How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery (26 page)

That was the only bit he’d rushed over, hoping she wouldn’t notice. Why didn’t he say he’d been modelling jeans and turtlenecks? That was the effect she was having on him; he was losing his ability to lie.

‘Yes.’

‘What on earth are they?’

‘They’re a cross between speedos and board shorts, for guys who like to show off their bodies but for obvious reasons don’t want to wear speedos.’

‘I’m not one of those guys though,’ he added, ‘I was just modelling them.’

That was lame – like saying I do skin flicks but don’t like sex. Lucy gave a slight smile.

‘Of course,’ she said.

She’s going to think I’m sleazy, forcing her to imagine me in a pair of mini board shorts.

She picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk. ‘It’s certainly something different to put in your CV,’ she said. ‘What did your wife think about it?’

‘She wasn’t impressed. There’s not much of a career in mini board shorts, especially as they don’t seem to have taken off so far.’

‘Still, it’s all experience. Something different to put on your CV.’

Was that a compliment? It was hard to tell from the tone of her voice. She resumed writing. ‘I’m going on holidays in a couple of days – I’ll be away a few weeks, so your next appointment will be with another officer. I’ll see you in the new year, in early January.’

Fuck, Frank’s not going to like that
.

She handed him the appointment slip to sign. He took his time with his signature, adding some twirls and flourishes, and handed it back. He glanced at his watch. One-and-a-half minutes to go.

‘Where are you going on your holiday?’ he asked.

‘Scotland.’

Frank would be doubly angry – he couldn’t kill her while she was in Scotland – but at least she’d be safe there. That was presupposing that today’s plan had worked and she was still alive to go to Scotland.
Keep it going, say something intelligent about Scotland.

‘I’ve always wanted to go there. All those green hills and sheep and...’

What else was there in Scotland?

‘Haggis,’ he finished.

Why would anyone eat haggis? The name was enough to put you off – it sounded like someone gagging. The only way he’d even consider eating haggis was if Lucy was draped in it.

Lucy smiled. ‘I won’t be sampling the haggis if I can help it.’

She stood up. In a last ditch attempt to extend the interview, Reuben stood up and held out his hand.

‘Have a great Christmas and New Year, and I hope Santa brings you everything you want.’

‘But no haggis,’ he added.

She shook his hand. ‘Thanks, Reuben, same to you.’

‘There’s no danger of Santa bringing me any haggis...’

‘See you next year,’ she said firmly.

As Reuben opened the door, he heard the tinkling of a mobile phone. He recognised the ring tone as the theme song from the TV show
The Addams Family
. He glanced back and saw Lucy pick up a mobile phone from the desk.

‘Hullo,’ he heard her say as he closed the door. So she liked
The Addams Family
, the first thing he knew they had in common. As a child, he’d watched every re-run and even at that young age was fascinated by Morticia with her glossy black hair and impossibly tight dresses.

But there was no time to reflect on this important discovery. On the pavement outside the parole office, Reuben dialled Bomber’s number and let it ring three times again to signal the end of the interview. Almost immediately the phone rang back. Reuben swallowed hard. ‘Yes?’

‘Meet me in the Parkside Tavern in ten minutes. Public bar.’

‘Okay.’

The Parkside Tavern was two blocks away, modern tiled brick, fronted by a huge sign proclaiming that Monday nights was all-you-can-eat pasta for $8, Tuesday was karaoke night and on Saturday night the Rusty Screwdrivers were playing. Apparently nothing much happened between Wednesday and Saturday.

Bomber was hunched over a beer staring at a surfing clip on the TV. Reuben bought a light beer and sat down across from him.

‘This operation is jinxed,’ Bomber said.

Thank God. It had worked.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Some bloke was hanging around in the car park, reckoned he was waiting for his girlfriend, and chewed my ear off. He wouldn’t fuckin’ shut up – he was a bit simple, a sandwich short of a picnic.’

‘That was bad luck. Why didn’t you tell him to fuck off?’

Bomber drummed his fingers on his beer glass and looked away. ‘I got a nephew like that. Goes to special school. He’s the greatest kid...’

He took a swig of his beer. ‘I told him to piss off but he didn’t understand.’

He paused. ‘Not a friend of yours, is he?’

Reuben met his gaze. ‘What do you mean by that?’

The words came out with more force than he intended. Bomber said nothing, just stared at the TV screen. A gigantic wave barrelled a hapless surfer off his board to disappear in a flurry of foam.

‘Are you saying I’ve deliberately sabotaged this operation?’

Bomber shrugged. ‘It’s funny that something’s happened both times to put a spanner in the works.’

‘Do you really think I’d be so stupid as to try and deceive Frank?’

‘Mate, I hardly know you, I don’t know how stupid you are.’

‘Not that stupid, I can tell you. I know Frank and I know what he’s capable of. He’s threatened to kill my wife if I don’t do this, so I’m not about to stuff it up.’

Bomber downed his beer and slammed the glass on the table. ‘This business is shitting me. I just want the moolah and to fuck off outta here. The old girl’s driving me crazy.’

His eyes lit up and he gave a low whistle. Reuben followed his gaze. Two young women in short dresses, tights and boots were standing at the bar. As they headed towards a table, drinks in their hands, Bomber called out, ‘There’s a seat here, sweetheart!’ He dragged a chair from a nearby table, placed it next to him and patted the seat.

The girls looked at each other. ‘In your dreams, loser!’ one of them called.

‘As if !’ the other said, and they sauntered off, giggling.

‘Stupid little sluts.’ Bomber got up. ‘Well, it’s nice not doing business with you, Littledick. No doubt we’ll meet again soon.’

He ambled out the front door. His hair looked as if it hadn’t been washed for days, his shirt hung out over his belt and his jeans sagged in the crotch. The two girls, sitting near the door, exchanged glances and burst into giggles again. Reuben finished his beer and resisted the temptation to have another.

***

As he started the engine of the Barbiemobile, his jeans pocket vibrated. There was a text message on the mobile phone Frank had given him. ‘City Botanical Gardens 3pm tomorrow. Now dispose.’

Bad news travels fast. Reuben drove through the car park to the rear of the hotel and stopped at the industrial garbage bin. He took the sim card out of the mobile phone and threw the phone in the bin, where it lay glinting amongst the food scraps and papers. He placed an empty pizza box on top of it so it wasn’t visible and zoomed off.

The house was in silence when he arrived home. Carlene hadn’t arrived home from work yet. He ran the bath, pouring in some of her scented bubbles, and submerged himself in it with a Mandrake comic and the Boston Stranglers, in their punk rock phase, screeching from his iPod speakers.

He was on a yacht with Lucy, the water lapping gently at the hull. Lucy stripped off and dived into the ocean, the firm, pale moons of her buttocks sliding into the glassy water. Reuben dived in after her. The water was freezing and he broke out in goosebumps. When he opened his eyes, Carlene was standing beside the bath with his mobile phone in her hand. She put it on the sink.

‘Your phone was ringing.’ She was still in her work clothes. ‘And you’re drooling again.’

He wiped his mouth and glanced down at his nether regions. Thank God he didn’t have an erection. The bubbles had disappeared, exposing his cock floating on the cold water like a listless sea slug.

Carlene leaned over and gave it a playful tug. ‘Your poor baby. You must have been tired. Did you remember the lamb?’

Shit, the lamb for tonight’s curry. Somehow it had slipped his mind, what with saving Lucy’s life.

Carlene’s shoulders stiffened. ‘You’re hopeless. I ask you to do just one little thing and you can’t even do that.’

She stalked out. Reuben got out of the bath and dried himself. There was a voicemail message on his phone. A voice hummed the first few bars of Mission Impossible, then said in a conspiratorial tone, ‘Mission accomplished. Except for the moolah. Ring me.’

Reuben sent a text message. ‘Tomorrow 4pm. Coffee Club, Adelaide St, City.’

The reply came back immediately. ‘Skinny iced chocolate with cream please.’

***

At ten past three, Reuben arrived at the front gates of the Botanical Gardens. He’d had to leave work half an hour early, pleading a doctor’s appointment. Joe glared at him. ‘You look as strong as an ox to me. What’s wrong with you?’

‘Er…’ Reuben racked his brains for an affliction that was not too serious or socially unacceptable. ‘I’ve got an ingrown toenail, the doctor said it needs immediate treatment.’ He assumed a pained expression. ‘It’s very painful.’

Joe shook his head. ‘When I was in the army in Malta, I marched twenty miles with an ingrown toenail. And a twenty kilo-pack on my back.’ He waved his arm in dismissal. ‘You ... you metrosexuals, you have no idea!’

Thank God for that.
‘Thanks, I appreciate you giving me the time off.’ Reuben limped out as quickly as he dared before Joe changed his mind.

He sped into the city on the Barbiemobile. Each time the speedometer crept up over sixty kilometres, he glanced nervously over his shoulder, half-expecting to see a police car appear and pull him over. SC Bonazzi’s warning was still fresh in his mind. What if the police had somehow found out about his association with Franks and Bomber?
Forget it, you’re becoming paranoid. That’s what a guilty conscience does to you.
In the city, he parked in an underground car park and ran the three blocks to the Botanical Gardens, dodging and weaving through the pedestrians.

Stopping inside the entrance gates, he surveyed the path winding through the rolling expanse of lawn, garden and gigantic Moreton Bay fig trees. Frank hadn’t specified a meeting place – how in hell was he supposed to find him? Was this supposed to be some kind of test? Did he leave a trail of breadcrumbs?

Reuben jogged down the path, noting with satisfaction that he was only slightly breathless, whereas not so long ago he would have been ready to collapse by now. The lawn was iridescent in the spring sunshine and looked soft and springy enough to sleep on. The couple entwined in each other’s arms under a nearby tree obviously thought so. A toddler on a tricycle pedalled past him, followed by his harassed mother. Ahead of him a group of students with backpacks laughed and jostled each other. Where would Frank go, to blend in with his surroundings? He wasn’t exactly a picnic-in-the-park kind of person.

To his far left was a small pond, a family of ducks weaving gracefully through the lily pads. An elderly man and a little girl stood at the edge of the pond watching them. On a nearby seat, with his back to Reuben, sat a man in a pale blue shirt and black cap, a newspaper spread out on his lap. It was obvious he wasn’t reading it.

Reuben walked over to the seat and sat beside him. The little girl threw a piece of bread into the pond. ‘Look, Grandpa!’ she squealed as the drake paddled over and scooped it up in its beak.

Frank wore large wrap-around sunglasses that made him look like a gigantic blowfly. Without acknowledging Reuben’s presence he said, ‘I love the simple things in life, don’t you?’

Expecting a reprimand for being late, Reuben said nothing, surmising the question to be rhetorical.

‘Ducks swimming on ponds, a cold beer on a hot afternoon and I especially love it when a plan comes together.’

The little girl shrieked and jumped up and down as the ducks gobbled up the bits of bread as quickly as she threw them in.

‘That’s why I’m mightily pissed off, Littledick. Not to mention Bomber. And a pissed off Bomber is not someone you’d want to have around.’

What did he mean by that? That Bomber would exact revenge and blow up the Barbiemobile? Was it possible to hide a bomb in a motor scooter? Perhaps a small pink bomb – anything was possible with modern technology. He saw himself turn the ignition and the Barbiemobile explode in a ball of flame; pieces of flesh, bone and pink fibreglass flying through the air. He gulped.

‘Believe me, Frank, I’m just as pissed off as you are. I don’t want it dragging on either.’

That at least was the truth.

‘So you’re telling me it was pure coincidence that dickhead just happened to be walking past when Bomber was about to do the deed?’

‘Of course it was, do you honestly think I’d sabotage your plans and risk my wife’s life?’

‘Maybe you don’t like your wife; maybe you just married her for the money.’

‘That’s not true. I love my wife.’

Did he just say that? He’d never said those exact words before, probably because in the normal course of conversation you didn’t tell people you loved your wife – they just assumed you did.

Reuben was about to protest further but stopped himself.
Don’t say too much, it makes you sound guilty.

Frank foraged in his pants pocket and pulled out a fat cigar. He unwrapped the cellophane, lit the cigar with a silver and gold lighter, and puffed furiously on it. Clouds of foul-smelling smoke billowed around them.

‘Yuk, Grandpa, what’s that smell?’ the little girl said.

The old man darted a hostile look at Frank. ‘Some people are very inconsiderate, sweetheart. Come on, we’ll go and get an ice-cream.’

The little girl tucked her hand into her grandfather’s and trotted beside him, twisting around to stare at Frank with big, appraising eyes.

‘Thank bloody God,’ Frank grunted. ‘Now I can think without that kid screeching in my ear.’

Reuben’s eyes were watering. He leaned back in his seat, away from the smoke stream.