How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery (7 page)

It wouldn’t be as simple as it sounded, there’d be provisos. But it was worth a go. He’d enjoyed drama classes at school and didn’t mind making a fool of himself in front of the others, particularly if he could raise a laugh. At university he joined the amateur theatrical society, mainly as a way of meeting girls. Who was that gorgeous babe they’d all lusted after, with a body so perfect their stage fright had turned to dumbstruck admiration? When, as Juliet, she dropped to her death on the stage, every male in the audience wanted to get up there and die with her. What
was
her name?

Veronica, that was it. She changed the spelling to Veronika; she thought it more exotic and she was determined to make it big in the movies. He hadn’t seen or heard of her since then so maybe she was still waiting for her big break. Film and TV work always sounded more glamorous than it was in reality. A friend at uni had got some holiday work as an extra on a film at the Gold Coast, and spent most of his time standing around in the hot sun drinking bad coffee and waiting to be called on the set. But he was paid hundreds of dollars for it, so it had to be worth it. And easier than standing on a roof for eight hours a day. Or juggling plates of pasta. Or making concrete. Or practically anything else.

Reuben whipped out his mobile phone, dialled the number and made an appointment for Monday at ten o’clock. As he left the cafe, he smiled and waved to Nina behind the counter. She acknowledged him with a half nod before looking away.
You can stuff your non-existent job.

CHAPTER 6

The Edinburgh Arms Hotel was a misnomer – there was nothing the least bit Scottish about its red brick, mould-stained edifice. A faded coat of arms on the sign paid token homage to its name.

Inside it was much the same as any other suburban pub on a Saturday afternoon. Cool and dim, infused with the odour of beer and stale carpet, evoking a sense of refuge, that in here you could forget your problems and temporarily suspend your other life.

Reuben ordered a beer and perched on a stool in the Sportsman’s Lounge. After Carlene had left for her refugee support group meeting, he went for a walk and found his footsteps leading him to the Edinburgh Arms. He only intended to have a lemon squash to quench his thirst, but once inside he succumbed to its lure.

He looked around at the three large screen TVs. Horse racing, rugby and motor racing, catering for all tastes. The clientele were mostly male, solitary figures like himself or huddled in small groups, someone occasionally letting forth a yell as his horse or team came home.

It had taken him some time after his release from prison to become used to humanity en masse. Everywhere he went people rushed towards him, pushed past him and encroached on his personal space, barely aware of his existence. Sometimes when it became too much, he’d retreat to the bedroom after arriving home and bury himself in a Mandrake comic with the Boston Stranglers, his favourite band, on his iPod.

Mandrake the Magician had been his comfort and his escape since he was eight, when ‘Old Albert’ next door had given him his stash of old Mandrake comics. As someone who enjoyed, as one teacher put it, ‘a rich inner life’, Mandrake’s method of outwitting his enemies by hypnotising them and making them see illusions appealed to Reuben. He’d often fantasised about doing the same to Boofhead Barker and his gang, and as he grew older, to anyone who made his life difficult. Carlene thought his obsession with Mandrake childish, but she couldn’t help sticking her head through the door periodically and asking, ‘Are you all right, honey?’ with the worried expression of a mother who suspects her teenage son of plotting suicide in his bedroom.

But here in the Edinburgh Arms, the atmosphere was just right. He could revel in his solitude, yet still feel a part of the human race. He took a long, appreciative sip of his beer. How many times, while he was inside, had he imagined this, conjured up the bittersweet malty taste of it on his tongue so vividly that he could almost swear he was having a beer, sitting there in his cell. His ability to transport himself to another world was one of the few things that had kept him sane.

He was just debating whether to have another beer when he felt a thump on his shoulder.

‘If it isn’t Littledick – the people you run into when you don’t have a gun!’

A body slid itself onto the stool opposite Reuben and set a beer on the table. Shaved head, protuberant milky-blue eyes, wide, thin-lipped mouth. The face bore a remarkable resemblance to a bullfrog, right down to the folds of loose skin under his jaw. No one dared joke about it to Frank Cornell’s face. The open top buttons of his shirt revealed gold chains nestled in a forest of tight, sandy-coloured curls. The last time Reuben had seen Frank this close-up he was wearing the same brown uniform as everyone else, but he had no doubt that the shirt Frank was wearing now was worth more than Reuben’s entire wardrobe.

‘Likewise,’ Reuben said. ‘What are you doing in this neck of the woods?’

He forced a jovial tone. He and Frank had scarcely exchanged a few words during his entire time in prison – they mixed in different circles and Reuben kept well away from him – and he wondered why he was singling him out now.
Don’t be
paranoid, you’re not inside now.

‘Minding my own business, as always,’ Frank said. ‘I was supposed to meet a client here, but he stood me up. First and last time for him.’

He drummed his fingers on the table. Broad and freckled, they were adorned with the kind of showy rings that shouted, ‘Rich wanker!’

‘Anyway, Littledick, I might ask the same about you.’

‘Just having a quiet drink. I only live a few streets away.’

‘Yeah, I remember now. Your old girl almost wiped me out the other day, pulling out in front of me.’

‘That was my mother-in-law,’ Reuben said. ‘I’m sorry, she’s a maniac on the road.’

‘Mother-in-laws are maniacs, full stop,’ Frank said. ‘I’ve had three of ‘em myself.’

He took a swig of his drink, leaned back and studied the TV screen. His shirt strained against the beginnings of a paunch. He looked for all the world as if he’d settled in for a cosy drink with a good mate.

He downed the rest of his beer in one gulp and nodded at Reuben’s empty glass. ‘Same again?’

Reuben hesitated. If he allowed Frank to shout him this beer, he’d have to buy another round to return the shout and by that time, his body, unused to large quantities of alcohol…

Frank was already at the bar. He came back with two schooners. Reuben nodded his thanks. That’d teach him to be indecisive, although he had a feeling that when Frank shouted, you drank schooners, no argument.

‘So, Littledick, what have you been doing with yourself? Staying out of trouble?’

‘Looking for work, mostly.’

Frank took this as a cue to launch into an account of his latest business dealings – buying, selling and developing property. His speech was peppered with million-dollar contracts, weekends on yachts brokering deals and the names of well-respected businessmen about town. Reuben had no idea how much of what he said was fact and how much was self-aggrandisement; considering that Frank was only released from prison a couple of weeks earlier than he, he’d achieved a lot in a short time, even if half of his story was true. He made no mention of his time in jail or his crimes. Not that he was likely to confide in Reuben – there’d been rumours in jail that he’d proclaimed his innocence of all drug-related activities until the day of his trial, when he’d changed his plea to guilty on the advice of his lawyer. The trafficking charges had been downgraded to supplying, for which there was a much lighter penalty.

When Frank stopped to draw breath and realised his glass was empty, Reuben went up to the bar and ordered a schooner for Frank and a lemon squash for himself. He was already feeling light-headed and he wanted to keep his wits about him, especially in Frank’s company.

‘Piking out, Littledick?’ Frank said, nodding at Reuben’s drink.

‘I’m going out tonight,’ he lied. ‘Don’t want to be over the limit.’

Frank nodded. ‘Very wise. We don’t want any more contact with the constabulary.’

He said the last sentence in a faux-posh voice, stumbling over ‘constabulary’. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘You on parole?’

Reuben nodded.

‘It’s a total crock of shit, isn’t it? I’m not allowed to go overseas, not even interstate. I do business all over the world – how the fuck am I supposed to make a living? A bloke may as well be back inside. And my parole officer, that sleazy little jerk, every time I see him I want to punch that smug smile off his face.’

‘Which parole office do you go to?’ asked Reuben, hoping it wasn’t his.

‘Spring Hill, I live in Newstead.’

That figured. Newstead was one of the trendy inner-city areas, where you paid half a million dollars for a box-sized apartment in a converted woolshed.

‘I suppose I’m lucky,’ Reuben said. ‘I don’t have any complaints about my parole officer. Lucy’s a nice lady.’

Frank stopped mid-sip.

‘Lucy who?’

‘Lucy Prentice.’

Frank banged his glass down on the table. ‘So this is where the bitch is hanging out now.’

‘What do you mean?’

Frank leaned forward again. His eyes almost bulged out of his head. Reuben had a vision of them popping out into his beer.

‘Let me enlighten you, mate,’ he said, his voice low and measured, ‘Lucy Prentice is not a nice lady; she is a first class bitch. She got me put back inside, for no good reason.’

Reuben flinched inwardly. In his mind the words ‘Lucy’ and ‘bitch’ were mutually exclusive. ‘How?’

‘She was my parole officer when I was living at the Gold Coast and got arrested for possession. Trumped-up charge, of course. But because of that she suspended my parole. You do know that they can suspend your parole if you’re charged with an offence, even before you’re found guilty, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I’m aware of that,’ Reuben said. To his mind, it was an extra incentive to stay away from anything or anyone that hinted at illegality.

‘I got put in the slammer but when the charges were dropped, they wouldn’t let me out. The parole board cancelled my parole – said I was a danger to the community or some such crap. Two years I spent inside, before they let me out again – two years!’

A bubble of spittle pooled on his bottom lip. He was so close Reuben could smell his sour breath.

‘My multi-million property deal that I was just about to close went down the toilet, then my missus decided she’d had enough of me being in the slammer and pissed off with my brother. Then to top it all off, my fifteen-year-old daughter got herself knocked up by some no-hoper, ran away from home and shacked up with him. A parking officer, for fuck’s sake! If I’d been there, I’d have shoved his parking tickets up his arse and wrapped him round the nearest parking meter!’

He slammed his fist on the table. ‘And none of that would have happened except for Lucy Fucking Prentice!’

‘But surely it wasn’t her fault the parole board cancelled your parole,’ Reuben said.

Frank looked at him with disbelief then shook his head. ‘Mate, have you got the hots for her or something? Of course it was her fucking fault! The parole officers and the parole board are in cahoots with each other – she told them to cancel it! So be warned - she might look all sweet and innocent and you might think you’d like to throw her over the desk and give her one, but she’s about as sweet as a death adder!’

He threw back a gulp of beer. ‘Anyway, I reckon she’d have a porcupine instead of a pussy. Scar you for life.’

‘Well,’ Reuben said. ‘Thanks for the warning.’

‘And I’ll tell you something else, Lucy Fucking Prentice better watch her back.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Exactly what I said! Karma is about to happen. If you dish it up, you gotta be able to take it.’

Reuben’s throat went dry. He swallowed. ‘What are you going to do?’

Frank shook his head. ‘Three monkeys, mate.’

‘What?’

‘See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.’

He surveyed Reuben, eyes impassive. ‘Or recruit you.’

‘Recruit me for what?’

‘Don’t act dumb, Littledick.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You’re in the front line, you’re seeing her – what? Every fortnight? You’re in a position to find out lots of useful information.’

Reuben took a long sip of his drink to give Frank’s words time to sink in. He could hardly believe what he’d just heard. Frank had asked for his help to get revenge on Lucy. What did that mean? Kill her? Or maim her for life? Reuben didn’t dare ask. Not that it mattered; either scenario was unthinkable.

‘I’ll make it worth your while. It’s an easy way to make some dough.’ Frank grinned. ‘Cash in hand.’

Reuben cleared his throat. ‘Thanks for the offer, but no thanks.’

‘A man of honour, Littledick! I’m impressed! No worries, there’s more than one way to skin a cat.’

He downed his beer, stood up and held out his hand. ‘Good to catch up.’

Reuben stood up and shook his hand. ‘Likewise.’

Frank leaned forward and his face swooped in close to Reuben’s. For one weird moment, Reuben thought Frank was going to kiss him.

‘Just for the record,’ he said in a low voice, ‘this conversation didn’t happen, so it would be pointless reporting it to the bitch or the cops … and very dangerous. Life-threatening, in fact. Get my drift?’

Reuben nodded.

‘And don’t think I won’t know if you do. Some of my best friends are cops.’

He pulled away and grinned broadly at Reuben, as if they’d just shared a dirty joke. Then he strode out, waving and calling a hearty goodbye to the bartender and the row of barrel-bellied old codgers perched at the bar. Reuben finished his squash. He’d had enough and should go home. But he went to the bar and ordered another beer. A schooner.

CHAPTER 7

Lucy was in a bikini, gagged and trussed. Frank was about to throw her into the shark pool. Even in the midst of his horror, Reuben couldn’t help his arousal at the sight of her exposed body as she struggled against her ties – the smooth curve of her shoulders as they wriggled, her bouncing buttocks and jiggling thighs. Frank stepped forward to pick her up. Reuben tried to run over to save her, but his feet were stuck in quicksand. Carlene was shaking his shoulder urgently. ‘Come on, Rubie, you have to save her!’