How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery (21 page)

CHAPTER 17

Wednesday night loomed ahead of him like a shadow of doom – the closer it got, the larger the shadow. On Tuesday night he phoned Frank, as instructed.

‘All systems go,’ Frank said. ‘Meet Bomber in the car park at six forty-five. Park a couple of streets away and walk there. Afterwards, don’t contact me, wait for me to call you. Understood?’

‘Right.’

On Wednesday morning as he dressed he decided on his plan of action. He’d come home after work, shower and change, leave Carlene a note and go before she arrived home. He racked his brains for a reason to be home late. If only he had some friends he could rely on to provide him with an alibi. But there was only Derek, who, apart from the fact that he was still in jail, was too crazy and unpredictable to be a friend. He’d have to fall back on good old Finn again. It was pathetic – he had one friend in the whole world, and he was imaginary.

At the cafe, he cut himself twice; blood leaking on to the chopping board. He didn’t hear the deep fryer alarm go off and a basket of chips burnt to a pile of charred remains. For once, Joe seemed to run out of insults. He made a gesture of tearing out his hair and strode out of the kitchen.

‘What’s the matter with you today?’ Nina said. ‘You seem a bit jumpy.’

Reuben shrugged. ‘I didn’t get much sleep last night.’

She raised an eyebrow. Implicit in the gesture were all the erotic possibilities behind his lack of sleep. Reuben said nothing – let her think he didn’t sleep well because he was shagging himself senseless.

At five-thirty, he was at Hungry Jack’s having an early dinner to kill time. After two bites of a double beef ‘n’ bacon burger on top of an already churning stomach, he was close to throwing up. He threw the rest in the bin and forced down half a cup of weak coffee. At six-fifteen, he left the restaurant and arrived at the Commonwealth Bank building in Chermside at six-thirty. It was an easy ride as most of the peak hour traffic had abated. He parked the Barbiemobile a block away in a side street and strolled back to the car park.

He pulled the collar of his jacket up against the crisp night air. Not wanting to be seen loitering in the area, he crossed the side road to a small block of shops and pretended to be browsing in the window of a second-hand bookshop. He arrived back at the car park at six forty-five, just as a ute rumbled in. Under the entrance light, the words ‘Breakdown Bob’ painted on the side – in large red letters – were visible.

The car park was half full. Reuben approached the ute as it nosed into a space on the far side. Underneath ‘Breakdown Bob’ were inscribed in smaller letters ‘24 hour service’, and a mobile number after it.

A figure in dark overalls and a peaked cap got out.

‘G’day,’ Bomber said. ‘Where’s the car?’

‘It doesn’t appear to be here.’

A horrible thought struck Reuben. What if, by the wildest of coincidences, she actually did do pole dancing and her car was there after all?

Don’t be ridiculous, that wouldn’t happen even in the worst movie.

‘Doesn’t appear to be?’ Bomber said, mimicking Reuben. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

He took a brief stroll around the car park and returned. ‘No silver Mazda 2. Did you check the side streets?’

‘Why would she park further away when there are spare parks here?’

Bomber shrugged. ‘Fuck, I dunno. She’s a woman. Who knows why they do anything? Where’s the action?’

Reuben pointed to a lighted window at the top of the three-storey building, in which the tops of two poles were visible.

‘Should have brought me binoculars. How are you at shinning up the sides of buildings?’

‘Sorry, I left my Spider-Man costume at home.’

Bomber looked at his watch. His hair was pulled away from his face and tucked under his cap, accentuating his narrow features and receding chin. He reminded Reuben of a ferret. Ferrets looked harmless, but could bite you when you least expected it.

‘Maybe she needs to rest her fanny after all that slipping and sliding.’

‘Maybe,’ Reuben said.

‘We’ll give her till seven. C’mon.’

He opened the driver’s door of the ute and got in then leaned across and unlocked the passenger’s door. Reuben climbed in. The stuffing leaked out of the torn vinyl seats and the cabin smelt of stale tobacco and greasy food.

‘If anyone asks, I’m logging a job and you’re my offsider.’

He pulled a battered packet of tobacco and a packet of papers from his overalls pocket. ‘Want one?’

‘No, thanks.’

Bomber lit his neatly rolled cigarette and acrid smoke filled the cabin. Reuben coughed and wound the window down a little. The street lamps threw dim light over the car park. The lights of the main road and the whoosh of passing traffic were just a few metres away.

‘You’re a strange dude,’ Bomber said.

‘Why do you think that?’ Reuben asked, in what he hoped was a casual tone of voice.

‘For a start, I never met a crim who didn’t smoke.’

There was truth in that remark. In prison, Reuben had been part of a tiny minority of inmates who didn’t smoke. It gave him a certain amount of clout, though, as he bought his weekly ration of tobacco along with the rest of them, then sold it to the highest bidder for a handsome profit.

‘It’s the stress,’ Bomber said, ‘and all the sitting around and waiting.’

‘That’s for sure.’

Reuben flexed his fingers. ‘I bite my fingernails instead,’ he added, to reassure Bomber that he also suffered some occupational stress.

‘And you talk posh, like all them people where Frank lives. He thinks he’s one of them, but he’s kidding himself.’

‘You don’t like Frank?’

‘I’m only doing business with him, I don’t have to like him.’

He inhaled deeply, as if he couldn’t get enough smoke into his lungs, and exhaled in an explosive burst.

‘Don’t get me wrong I love the guy. Until this job is finished and he pays me then I’ll piss off out of his life forever, without so much as a Christmas card.’

He pointed to the window on the third floor. ‘Look.’

A blur of movement was visible in the lighted square; too far away to distinguish any details.

‘Fuck, I wish I’d brought me binoculars.’

Reuben scanned the cabin of the ute. ‘Where’s your gear?’

‘Secret compartment. And don’t ask where – that’s why it’s a secret.’

‘How many …’

Reuben was about to ask Bomber how many people he’d blown up in his career, but realised the question sounded nosy and naïve, and if Bomber took it the wrong way, judgmental. He didn’t want Bomber to think that he thought there was anything wrong with blowing people up.

‘Have you done many of these jobs?’

‘Enough to get by.’ He looked sideways at Reuben. ‘Why?’

Reuben shrugged. ‘Just wondered. It’s obviously a high-risk occupation. Must take a lot of guts.’

His tone held just the right combination of admiration and respect. Bomber sat up in his seat and all but puffed out his chest.

‘‘Kin oath. This’ll be my last one. Set me up nicely for my retirement.’

He rolled another cigarette. ‘Anyway, what’s your form? Frank told me he met you in the Big House.’

‘I was in for fraud.’

Bomber nodded knowingly. ‘That explains it then.’

‘Explains what?’

‘White-collar crime. Pen pushers don’t like to get their hands dirty. Think their shit don’t stink.’

Reuben opened his mouth to defend himself then stopped.
Don’t rock the boat;
who cares what he thinks?

Bomber looked at him and grinned. ‘Nearly gotcha, didn’t I? No names, no pack drill. I was just talking in a general sense.’

His watch beeped. He looked at it. ‘Seven bells. No sign of Loose-Lips Lucy, Frankie-baby won’t be happy.’

‘It’s hardly our fault Lucy didn’t turn up for her class,’ Reuben said. ‘Anything could have happened – she could be sick, or have something else on.’

‘Or she could be home showing hubby her moves.’

Bomber turned the key in the ignition. ‘I’m off then.’ The motor grumbled and rasped then died. After two more attempts, it shuddered into life.

Reuben opened the passenger door and jumped out. ‘Sounds like you need a breakdown service.’

Bomber grinned. ‘I’ll give you the pleasure of breaking the news to Frankie.’

I thought you were the one being paid the danger money
. Reuben watched the ute pull out onto the main road and disappear into the traffic. As he walked through the car park, he glanced up at the window. A long, bare leg entwined itself around the top of a pole then slid down out of view
. Thank
you
Lucy
,
for not
being a pole dancer.

He was only two blocks down Gympie Road, stopped at the lights, when a police car suddenly appeared behind him. Reuben’s throat went dry. In his rear view mirror, he saw the orange light flashing and the driver gesturing for him to pull over. The traffic lights changed and Reuben pulled over on the side of the road.
Keep calm,
they’ve got nothing on you, the worst thing you’ve done tonight is hang out with a
professional killer
. He took a deep breath to slow his racing heart.

The police car pulled up behind him. Two uniformed policemen got out and swaggered over. One was tall and brawny, the other short and pudgy; as if they’d stepped out of a B-grade cop comedy. Did they teach them that swagger at the police academy, make them strut up and down like models learning the catwalk?

Reuben took off his helmet. ‘Evening, officers.’

Neither answered. They looked at him then at the Barbiemobile and back at him.

‘This your vehicle?’ the taller one asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Impressive,’ the shorter officer said. He was chubby-cheeked and olive-skinned. As he was the closer of the two, Reuben could just read his name badge in the street light. Senior Constable Bonazzi. ‘Could I see your licence please?”

Reuben dug his wallet out of his jeans pocket, slipped out his driver’s licence and handed it over. SC Bonazzi studied it and gave Reuben a long, hard stare.

‘Reuben Littlejohn. You’re the guy who had the finance company racket.’

‘Yes.’

‘Done your time already?’

‘I’m on parole.’

‘Lucky you. Not so lucky for the poor buggers you swindled.’

He handed the licence to his colleague, who walked away with it in the direction of the police car.

‘Who did you con that one from?’ SC Bonazzi nodded towards the Barbiemobile. ‘Some rich old tart?’

‘I won it in a church raffle.’

‘Of course.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Seems like you didn’t learn much in prison.’

‘It’s the truth. You can check up if you want. Father Bryan from the New Light Mission.’

SC Bonazzi’s lip curled. ‘So you’ve found God? If I had a dollar for every time I’d heard that one I wouldn’t be standing here listening to your bullshit.’ He looked Reuben up and down. ‘Where are you off to?’

‘I’ve been visiting a friend, and I’m on my way home. To my wife.’

‘So I was right about the rich old tart.’

Reuben itched to punch the supercilious grin off his face. He drew in a deep breath. ‘If you’re going to stand here and insult me, I’ve got better things to do.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you have.’

The other policeman reappeared and handed Reuben back his licence. Reuben checked his name badge. Constable Andrews. ‘All clear,’ he said to his colleague.

He looked at Reuben. ‘Behaving yourself on parole, Mr Littlejohn?’

‘Yes, I am.’

SC Bonazzi whipped out his notebook and pencil. ‘This friend you were visiting, what’s his name and address?’

‘John Robertson, I don’t know his address, he just moved house. We met at the Aspley Hotel.’

‘What’s his date of birth?’

‘I don’t know.’

SC Bonazzi looked at him suspiciously, pen poised. ‘You don’t know your friend’s date of birth?’

‘We’re not in the habit of exchanging birthday cards.’

‘Where did you meet him?’

Reuben opened his mouth to protest at the questioning then thought better of it. ‘At the employment agency.’

SC Bonazzi shook his head in mock sympathy. ‘Times are tough. No jobs going for scammers?’

Fortunately Reuben was saved the trouble of replying by Constable Andrews appearing beside him with a breathalyser. ‘Have you had anything to drink tonight?’

‘No.’

SC Bonazzi looked at him disbelievingly. ‘You went to the hotel and didn’t drink?’

‘I told you, I’m a law-abiding citizen now.’

Reuben blew into the mouthpiece. The reading was zero. Constable Andrews looked grimly disappointed.

SC Bonazzi shook his head, ‘You put up a good front, Littlejohn, but you’re not kidding anyone.’ He took a step closer to Reuben. ‘You white-collar crims think you’re so much better than all the others,’ he said in low, measured tones, ‘but you’re not. You’re just as bad as the junkies and thieves and housebreakers. And I’ll give you fair warning – we’re watching you. Not just us, but all the boys. The minute you put a foot over the line, even your little toe, you’re gone.’

He turned abruptly and the two of them headed back to the police car. ‘You have a good evening too, officers!’ Reuben called after them.

***

Two blocks from home, the phone Frank had given him buzzed in his pocket. He pulled over on the side of the road, in front of a house with lights blazing in every window and TV noises blaring out. It sounded like a fight scene, with lots of banging and shooting.

‘Hullo!’ he said briskly to cover his nerves.

‘Well?’ Frank said.

‘She didn’t show.’

Silence. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive. We stayed until after seven. Checked the car park thoroughly.’

‘So what do we deduce from that? That she’s given it up the night we plan the operation? Or that you’re not on the level with me?’

‘You know I’m on the level. Anything could have happened – she might be sick. Or her kid might be. Or she might have had a social engagement. Or…’

‘Shut the fuck up. Meet me at the Bulimba Soccer Club. Midday Saturday.’