ThornyDevils (19 page)

Poor Slugger Douglas.

Most of the mourners were from the Tote and the housing block. Ivy O’Leary stood near the priest, wearing the same veiled hat she wore at the previous funeral. Occasionally, she lifted the veil to wipe away a tear. Slugger—the greatest Australian boxer never to win a world title. Here he was, being buried in near-anonymity. But that was only part of the reason felt Peter sad. That, and Slugger and Ivy’s secret.

Now Slugger was nearly buried, Ivy’s secret would be safe, or so she probably thought. Peter looked back at the cars parked on a crest behind them. Tommy O’Leary stood against a black Mercedes with his arms folded, checking his watch. Waiting. Looking bored. How ironic, Peter thought; if he only knew.

The priest sputtered out his final words, closed the service book, nodded at Ivy and was gone. Maybe the priest also knew. The gravedigger moved in as the mourners drifted away. Peter was intrigued by how the wealthy and influential were laid to rest in golden splendour, like Patrick O’Leary had been. If you were neither, it all ran like a takeaway order. Get in, get out. Take a number, take a grave.
Someone had mentioned something about a wake at the Tote. Peter was the only one who showed any real enthusiasm. The murmurs that came from the others were washed away in the drizzle.

The mourners had already evaporated by the time Peter reached his car. Tommy O’Leary had got back into his car and turned on the ignition. Probably trying to warm himself up. Peter turned to see Ivy walking closely behind him. After his last encounter with the O’Learys, it was best to avoid a confrontation. Another punch-up at a funeral was too much. Sure, he was supposed to be a hard-edged journo, but he wasn’t a punching bag.

He looked at Tommy who was watching him like a hawk, rubbing his hands and peering over the steering wheel. Peter quickly opened the door of the Stag, keen on an early exit. He felt a tap on his shoulder and stiffened.

‘Mister Clancy,’ said Ivy breathlessly, ‘Mister Clancy. I have something for you.’ Ivy O’Leary held out a small package wrapped in brown paper, bound on all sides by string.

‘Missus O’Leary!’ Peter looked at the package and then at Ivy. She looked like she’d aged ten years since the last time he’d seen her. ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear you. How are you going?’

Tommy tooted the horn of the Mercedes several times and waved at Ivy to hurry.

‘I thought Slugger would be around for a few more years,’ she blurted, as she shoved the package into Peter’s hands.

‘What’s this?’

‘Slugger wanted you to have it,’ she nodded. ‘It’s a book of his press clippings from when he was a fighter.’

‘Thanks, Ivy. It’s an honour.’

‘Well. He liked you. Always said you were too good a bloke to be a reporter,’ Ivy smiled faintly. The Merc’s horn blew again.

‘There’s a wake at the Tote. Will you be there?’

‘Got to go,’ she said with a hint of annoyance. ‘My son apparently needs me.’ She smiled thinly and scurried away to the Mercedes.

The wake was as solemn and as poorly attended as the burial had been. No one seemed sufficiently motivated to relate a humorous story—or any story—about Slugger. Wasn’t that the purpose of a wake? Maybe they hadn’t known him. They were nevertheless happy enough to turn up and drink. In silence.

Peter ordered another round for the few mourners in an effort to loosen them up. Maybe there weren’t any stories to tell. He wanted to tell them about Slugger and the German backpacker, but changed his mind out of respect for the old bugger. Instead he broke into a disjointed and tuneless version of
Danny Boy
in a last ditch effort to get the wake going. It was Slugger’s favourite song. His concession to the deceased was to change the words to
Slugger Boy
. All Peter’s recital achieved was a hasty dispersal of the mourners to all parts of the bar. Peter was left alone as he sang …
in sunshine and in shadow
, accompanied by slow claps from Harry the barman.

I tried, Slugger. I tried
.

***

Peter was relieved to be back in the office. He had brought Slugger’s book with him, in the hope of reading through it during lunch. He could hear Stella swearing from her cubicle and thumping the typewriter keys. She was an old fashioned girl in some respects.

‘Are you all right?’ he called as he shoved the book aside. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Nothing’s happening,’ Stella barked back. ‘That’s the trouble.’

‘Let’s talk.’

She appeared holding an open notepad in one hand and pulling her chair behind her.

‘No luck?’ Peter threw his legs on the desk and slumped back in his chair.

‘No one’s talking,’ she announced. ‘Donarto doesn’t return his calls. McCracken still wants a date but won’t talk. I got chased out of the market by a mob of angry Italian men. How about you?’ She leafed through her notepad. ‘Nothing else. Nothing.’

‘There may be progress. I hope.’ Peter lowered his voice. ‘A mate of mine went for a job at the O’Leary company this morning. Undercover stuff. He’s my last hope.’

‘Going out on a limb. Do you know if he got the job?’

‘I’ll know tonight. What about your date with McCracken? Still going?’

‘I’m not looking forward to it but maybe he’ll be more forthcoming with any information.’ Stella shrugged her shoulders. ‘What can I do? I’ve got to try something. Short of bribery, bugging.’

‘That sounds a bit like Watergate.’

‘It’s been done,’ she winked.

‘We’re at an impasse, then, aren’t we?’

Stella nodded and folded her arms. They stared at each other silently.

‘How was the funeral?’

‘The host was dead, as expected, but the guests seemed just as dead. Poor Slugger. He deserved better.’

‘I don’t like poorly attended funerals,’ Stella said. ‘Funerals should be grand. They should be a celebration of a good life.’

‘Ivy O’Leary was there.’

‘Really? Were you able to get an interview?’

‘Not with one of her brawny sons watching us.’

‘But you were able to talk to her?’

‘She gave me a book of Slugger’s press clippings. Back when he was a boxer.’ Peter unknotted the string and tore off the paper. The two battered exercise books bulged with pieces of yellowed newsprint.

‘Great,’ Stella snorted as she glanced at the books. ‘You’ll be able to write a good obituary about him. I’ll leave you to it.’ She hopped off her chair and wheeled it back to her cubicle.

Peter flipped open the first book to reveal a pile of carefully cut-out newspaper clippings: Slugger’s career, year by year. He smiled when he saw a young and fairly handsome Slugger shaking the hand of the then premier of Victoria. It seemed that he was looking at another man. A man full of dreams and aspirations. A man much admired by the public.

Peter flicked through both books, hoping to find a misplaced picture of Slugger and Ivy, but that would have been asking a lot. Then he found the headline about Slugger being expected to die in hospital after his last fight. And after that, nothing.

Peter continued thumbing through the empty pages. Three pages from the end he found a sealed envelope. He tore it open. A letter written on new paper. He unfolded it and began to read.
Dear Mr Clancy,
written in a neat, well-formed hand.

Stella didn’t know what she heard first, the sound of his chair crashing to the floor or Peter shouting at the top of his lungs: ‘
Oh my God! Oh my God! Stella! Bob! Anyone! Come here!
’

Stella got to Peter first, closely followed by the rest of the office.

Shazza ran down the corridor carrying the office first aid kit and shouting, ‘Not again!’ Peter had tears in his eyes and a huge smile at the same time.

‘Not you too,’ Bob said anxiously, as he lurched out of his office. ‘What are you putting in the bloody coffee?’

‘No. It’s all right. I’m not going mad. Look!’

Peter brandished the letter wildly in front of Bob. He snatched the letter and opened it carefully, reading the first few lines. The others gathered in.

‘In my office now, you two,’ he ordered, pointing at Stella and Peter. ‘The rest of you have work to do.’

Bob shut the door behind them, sat down and placed the letter on the desk. ‘Dear Mr Clancy,’ he began reading aloud:

         
You are my last hope. I want to end the madness. As you know, my husband and my son are now dead. I don’t want my other boys to die too.

         
It sometimes seems as if everyone around me is dying. Even Slugger has gone.

         
My boys have never told me exactly what they do. I was never involved in the business, but I know in my heart that it’s been rotten for a long time. I’m worried they’re involved in drugs somehow, but I can’t be certain. I’m no addict myself and I don’t think the boys are. They never tell me anything but I know something is wrong.

         
Everyone thought Pat was dead, but he was in Asia all this time. I knew he wasn’t dead. I couldn’t tell you that. The boys said he was setting up a business there. I wondered why he stayed there so long. Then Pat came back to sort things out, all of a sudden. He arrived one night and next day he was dead.

         
Mr Clancy, I would rather have them safe in jail than dead. Slugger said you could be trusted to help me. He said you wouldn’t use my name. Please don’t try and find me, as my boys are sending me overseas for a rest. They think I’ll have a nervous breakdown if I don’t go. Please do whatever you can to make it stop. Yours truly, Ivy O’Leary.

Bob looked up. Peter noticed that his hands were shaking. He folded the letter and placed it in his trouser pocket.

‘We can’t name her,’ said Peter, ‘or give away any clues to the identity of who gave us this.’

‘I know.’ Bob reached into the drawer for the whiskey. ‘Her life could be at risk.’ He filled three glasses with Jameson’s. ‘I need a stiff drink.’

Stella took the glass and put it to her lips. She took a swig, shuddered and put the glass back on the desk. ‘Why am I drinking this? I hate whiskey,’ she grimaced.

‘Do we run with something now?’ Peter asked Bob.

‘Let’s look at what we’ve got before we go getting overexcited. We have two families at war. We have Ivy’s vague theory about what’s been going on behind the scenes, but that’s all there is. She won’t go on the record and, even if she did, we don’t really know why these families are at war.’

‘So we’ll need to build on Ivy’s information,’ Peter chipped in.

‘You both know what we need. Key players. A way into the story. How the operation works. Any other inside information we can gather.’

‘I know what Dave would say about this,’ Peter frowned as he drained his glass of scotch. ‘Aren’t we obstructing the law?’

‘First of all, Dave’s paid to take photographs, not to have an opinion. Secondly, it’s in the best interests of the public. Crimes don’t all have to be solved by the police. All right?’ Bob winked.

‘I’m way ahead of you, Bob. I have an acquaintance trying to get on the inside, as we speak.’

‘So, what you’re saying is you’re already obstructing justice by sending your mate to the wharf. Do you think McCracken would be happy with that?’

‘Probably not,’ Peter smiled.

‘Let’s hope your friend gets a job there. I’d say they’d be pretty antsy at the moment,’ Stella sighed. ‘If he succeeds, it could open up a can of worms.’

‘I’m telling you both now,’ Bob warned, ‘we have to keep this under wraps. This is strictly between the three of us.’

‘Sure. But Sam and Dave will have to know what we’re up to, won’t they?’ said Peter.

‘Who the hell’s Sam?’ asked Bob.

‘You’ve heard me talk about Sam before. Sam Saturday. He’s the mate who’s trying to get the job at the wharf.’

‘Can we trust them not to tell anyone?’ Bob clenched his hands. ‘Stella?’

‘Well, you already know Dave. Sam seems pretty straight up to me. And he’s the last person anyone would ever suspect. No offence, Peter,’ she said.

‘None taken. All three of us have been through this type of stuff before. I’d follow Sam and Dave into hell.’

‘Okay. Okay. It’s a need to know basis with Sam and Dave. Get me?’ Bob took a deep breath and turned to Stella. ‘What about this date with McCracken?’ he asked. ‘Do you think it will lead anywhere?’

‘Could lead to love.’

Stella slapped Peter playfully. ‘It has worked for me before,’ she grinned.

‘McCracken comes across as someone who keeps his cards close to his chest. I have a feeling you won’t get much out of him.’

‘I have to try, Bob. I have been wondering why he did ask me out on a date so soon.’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Peter teased.

Stella smirked. ‘Okay. Let’s try and keep it above the waistline, you bastards.’

***

Sam was cooking again by the time Peter got home from the office. ‘I thought you’d be passed out on the couch,’ he remarked as he wandered into the kitchen.

‘I could do with a back massage.’ Sam was bent at forty-five degrees, stirring a large pot of stew. ‘I’d ask you to give me one, only you’ve got soft hands.’

‘Fuck off,’ Peter replied. ‘Why don’t you ask Dave when he gets back?’ He peered at the contents of the pot. ‘So, you got yourself a job?’

‘Part forklift driver, part office boy.’

‘How’d you do it? Get them to hire you, I mean.’

‘Jedi mind control—blackfella’s version.’

‘Excellent.’ He slapped Sam on the back. Sam shuddered.

‘Careful,’ he stiffened, ‘I had to lift something heavy.’

‘Never known you to complain. Must be bloody bad.’

‘I’ll be right. Not worn out yet. Those O’Learys are supposed to be tough, hey? If they’re tough, then I don’t have a worry in the world.’

‘So,’ said Peter steering the topic back to business, ‘anything interesting happen?’

‘Let’s see. Tommy O’Leary is the boss and Robbie is the brother without the brains, but with the brawn.’

‘That was obvious at the funeral. What else?’

‘There’s an office lady there who keeps them in check. She seemed real happy to see me. And then Tommy left to go to a funeral not long after I got there.’