouse
clicker. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Through the projection room’s soundproof window, he could see
dark shapes in the cinema seats, jostling with buckets of popcorn, syrupy carbonated
drinks and mobile phones. Few seemed to be watching the movie. Philistines. Although
to be fair on the original Philistines, they may have warred with the
Israelites but they never had to sit through a Russell Crowe movie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">All that collective restlessness in the theatre was distracting.
Once again, the audience needed to be taught a sharp, pungent lesson.
Collecting sachets of Movicol laxative from his locker, Lester crept down the gloomy
cinema’s carpeted steps, pausing to sprinkle powder into drink containers.
Despite a stab of regret for the extra overnight work for the cinema’s toilet
cleaners, he pressed on. Sprinkle, sprinkle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">At the rear of the theatre, he watched, waited. Within 20
minutes, the laxative had managed to clear out, if that’s the term, at least a
dozen misbehaving patrons. Those remaining continued to crunch, slurp and text.
Bugger. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Then he saw two silhouettes in the back row. The men – one
bulky, the other petite – appeared to be
playing pass-the-parcel, shunting a paper-wrapped object backwards and forwards
between themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Take it,” Lester heard the little man hiss. “It’s cursed.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Nonsense,” said his companion, settling back in his chair. “It’ll
be over soon, I hope.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The smaller man gripped the parcel. “What? The fear and
loathing engendered by this Medieval figure of a bird?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“No, this ghastly Crowe epic.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">On cue, the end titles appeared on the screen. For a man with
a fuller figure, the larger of the two was nimble. Leaping to his feet and
sending a shower of popcorn onto the couple in front, he headed for the door.
The other man followed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Lester, no stranger to Film Noir, recognised trouble when he
saw it, and he liked what he saw. He had a lot in common with his idol Humphrey
Bogart, screen detective, <i>laydees</i>
man, brawler. Both were 5’ 8” and blessed with panther-like grace, although Lester
grudgingly admitted Bogart was unlikely to have also worn Hush Puppies. He
breathed deeply. Cometh the hour, cometh the man: Lester Tebbutt, Private
Investigator. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">He trailed the nattily-dressed men until they reached the cinema
toilets. In the corridor outside, a long line of pale-faced patrons stepped
gingerly from one foot to the other. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“We need to get in,” the little man whined. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Barely acknowledging obscenities from those in the queue, his
companion took the smaller man’s elbow, steering him towards the main exit. “Too
late, Mr Cairo. The rendezvous with the mystery buyer in the end cubicle must be
abandoned. Perhaps another night. Come, join me at my apartment. I’ll fix us a
drink.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Lester kept pace as the pair trekked down the Boulevard of
Broken Dreams – aka Military Road, Cremorne. In a side street, the two men entered
an Art Deco apartment block. Moments later, Lester’s toe cap shot out, stopping
the front door shutting. In the lobby, he heard the big man’s deep, fruity
voice behind him. “Don’t be a stranger. Join us.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Warily, Lester stepped into a sumptuously decorated, ground
floor apartment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“I’m Kasper Gutman,” said his host. “This is my business
associate, Joel Cairo. And you are obviously the secretive buyer of The Maltese
Falcon. I admire the way you’ve coped with the overcrowded loo issue.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">They stood in an awkward semi-circle, with Cairo stroking a bird
of prey statuette encrusted with jewels from beak to claw. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As Gutman poured a large whisky, Lester stared speechless at
the glass. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Better and better,” said Gutman. “I distrust a man who says
‘when’. If he's got to be careful not to drink too much, it's because he's not
to be trusted when he does. And now to business, do you have the agreed amount
for this Maltese treasure created for the Knights Templar?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The whisky burnt Lester’s throat. He was more of an Aperol
Spritz kinda guy. He was about to say: “There appears to have been some sort of
misunderstanding …” when he noticed
Cairo was cleaning his fingernails with the tip of a switchblade knife.
“Potentially,” Lester said instead. “First, could you remind me of the price?” In
his wallet, he had $15 and an Opal card. It might be enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Drink in hand, Gutman suddenly lent into Lester’s face: “Five
million Euros.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">What was the Euro exchange rate? Lester asked himself. He
needed time to Google the answer. Stall, stall. He beckoned for Cairo to give
him the bird. It felt lighter than he imagined. The facets of each jewel
reflected the overhead chandelier. Lester recognised quality: “A masterpiece.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Gutman reached for the artefact. The big man’s sweaty finger
tips touched it for only a second before it slipped, shattering on the floor. A
dozen cracked paste jewels popped free from the plaster of Paris model.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“A fake!” the trio chorused. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“We’ve been swindled,” added Cairo. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sighing, Gutman refreshed Lester’s glass. “It appears we
won’t be taking your five million Euros tonight. Please, have a seat. I’ve a
proposition. You strike me as a man of the world. Someone who can handle
himself in dangerous situations. Come with us to Malta to track down the real
falcon and the scoundrel who switched it for that fake. Adventure awaits.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Tilting his head back, Lester finished his whisky. “Count me
in,” he rasped.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Gutman smiled approvingly. “Excellent. And now, if you don’t
mind me asking, where did you buy those elegant shoes - Milan or Madrid?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Grace Brothers Chatswood,” replied Lester, glancing down. Perhaps
Bogart did wear them after all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: 8pt;">* The copyright infringements are, yet again, too numerous to list ... nevertheless ... </span><span style="text-align: right;">Copyright 2018 GREG FLYNN</span></span></div>
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<br />Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612358725492373701.post-17692014730234663532018-02-14T14:59:00.000+11:002018-02-14T15:52:37.864+11:00Have Gun, Will Travel *<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx7tKWDzKpJvsY26cGW4EmUdENGKt6aoN6zrvbqDQsEKeZ-Rs8_iUysUX3VCIeVhTmuDCEWiLlJlgFGgeYK-vivMCZl_ZAYYUKaYMa_iN5a4Ge0dXnp5i8zNoNOd9u60FvWthmnuF_TKM/s1600/The+Road.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx7tKWDzKpJvsY26cGW4EmUdENGKt6aoN6zrvbqDQsEKeZ-Rs8_iUysUX3VCIeVhTmuDCEWiLlJlgFGgeYK-vivMCZl_ZAYYUKaYMa_iN5a4Ge0dXnp5i8zNoNOd9u60FvWthmnuF_TKM/s200/The+Road.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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Her eyes would make your fillings
melt. That’s if you’re the sort of shallow man who’s attracted to rather
obvious sexuality. I went to the window, opened it and let the summer breeze in.
It smelt of petrol fumes and street urine.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Running a finger around the
inside of my collar, I said it was good to see her again. She cut me off with a
“Don’t lie”. There it was – that regal poise. Nothing had rattled her either in
Urozgan Province where she’d screwed me over, and not in a nice way. My very
own Queen of Hearts. Now we were sitting in a pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake position
in my stuffy Kings Cross office. She crossed her legs and the room temperature
went up five degrees. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The Queen leant forward. “We were
casting around for a shambolic, high functioning alcoholic with few scruples
and less dollars. We immediately thought of you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“If I were you, I’d ask for a
refund on that Diplomacy for Dummies course.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
A small shrug. “Interested,
Paladin?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Since you put it so nicely, tell
me more.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“We’d like you to find someone.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“You don’t need me for that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“And kill her.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Even in Sydney, murder’s against
the law.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“You’re in luck. She’s not here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The aircraft touched down with a
perfect three-point landing. The Atlas Mountains were in the distance, Marrakesh
airport terminal sat in the foreground. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
In an open air car park, a knavish
character in a black suit only slightly less dusty than his SUV watched me lift
my bag onto the rear seat. I returned the stare. “Aren’t you meant to say
‘Welcome to Marrakesh, Mr Paladin.’?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sliding into the driver’s seat,
he started the engine and hit the accelerator before my door closed. Twenty
silent minutes later, the vehicle jolted to a standstill at the mouth of an
alley leading from Jemaa el-Fnaa market to a cluster of trinket stalls. The
departing wheels showered gravel over my shoes.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You should’ve been on time,”
said a nervous voice behind me.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“We took the pretty route,” I
said, turning. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
He was standing with the sun’s
glare over his shoulder. I could only make out a smallish shape clad in a white
linen djellaba. The sunlight made the cloth semi-transparent. Not the sort of outfit
to go commando in. Beckoning me to follow, he led me between the stalls. “Oh
dear, I shall be too late,” he said, looking at a large gold fob watch, his
nose twitching. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
At a door marked “Sortie”, he
tapped twice. Indoors was cool and gloomy. A dark shape frisked me before
taking over as guide. We reached an inner courtyard and, suddenly, the Queen of
Hearts was back in my life. I’d swopped my Macleay Street office for a Marrakesh
riad – and she was still holding court. The pale, rabbity little man from the
alley stood off to one side offering us tea, no, coffee, no, rosé. Why not?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
We didn’t clink glasses. Instead
she raised her’s, smiled and said: “Off with her head.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Sounds messy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
She assured me she wasn’t being
literal. I didn’t believe her then nor during the briefing: go into the High
Atlas, avoid antagonising the local Berbers, kill a Russian double agent and
bring back proof-of-death. The agent had defected in Canberra, worked on the
Queen’s team on nanotechnology – code for implanting tracking devices in
unsuspecting humans – then two years later, she vanished. The Queen handed me
GPS coordinates and a set of keys. “Try to look French and trustworthy,” she
said to my back as the dark shape led me from the courtyard. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
In Jemaa el-Fnaa, an ageing Toyota
wagon with a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Médecins Sans Frontières </i>logo
on the driver’s door stood waiting. By dusk, the boxes of medical supplies in
the rear were bouncing in time with the potholes. Off to the left, a roadside
fire threw shadows on a tent. At the tent flap, a turbaned figure in a flowing
robe waved a mobile phone. It flashed three times. Stopping, I unloaded two
boxes, staggered under their weight and called out: “I saw the code.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The man’s mischievous feline grin
came and went. “Actually, I was just trying to get a signal.” His accent placed
him 18,000 kilometres away. “Name’s Chester. I’d give you a hand, mate, but my
back’s buggered.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The inside of the tent smelt of warm
goat’s milk. I bent over to drop the boxes. Something hard pressed into my
spine. I hoped it was a gun barrel. After yet another frisk, we sat with a
small fire between us. “We leave at midnight,” Chester said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“On camels?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Do I look like a tourist? No,
we’re taking your vehicle.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The bright moonlight made the
mountain road less grim, almost magical. Under blankets on the back floor lay
assorted weaponry and two Iridium satellite phones. It’d taken us several hours
to assemble the kit hidden amongst the medical supplies. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Dawn did little to warm the air. I
straightened a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Médecins Sans Frontière-</i>branded
jacket. “Am I a plausible doctor?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“At a stretch: an implausible nurse.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I left him with a satellite
phone, binoculars and a sniper rifle on a hilltop above a Berber village. Hammering
down the road between clay and stone houses, the Toyota’s wheels threw up a long
dust cloud.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The village’s small clinic looked
cool and calm, as did the woman standing on its front steps. Mid-thirties,
blonde, tall, Dr Alice Alistratov matched her photo. Two men in lab coats
helped me carry medical supplies into the building, then left us alone with
cups of coffee. I drank mine in two gulps.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Dr Alice sipped at hers. “My
sources say you’ve come to kill me, Mr Paladin.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“’Kill’ has such a finite ring to
it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
She hung a stethoscope around her
neck. “If I’m a double agent, what am I doing openly running a healthcare
centre?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
That was a question I‘d already
thought of. In the background, I could hear the clinic opening. I followed her into
a spartan waiting room, trying to look vaguely medical. The patients didn’t appear
convinced. I gestured for Dr Alice to step into an examination booth. “You have
one minute,” I told her. Dr Alice wouldn’t be hurried. She explained she’d defected
to help humanity. Instead she’d found herself in the Queen’s private wonderland.
Hadn’t I ever wanted to do good? she asked. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The sun was directly overhead as
I drove up to Chester’s position. Ragged locks of bloodied blonde hair with strips
of scalp were stuffed into my trouser pocket. In the village behind me, a siren
went off. The Toyota’s dust cloud grew bigger. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Back in the riad’s courtyard, the
Queen studied the trophy scalp before flipping it to the rabbity man. Run a DNA
check, she ordered.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The rosé she handed me tasted
metallic, like blood. It came with a question: had I said anything to Dr Alice
before I killed her?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
In fact, the last words I’d said
as I helped bandage the doctor’s head were: “Find another rabbit hole to go
down.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I looked into the Queen’s dark eyes.
“No, Ma’am.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
# # #</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt;">* The
copyright infringements are too numerous to list ... nevertheless ... </span><span style="text-align: right;">Copyright 2018 GREG FLYNN</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br />Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5612358725492373701.post-69867963672730248382017-10-29T18:16:00.002+11:002017-11-05T17:19:22.808+11:00The Curse of The Green Fairy<i style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">A Play in One Act </span></i><i style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">(with
apologies to Agatha Christie)</span></i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5zYdTiX4k7YrFVFcPej-9z-UT0zqV5eF3IFLdcBs8ysKvGFMRbtCgBQgNG0AjliPTRFckx54YQFRH_aS-tKh-1PxyhacIZjIj1n77YeKqFaC51ol2X-t1SREDXkkrWjuxEItBKdtvNwA/s1600/Killara_Nude.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="896" data-original-width="722" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5zYdTiX4k7YrFVFcPej-9z-UT0zqV5eF3IFLdcBs8ysKvGFMRbtCgBQgNG0AjliPTRFckx54YQFRH_aS-tKh-1PxyhacIZjIj1n77YeKqFaC51ol2X-t1SREDXkkrWjuxEItBKdtvNwA/s200/Killara_Nude.jpg" width="160" /></a></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; tab-stops: 7.0cm;">
<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 8.0pt;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">CAST<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">HERCULE
POIROT – a famous Belgian detective<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">LORD
RAGLAN – a bully<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">LADY
RAGLAN – a snob<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">DICKIE
TODD – a bounder<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">DUCHESS
OF BASKERVILLE – a wealthy widow <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">JAMES THE
BUTLER – a servant<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">ACT I<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">SCENE 1<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The dining room of a grand castle in the Home
Counties. The décor is early 1930s. LORD and LADY RAGLAN, DICKIE TODD and THE
DUCHESS are seated at a dining table dressed in tuxedos (the men that is, not
the table nor the women) while the ladies wear ravishing gowns. They have just
finished their candle-lit dinner.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">LORD R (<i>Reaches
for a bottle on the table</i>.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Snifter
of vintage absinthe, anyone? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">LADY R Not after last time, darling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-indent: -72.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">LORD R You’re such a bore, dahhhhling. Right-o, let’s be
responsible. I’ll ring for James to bring some coke.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-indent: -72.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">(LORD R rings a bell. Enter immediately: </span></i><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">JAMES THE
BUTLER.)</span></i><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">LORD R Lazy blighter. What took you so long?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-indent: -72.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">BUTLER Begging your pardon, me Lord, but some jumped-up
little Froggy busybody by the name of Hercules Poy-rot is here to see you. He
insists … <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">(Enter Poirot, brushing past the butler.)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-indent: -72.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">POIROT Premièrement, I am Belgian and, deuxièmement,
it is pronounced er-KYOOL pwa-ROH.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">DICKIE By Jove! You’re the famous detective!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-indent: -72.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">POIROT Précisément. And you are Dickie Todd, the
Wimbledon tennis champion and ladies’ man.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">DICKIE I say, Poirot, that’s a rum
accusation!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-indent: -72.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">POIROT Merely an observation. I noticed the washing
instructions tag of the Duchess’s silk lingerie protruding above your belt. You
and she obviously dressed in a hurry after your pre-dinner assignation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-indent: -72.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">DICKIE (<i>Glancing
down.)</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I thought this
underwear was a tad tight in the family jewels department.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">DUCHESS Look here, you ghastly little Bulgarian!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">POIROT Belgian. And, as you British say: keep
your knickers on. Or, in your case, Duchess, perhaps not. Your affair with
Monsieur Todd is hardly a secret. Even your late husband knew of it when he
hired me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">DUCHESS Tommy rot! He’d never hire a fruity foreigner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">POIROT He feared for his life, correctly as it
turned out. He was stabbed, beaten, garrotted, poisoned and shot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">LORD R Dash it, man. It could’ve been suicide.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">POIROT <i> (Tap side of forehead with forefinger)</i> My little grey cells say: “Non.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">(POIROT strolls to a large painting on the wall: a naked
woman standing on a sunlit terrace is painted demurely from the rear.)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">POIROT Ah, Lady Raglan, I would recognise you </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> anywhere.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">LADY R Flattery will …<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">POIROT I was referring to the fact you were
painted on the terrace of your pied-à-terre in Antibes where you regularly met
the Duke of Baskerville for a bit of, how you say, humpty dumpty.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">DICKIE Speak English: it’s “rumpy pumpy”. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">POIROT And who better to correct me? A man who
has not only slept, if that is the euphemism, with the Duchess but also with
Lady Raglan …<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">BUTLER (<i>Clears
throat.)</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Ahem …<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">POIROT And, bien sûr, with the butler. The
butler who, as Lady Raglan discovered, was also a paramour of the Duke of
Baskerville.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">LORD R (<i>Glares
at LADY RAGLAN.)</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Both James and you were bonking
Baskerville? I’d expect it of a manservant and now you can’t be trusted either!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">POIROT A family trait, non, Lord Raglan? It
was you </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> who convinced my client …<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">DICKIE Who was your client, again? I’m
getting a bit lost.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">POIROT The Duke of Baskerville – Lord Raglan’s
business partner in a South African gold mine. Just last month, Lord Raglan
convinced the Duke to sign an agreement that, if one of them died, the other
would take full control of the mine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">LADY R (<i>Looks
at her watch.)<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Time’s up, Poy-rot. James,
show him the door. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">POIROT (<i>Holds
up a finger.)<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Une minute. First I
must summarise, then name the culprit<i>.</i>
<i>(Pause)</i> Who had a motive? Everyone. Lord
Raglan was greedy, Lady Raglan was humiliated by her lover the Duke’s affair
with her butler, and the Duchess wanted her husband out of the way so she could
marry Dickie. Dickie simply wanted the Duchess’s money. Meanwhile, the butler
knew that the Duke had left him a generous endowment in a will. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">LORD R If we all had a motive. Who was the
murderer?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">POIROT All of you. It was on a night such as
tonight. With one exception. There was a fifth guest: the Duke of Baskerville. You
gathered. You ate. You argued. You drank absinthe – the pre-War variety made
with hallucinogenic wormwood. A drink that, justement, has been banned for more
than 15 years! Even the butler had a swig while carrying it up from the cellar.
Driven momentarily mad by The Green Fairy as it was known, you killed the Duke
as a group. You will all hang for the crime.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">DUCHESS Personally, I’m not a great fan of capital
punishment. So, you can wipe that smug smile off your Balkan …<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">POIROT Belgian.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">DUCHESS … face. If we’re all guilty, that means you
are alone in this castle with cold blooded killers – and that’s not just because of
the lack of decent heating.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">POIROT Planning is everything. The castle is
surrounded by police. I only have to blow on a whistle to summon them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">(POIROT pats his pockets. He can’t find the whistle.)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">BUTLER (<i>Clears
throat. Holds up whistle.)</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Ahem … I believe you
dropped this when you brushed past me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">(The butler steps towards Poirot. The other characters menacingly
push back their chairs.)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">POIROT Mon Dieu, I perceive a petit flaw in my </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> planning. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><b style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">CURTAIN FALLS</span></b></div>
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<b style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></b></div>
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Copyright 2017 GREG FLYNN</div>
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Greg Flynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627085565836486408noreply@blogger.com0