Mr Hewlow’s Holiday

On the bright side, there was a bright side to the Bord de Mer 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.

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. 

A neatly-typed sign on the front door read: “No vacancies. Do not disturb.” 

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?”

“Actually it’s 7.20,” Hewlow called back, “and I have a reservation.” 

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 It’s Fun in the Sun in Brudley marketing campaign.

The front door swung wide. “Welcome to Bord de Mer,” 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. 

“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. 

“Bord de Mer,” she repeated. “Geddit?”

“French for seaside and a play on words on a place that offers board.”

Mrs Conkwell drew her hand slowly out of her pocket. He’d passed Test #2. 

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.”

“I grew up in Sevenoaks,” he lied, and he knew she knew it.

 

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 Bord de Mer. The place was certainly bugged.

As he entered the dining room at 8.32, three faces at the table lifted.

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.

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.”

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. 

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.”

“Well that takes the fun out of it,” said Cleo. “We were hoping you’d be interesting.”

“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. 

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?”

“He’s busy.”

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 The Ipcress File at the Gaumont Cinema. Mother hopes you might learn something. You’ll be back here in time for tea and an early night.”

“I love a Michael Caine flick,” said Cleo. She leant towards Hewlow as he forked rice. “Has anyone ever said you look like …?”

He shook his head to save lying again.

 

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 Bord de Mer a half-mile off. A figure in a dark coat and hat was taking the front steps two at a time. In seconds the person was inside.

Cleo ran the tip of her tongue over the ice cream. “I don’t trust those three.”

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.”

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.

“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.”

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.”

“Oh, really, Sherlock?” sniffed Pennock. “And do you suggest we call the cops?”

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.

Norton touched his scar. “Mother won’t be happy.”

“He’s not paid to be happy,” said Hewlow.

“Neither was Mrs C,” added Cleo. “Shame. I was so looking forward to Rolly’s poetry recital.”

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.

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.

He didn’t hesitate. “Of course. I prodded Rolly’s shopping bag open and saw ...”

“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?”

Hewlow handed her another plate. “I’m on holiday.”

# # #

Copyright 2022 GREG FLYNN

Coldfinger *

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.

“Top(ish) Secret,” it read, and so did M, out loud. “Do you think the North African Desk is trying to be cute, Bond?”

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.”

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.

A glance at the clock on the wall behind Bond’s head told M that his 7^th 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.”

“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.”

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.”

Geography wasn’t Bond’s strong suit but it didn’t sound like an Alpine lodge in Gstaad.

“Marrakesh,” explained M.

“Ah,” said Bond, regaining his confidence, “near Minsk.”

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.

“How dare they? Dates give me wind.”

“It’s the guns we're after.”

“Of course,” said Bond, trying to keep up with the giddy whirl of instructions and place names.

“Oh, and one more thing,” said M. “Hands off Miss Moneypenny, at least until she’s booked your flights.”

“Roger that.”

“Yes,” said M, tapping the Mac Baren embers into a glass ashtray, “that’s what I’m afraid of.”

 

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.

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.

Through the runway’s shimmering heat, he made out a slight figure in a white cotton robe striding towards him, hand held out.

“Welcome to Marrakesh, Mr Bond. I’m Omar Sharif, your driver from the British Honorary Consulate.”

“Sawasdee khap, Sharif.” All these international assignments had taught Bond the advantage of conversing fluently with Johnny Foreigner.

“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.

“Careful there, lad. It’s heavy. I’ve got half of Q’s arsenal stitched into the lining. And you’ll ruin your frock.”

“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!”

 

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.

“Damn’d unusual looking churches, eh, Sharif?”

“Actually, they’re …”

“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."

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. 

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.

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. Adonis Van Graan, a carefully sculptured greying beard graced his chin; eyes as dark as sin sat either side of a patrician nasal bridge. Dickie Brand, his shaven head, black T- shirt fitted over another black T-shirt, and signature dyspeptic grimace had prompted his nom de guerre – 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.”

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.

Lips atremble, face bright, the Riad El Fenn’s receptionist peered up at the tall, dashing guest.

“Don’t look so needy, my dear,” said Bond. “Frankly I’d never get any assignments finished if I bonked every eager beaver.”

“I was going to say you have a piece of mint leaf stuck between your teeth.”

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.

“How’d you …?” Bond started.

“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 …?

“The Transvaal Cabal, so called because you four come from Cabal.”

Van Graan was on his feet, tattooed knuckles raised. “South Africa!”

Bond appeared confused. “Sawth a·fruh·kuh? Never heard of it, old chap. Anywhere near Minsk?”

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.”

“Fast cars and Chinese food!” Bond paused. “Or perhaps it’s Chinese cars and fast food. Either way, do you expect me to talk?”

“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 …”

Through the door burst Sharif, hot-heeled by a squad of Sûreté Nationale police, blowing whistles and pointing weapons.

Bond frowned. “I hope you’re not going to be a bore about this, Sharif. Duffy over here was just making an interesting offer.”

# # #

* Yes, yes, I know – copyright. But I’ll have a chat with Ian Fleming later in Heaven.

Copyright 2021 GREG FLYNN

The Hotel Dick

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.

Halfway down the corridor on the 5^th 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.

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.

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.

Keen peered down. “From experience, I’d say it’s murder. Who’s the vic?”

“Harry McVie. ‘Happy Harry’ to his friends and enemies.”

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 – zero friends.” Annie took another pull on her cigarette. The dog gave a yap, struggling to be free.

Keen looked me. “You’re the House Dick. Who do you like for it, Kent?”

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.”

Lifting his left hand and squinting at his wristwatch, Keen sighed. “Sounds time consuming.”

“Murder is so inconvenient,” I said. “We’ll start with Harry’s business – drugs. Marijuana, cocaine and amphetamines, mainly.”

Keen’s eyes came back into focus. “And you didn’t tip us off?”

“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 …”

“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.

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.

Keen lobbed his now smokeless cigar butt into the toilet’s off-grey water. “Vanessa the Vamp? Is that her real handle?”

Annie and I exchanged a wide-eyed glance. “We take people at their word,” I said.

“I get the Fuller Brush guy’s connection, but the Major?” asked Keen.

“He served in India and Nepal, and that looks like a Gurkha’s kukri knife.”

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.

Triumphant, Keen straightened up and read from the page: “’From the window that opened onto the roof-top sun deck a roscoe sneezed: Ka-Chow! Chowpf! and a red-hot hornet creased its stinger across my dome; bashed me to dreamland.’"

It was my turn to straighten.

Keen was smirking. “Well, well, is that the work Mr Chandler, Mr Hammett or …” he paused “… Mr Kent?”

“Why don’t we have some refreshments in the office?” I suggested.

Keen was squeezing past me and heading for the door before I finished the sentence.

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 Murder on the Orient Express. 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.

Putting her dog down gently, Annie drew on another smoke. “I could do with a stiff one.”

Neither Keen nor I bit. I found a glass for her.

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.

“So, I’m now in the frame just like Vanessa, the Major and O'Riordan. Convenient.”

“Very,” agreed Keen, pouring an extra finger of bourbon atop the first.

“From experience …” I began, echoing the Lieutenant, “… I smell a rat.”

Tilting her head back, Annie swallowed her drink. “You’re in the right place for that.”

“I mentioned ‘frame’ and that’s what I’ve been – as have the other three.”

Keen shook his head. “Unless you four bumped off Harry to heist his dope.”

“I’d have hoped a New York cop would’ve been more trusting.”

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.”

“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.”

“You,” cut in Annie.

“Actually, I was thinking of …”

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.

Keen finished his bourbon in a gulp.

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.

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.

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”.

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. 

I could forgive Annie for icing a dealer and trying to frame me but screwing up my masterpiece? Never.

# # #

Copyright 2021 GREG FLYNN

Adventures on the Small Screen*

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.

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 Adventures in the Screen Trade tied together by string, I stepped off an Ansett flight from Perth and spent half my savings on a taxi to Kings Cross.

Cracking open my hostel room’s sash window, I peered down into an alley to admire colourful locals thoughtfully sharing a hypodermic needle.

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.

“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.”

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, Madame Fifi’s Palais de Hop lay just around the corner.   

That evening I stood outside Fifi’s. Hey Big Spender 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, here you can duck off!” Two thoughts: should I get my hearing checked and would the stitching hold?

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.

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.

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.

Light from an outdoor neon sign, reflecting in the room’s mirror, spelled out a-l-o-C – a-c-o-C. Smiling at the thought of my first scriptwriting meeting the following day, I drifted into a sleep only occasionally broken by screams and sirens.

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.

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.

A door bounced open. A tall cove in a paisley shirt, tight trousers and a tighter pout sniffed: “You’re late.”

“Actually I was on time but your receptionist has, literally, pissed off.”

“What? You were waiting to be formally announced? This isn’t a Jane Austen novel. Real scriptwriters walk right in.”

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?”

“Perth.”

“Same, same … the point is: journalists rarely cut it in showbiz. If you hadn’t schmoozed Al Bundy during that interview for The West Australian, banging on about your scripting talent, you’d still be sitting on some beach spitting out sand blown by the Fremantle Nurse.”

“The Fremantle Doctor. It …”

“On the bright side, you won’t be wasting my time for long. I assume you’ve watched Sons and Lovers.” 

“No need, I’m a big fan of D. H. Lawrence. His nuanced ...”

“Is he the drunk who wrote Number 96 and Skippy? No matter. Bundy’s Sons and Lovers 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?”

I screwed my baseball cap in my hands. “Wow, Clint, how can I ever thank you?”

“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.”

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 Fifi’s bar ordering a Reschs with a Reschs chaser.

“Have you seen Sons and Lovers?” I asked the barmaid.

“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.”

“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.”

“My tip: improve your chat-up lines,” she said, turning away.

 

The hands on my watch crawled towards midnight. A sheet of pristine paper was rolled into my portable Remington.

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.

The outline read:

FADE IN.

INT. CREEPY FARMHOUSE. DUSK.

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.

With two fingers, I began tapping:

ROXY

Screams.

 

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.”

“Well?” I asked.

“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 stat. We’re almost out of time.”

“So, you’re going to use it?”

“Yes,” he said, massaging his temples with his fingertips. Strangely, I seemed to hear another “duck”.

 

Weeks later, a watery local beer in hand, I watched in primetime as Mikey, Roxy, Chikka and Babe 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.

I never heard from Barber or Bundy again. The following month, a new, less-than-likeable character in Sons and Lovers was named after me. Fame of sorts. Then the series was cancelled.

* Based on a true story. Only the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

 # # #

Copyright 2020 GREG FLYNN

 

Give the Devil His Due

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.

A magazine advertisement initially lured me in: “How’d you like to sleep with strangers for money?”

 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.

 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.”

Was one of them Gonorrhea? I wondered.

 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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

Reaching for my belt buckle, I said: “Spoiler alert. I don’t kiss on the first date.”

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.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” I said.

“I’m missing seeing my $28 chorizo, corn and avocado salad again.” She gave another squint. “Name?”

“Lucifer O’Beelzebub. My friends call me ‘Lucky’.”

“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.

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.”

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’?”

“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.”

“The Colosseum? The one at Caesars Palace Las Vegas?”.

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.

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.

Round #2 questions included: “Can you take criticism?”

“I only respect the opinions of the people I respect.”

“We’ll put that down as a ‘No’,” said the woman.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.”

Turning, I gave the camera lens a 6,000 Lumens LED smile. “My friends call me …”

“Moving on,” interrupted Tab. “Luc, how’d you like to choose one of the lovely lady contestants for your First Night Date?”

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.

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 …”.”

“Wrong,” said Tab, peering at the teleprompter. “She’s Marilyn M. Come over here, sweetie.”

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.

“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?”

Alone except for a cameraman, soundman, assistant director, production runner and makeup artist, we settled on part of the set resembling a beach bar.

Apparently torn between fleeing for her life and staying in camerashot, she leant forward. “Is that a forked tongue?” 

“It’s very à la mode where I come from.”

In reality, I pictured a long, lonely night ahead. Nevertheless, I edged closer: “What do you model, Plaster of Paris?”

 # # #

Copyright 2020 GREG FLYNN

Dear John is Here to Help

DEAR JOHN: 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 Passioné 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?

-          Abby, Marrickville, NSW

DEAR ABBY: 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.'?

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?

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.

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.

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.

 # # #

 Copyright 2020 GREG FLYNN

The Customer

From: Glenn Gazman (glenn@sincerepr.com.au)

To: Reg Quilty (regq@danmulligans.com)

Sent: 21 July at 2:54 PM

Subject: My order

Dear Mr Quilty

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.

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 “Hey boet! I had a lekker day today!” deeply depressing.

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 discount then sleep on the outer edges of the bed.

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 entre nous 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?”

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.

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.

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?

Let me know how it goes.

Best regards

Glenn Gazman

--------------------

From: Reg Quilty (regq@danmulligans.com)

To: Glenn Gazman (glenn@sincerepr.com.au)

Sent: 22 July at 8:01 AM

Subject: re: My order

Dear Mr Gazman

Now there’s a coincidence. I was scheduled to write to you about your account.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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 … haemorrhoids. We’re having an office sweep on a range of suggestions, but the smart money is piling in on the original conclusion.

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.

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.

Cheers

Reg

 # # #

 Copyright 2020 GREG FLYNN