ThornyDevils (32 page)

‘Let’s keep going until the ambos arrive,’ Dave instructed.

After that, everything became a blur. Peter only barely remembered the paramedics arriving, one of them intubating Bob, the bleeping sound of the cardiac monitor, the worried looks on the paramedics’ faces as they rushed him on a trolley up the corridor. Then the hospital.

Peter sat in the waiting room of the coronary care unit feeling as if he’d been there for hours—which in fact he had. Others had come and gone, but he sat and waited. Sat and waited. None of the nursing staff was imparting any information. He was asked about Bob’s family. To Peter’s knowledge, Bob was a swinging single. The only woman he’d ever seen Bob with was Stella.

It was well into the afternoon now and still no news. Peter had asked the nurses for information so many times that they were now doing their best to avoid him. He lay down and dozed on the waiting room couch. In his semi-sleep he heard a woman’s voice.

‘Are you Peter Clancy?’

Peter jolted upright. The voice belonged to a petite, grey-haired woman. She stood over him.

‘I am. Yes. Peter. Yes,’ he muttered as he shook himself fully awake.

‘Did you want to see Bob?’ the woman asked gently.

‘Of course. How’s he going?’

‘Stable but he’s on life support.’

‘And you are…?’ Peter asked as he surveyed the woman. ‘Sorry. Are you a doctor?’

‘I’m the ICU consultant. Beverley Cross. Would you like to see Mr Connelly?’

Peter followed Dr Cross into the coronary care unit, overwhelmed by the bright overhead lights, the cacophonous machine hum and the purposeful activity. He followed her into a cubicle opposite the nurse’s station. The man in the bed was bloated and unconscious, lying semi-upright, the tube in his throat contorting his face with terror and pain. But where was Bob Connolly, the editor of
The Truth
?

It took a while for Peter to recognise his boss, covered in a mess of wires and tubes. It was only his wild mat of grey-black hair and the scar on his forehead that gave Peter the cues. The ECG monitor bleeped out evidence of life. Bob was still here, but only just.

A nurse that looked like she was fifteen moved confidently and effortlessly among the medical paraphernalia like a ballet dancer. Peter hung back from the bed, positioning himself near an IV infuser, wondering what to do.

‘Did you want to say anything to him?’ she asked. ‘He can still hear you.’

‘You’ll be all right, Bob,’ he muttered uneasily into Bob’s ear. ‘We’ll be having a Scotch again in no time.’

Bob’s hand moved, his fingers rising and falling.

‘Look,’ she smiled, ‘he knows you’re here.’

‘I think he’s probably feeling around for that drink,’ Peter chuckled. ‘So how’s he doing?’

Dr Cross led Peter out of the cubicle. ‘I prefer he doesn’t hear anything negative. He’s had a massive heart attack. Without you and your colleague giving him resuscitation, he would have died.’

‘So he’ll be all right?’ Peter asked.

‘He’s very unstable at the moment. Once he stabilises, he’s going to need a quadruple bypass. He’s a fighter.’

‘
So it appears
.’

‘Should I hang around?’ Peter asked. ‘I don’t want to get in the way.’

‘The nurse said you’ve been here for hours. You might want to go home and get some rest. If anything happens, we’ll call you. Since he doesn’t appear to have any next of kin.’

‘Fine. No worries. I’ll just say goodbye to Bob.’

Peter returned to the cubicle as she walked away, leaving him to conduct an inane, one-sided conversation. After a while, he checked his watch. It was five o’clock.
Hometime.

‘I’ve got to go home and have a rest, Bob,’ Peter muttered with a yawn.

He got more of a response from Bob than from the nurse, who was now sitting at a desk recording results into a chart. Peter stood up, retraced his steps to the lift lobby and dozed on his feet. He woke when he heard the lift bell pinging.
Shit
, he thought,
I forgot to phone Stella. She’ll think I’m an uncaring prick
. Peter sprang to life and headed
towards the lift doors. Out of the lift stepped a woman. She looked familiar. She wore sunglasses, a trench coat with the collar pulled up and denim jeans.
Odd
. The woman must have felt his glance. She turned her head slightly as she hurried past him towards the intensive care unit.

‘Stella!’ Peter shouted as the doors closed. ‘Stella! Wait! It’s Peter.’

Stella turned and stopped. Her face was stained with tears and running makeup. ‘Sorry!’ she spluttered. ‘I can’t talk. I have to see Bob.’

Peter nodded and turned back towards the lift again. This time, he stepped in when the doors opened and pressed the button. He was too tired to think of anything as he descended. He got his second wind when the hospital doors opened to the freezing dusk air. It sucked the breath out of him.
Bloody Melbourne winters.

He walked slowly back to the Stag, parked two blocks away. He was thinking of Stella. Stella and Bob. He and Bob. Then just Bob. He thought about praying, but couldn’t quite get himself to do it.

***

Babs and the dogs were going beserk. Sam was standing impassively on the porch with his hands in the air, watching the drama unfolding before him and wondering who was louder, the dogs or Babs. He judged it was Babs. She was berating the two uniformed police officers, not only for pulling Buddy out of bed to arrest him, but for also threatening to shoot the two dogs if they weren’t chained up. Two other police officers had their pistols drawn and Detective Senior Sergeant Dale McCracken appeared oblivious to the din. Babs followed them up the garden path as they towed a wailing Buddy, his crumpled legs dragging. She followed, delivering her impassioned plea interspersed with threats and expletives.

‘Leave him alone. He only come down from Wodonga today to see his Nanna, you cunts. He doesn’t deal drugs, you stupid copper bastards,’ she bellowed into a constable’s ear as he hauled Buddy along.

‘Nan! Nanna!’ Buddy cried like a lost child.

‘You can’t arrest my grandson,’ Babs pleaded. ‘He hasn’t done anything wrong.’

McCracken stepped in and pulled her aside. ‘Take it easy, Babs. We’ll probably have to keep him overnight. It’ll take that long to get any sense out of him.’

‘You can’t do that!’

‘Well, the offences are serious.’

‘It wasn’t him selling dope to the schoolkids. It was someone else.’

‘We’ll sort that out. You can come to the station, if you want. Your poor little grandson’s probably going to need a tit soon by the sound of him,’ McCracken hissed.

‘Nan! Nanna!’

‘Copper cunt.’ She threw a wad of dried dog shit, narrowly missing McCracken.

‘I could throw you in a cell with the little prick,’ he snapped.

‘Nan! Nanna!’

‘Shut up, Buddy,’ she screeched. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

‘Got things to do, Babs?’ McCracken enquired.

‘I’ve got to sort out something,’ she replied. ‘I do have a fucking life.’

‘Want to get in a few more fucks with the Abo? Do you love it black, Babs? Black is beautiful?’ McCracken sneered.

‘I hope you’re not charging him,’ she said, jerking her thumb towards Sam.

McCracken looked back at Sam, who still had his hands in the air, and laughed.

‘Copper bastard!’ she snarled, ‘I hope yours fucking drops off one day.’

Babs caught up with Buddy, threw an arm around him and kissed him on the cheek as they pushed him into the back of a police van. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. Stay strong. Don’t tell the cunts anything.’

‘Touching,’ McCracken commented. ‘Madonna and child.’

Babs glared at him and walked back to her house. An elderly female neighbour was watching the events from the side fence as she pretended to water a vegetable garden.

‘What in the fuck are you looking at you fucking old fossil bitch?’ Babs threw towards her as she reached the veranda. ‘Get back in ya house and die!’ She slapped Sam’s hands down as the police car and the van pulled away. ‘Don’t show these bastards that you’re scared, Sam. ‘The mongrels get off on it.’

‘When a copper’s pointing a gun to my head,’ Sam exhaled, ‘I can’t feel relaxed.’

‘Shut up your whingeing for the moment,’ she remonstrated. ‘I’m trying to bloody think.’

‘Worried? About Buddy?’

‘Nah. He’ll be right. I need a break from him for a while, anyway. Of course I’m fucking worried! I’m worried about tonight.’

‘Cancel it until Buddy gets out.’

‘We can’t cancel it, Sam.’ Babs slammed the door behind them in frustration, ‘It has to be done tonight. I have to have the bags to the distributor early tomorrow morning.’ She pulled a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of her top pocket, lit one and inhaled deeply. ‘It’s a full moon tonight. I need a full moon.’

‘I could give you a hand as well as driving the car. I’m a blackfella. I know something about moving around at night.’

‘Driving the car’s one thing, but I don’t want to put you in any danger,’ she said as she kissed Sam on the cheek. ‘Do you really want to help me?’

‘We’re in this together, darl.’ He kissed her back.

‘What a bloke you are. Where have you been all my life?’

‘What about Buddy?’ Sam asked. ‘Shouldn’t we go to the police station?’

‘He’s grown up,’ Babs said dismissively. ‘He’ll have to sort himself out. Getting that smack out of the container tonight is far more important. It’s our future.’

***

McCracken was leaning against the Stag with his arms folded as Peter approached it after leaving the hospital. ‘Nice car,’ he commented as he walked around the Stag. ‘Maybe you should look after it. It could do with a clean.’ McCracken looked in through the driver’s window. ‘Disgusting,’ he remarked. ‘That pizza box’s almost as mouldy as your jocks. Do you live out of this car?’

‘I like to camp in it sometimes. You could buy if you want,’ Peter commented as he slipped his key into the door lock. ‘I’ll throw in the pizza box and the jocks for free.’

‘Going somewhere?’

McCracken stood nose to nose with Peter. Peter matched his gaze. There was something in McCracken’s eyes that reminded Peter of Max Hillard. It sent a shiver down his spine.

‘How did you know I was here? Are you fucking following me?’

‘Yes. Yes, I did. It’s the fucking FBI around here. You’re under surveillance all the time,’ McCracken laughed. ‘I asked the bloody receptionist. She even told me your boss was in hospital. Touching. You’re visiting your boss. You must be after his job.’

‘Don’t mistake me for yourself, Dale.’

‘It’s happening tonight,’ McCracken continued. ‘Eleven-thirty it all goes down.’

‘Sam’s in?’

‘Buddy’s out, Sam’s in.’

‘Good. Dave and I will be there with bells on.’

‘You can give me the photos now.’ McCracken held out his hand.

‘Not until after the operation is over,’ Peter said. ‘When I know Sam is safe and the O’Learys arrested. By, the way, if anything happens to him…’

‘Sanctimonious cunt,’ McCracken snapped, grabbing Peter’s collar with both hands and shaking him. Peter did his best to remain composed, which just made McCracken mad. He threw Peter against the car and hovered over him with clenched fists. ‘I want them now,’ he growled.

‘Of course, Dale. You’ll get the photos when I say you’ll get the photos. You hurt me or Sam, and we go straight to press.’

‘Cunt,’ McCracken barked as he punched the car window. He cradled his hand, trying hard to disguise his pain.

‘They don’t make cars like this anymore. Thick isn’t it?’ Peter chuckled. ‘Reminds me of someone.’

‘Fucking prick, Clancy.’

‘Yes, she’s a classic.’ He rubbed his hand over the roof. ‘As promised, Dale, you’ll get the photos once it’s all done and dusted. When the crims are locked away and Sam is safe.’

‘Make sure you bring them with you tonight, prick, if you want to write another bullshit story for your arsewipe paper.’

‘You threatening me, Dale?’ Peter sighed. ‘That’s not nice.’

‘Threat?’ McCracken laughed as he walked away. ‘That’s not a threat, Clancy, that’s a police fucking direction.’

***

George ‘Putty Face’ McKenna surveyed the Tupperware container of chocolate crackles with childlike anticipation. Putty Face was one of the security guards employed by the O’Leary family, a crusty, middle-aged stand-over merchant from the old Painters and Dockers days. And he had the battle honours to prove it.

His nose had been battered into a wad of putty from a bashing with a lump of wood, his face was deeply scarred and he had a steel plate in
his skull from a brutal clout with an iron bar. All on separate occasions. He had been heavily outnumbered. Putty Face had fought like a wild bull and had managed to inflict major injuries on his attackers. His skull split, he had still bitten off the ear of one attacker and glassed another in the throat before being overwhelmed by superior numbers. He was tougher than a brick shithouse and as formidable as a Tiger tank.

Only last week he had caught a young thief scaling the security fence. Putty Face had reefed him off the fence like he might a cat and had given the thief a proper roughing up. The boy had been crazy enough to pull a knife on the old heavy. He was later found tied to a pier support at St Kilda, the tide lapping his chin. Shaking with cold and terror, he told the police he couldn’t remember anything.

Chocolate crackles. They were Putty Face’s favourite indulgence. He sniffed them as he stirred his cup of tea. Good old Babs. She was always giving him treats for the night shift. Chocolate cake, cheesecake, Anzac biscuits. But chocolate crackles! Before she had given the game away, Babs had excelled at giving out other treats. But he’d have still preferred chocolate crackles over a roll in the hay.

He picked one up, peeled off the patty-cake paper and took a bite. The melting chocolate, the chewy, coconut-laden rice bubbles made him squirm with pleasure. He thought they were so good, like bloody angels dancing on his tongue. After eating the first crackle and wiping away the chocolate ringing his mouth, Putty Face picked up another. And another, until he had eaten all eight of them. Then he leaned back in his chair and patted his belly. After finishing his cup of tea, he rested his head on the desk and nodded off for an hour.