How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery Read online

  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 jiggl
ing 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!’

  Hang on, why did Carlene care whether or not he saved Lucy? If she knew about Reuben’s feelings for her, she’d be on Frank’s side, cheering him on.

  ‘Come on, Rubie!’ Rueben swam up through layers of consciousness and opened his eyes. Carlene was standing over him, eyes sparking with impatience. ‘We’re going to the cent auction, remember?’

  Reuben sat up. He was on the living room couch. His mouth was dry and his head full of cotton wool. He groaned. ‘I’d forgotten about that.’

  He’d agreed to go with Carlene to a cent auction at the New Light Mission Church, a fundraiser for one of Pastor Bryan’s missions. There was nothing he felt less like doing. He got up, stumbled into the kitchen and poured a glass of cold water. The three World Vision children Carlene sponsored gazed out at him from their photos stuck on the fridge - Kiet from Thailand with his gap-toothed grin, Sahra from Somalia peeping shyly from under her fringe and Ali from Eritrea with his solemn eyes. Their childish innocence was accusing.

  ‘You’re drunk!’ Carlene said. ‘And you were whimpering in your sleep again!’

  ‘I’m not drunk. I’ve had a couple of drinks, that’s all.’

  ‘By yourself?’ Carlene looked around as if she suspected Reuben of hiding his drinking companion behind the curtains.

  ‘I went to the pub. Just felt like having a drink. I didn’t mean to stay as long as I did.’

  She sighed. ‘I was hoping you’d have dinner cooked; we’ve got to be there by seven. I’ll do some toasted sandwiches.’

  She busied herself in the kitchen. ‘You go and have a cold shower to sober up.’

  ‘That’s an old wives’ tale, it doesn’t make the slightest difference.’

  ‘Have one anyway,’ said Carlene. ‘And I’ll make you a strong black coffee.’

  ***

  Reuben felt no better after a cold shower and a black coffee. He remembered now, that was the worst part about drinking in the afternoon, having a hangover at night. It was unnatural, like having bacon and eggs for dinner. His conversation with Frank was forefront in his mind. Were his words just an empty threat, an angry venting from someone nursing a grudge? What if he was serious about maiming or killing Lucy – what was Reuben supposed to do? He couldn’t stand by and let it happen to anyone – but especially not to Lucy. He’d never forgive himself. It was too hard to think about it now, his head was throbbing too much.

  The New Light Mission was in Coorparoo, on the other side of the Brisbane River through the Clem Jones tunnel. Known as the Clem 7, it was touted as Brisbane’s biggest white elephant, due to the low traffic flow and its operator’s massive financial loss. But it certainly made the trip quicker and easier, and they arrived at the church in a suburban street, in twenty minutes.

  A small figurine of Jesus on the cross, beside the words ‘New Light Mission’ at the front were the only things that distinguished it from neighbouring houses. Behind it was the church hall where the auction was being held – a long wooden building strung with fairy lights. The scent of newly mown grass filled the air.

  ‘It doesn’t look like a church,’ Reuben said. He carried a Glad-wrapped plate of buttered pikelets - everyone had been asked to bring a plate to contribute to supper.

  ‘Pastor Bryan purposely had it built like that,’ Carlene said. ‘He wanted it to blend in with the surroundings because that’s how he thinks religion should be – a part of your everyday life, not something expensive and showy.’

  In that case, why build a church at all? Why not divert the cost of building it to charity and use someone’s garden shed? Reuben kept his thoughts to himself – to Carlene and her family, Pastor Bryan was an angel in disguise.

  The hall was a riot of chatter and activity. The cent auction had been billed as a ‘fun family night for all ages’, a signal for everyone to bring as many children as they could find. Kids ran and shouted on the lawn, and ducked and wove amongst the throng inside. Pastor Bryan stood at the front door greeting the guests as they entered. He was a stout, ruddy-faced man with a thatch of white hair.

  ‘I’m so pleased to meet you, Reuben,’ he said with a toothy smile. His trousers and jacket were ill-fitting and he seemed uncomfortable in them. Reuben wondered if he was more at home in his dog-collar. Then he remembered Carlene had said Pastor Bryan didn’t believe in elevating himself above his flock by wearing priestly garments. They shook hands – his hand was warm and damp. Despite the chill in the air, his mottled complexion glowed with a sheen of perspiration.

  ‘Carlene has told me so much about you. Perhaps I’ll see you one day at church.’

  Reuben mustered his warmest smile. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be happening, Pastor,’ he said with deep sincerity. He caught a flash of the Pastor’s disconcerted expression as he entered the hall.

  A middle-aged woman in a floral pinafore bustled over, enveloped Carlene in her arms and pressed her to her bosom. ‘Hullo, darling, how are you? And this must be Reuben. No wonder you’ve been hiding him, he’s too handsome to let on the loose.’

  She released Carlene and lunged towards Reuben. He thrust the pikelets in front of him and held out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  The woman looked disappointed, then smiled and shook his hand.

  ‘I’m Irene. I’ll take those, honey.’ She whipped the plate from him, crying ‘God bless!’ as she disappeared through the crowd.

  A succession of women emerged from the crowd to greet them. Reuben, defenceless without his pikelet-protection, succumbed to the lavish hugs and ‘God Blesses’. A plump young woman with a freshly scrubbed complexion introduced herself as Ruth, clasped him to her pillowy breasts, then held up a sheet of tickets.

  ‘Would you like to buy some?’

  ‘They’re all the same number,’ Reuben said.

  Carlene giggled. Ruth smiled. ‘They’re meant to be. You buy a sheet of tickets, decide which prizes you want to bid for, and put as many tickets as you want in the corresponding boxes. Then the auctioneer draws out the winning ticket.’

  ‘Sounds fun,’ Reuben said heartily. ‘Give us ten sheets.’

  He gave her a twenty-dollar note and she handed him ten sheets of tickets, from the numbers fifty-five to sixty-four.

  ‘Good luck,’ she said, simpering, and scuttled off.

  ‘That’s very generous of you, honey,’ Carlene said.

  ‘May as well make it worth our while,’ Reuben said. ‘I don’t want to walk out of here without at least one prize. Are there any worth winning?’

  Carlene pointed to a stand near the rear wall. On it perched a hot pink motor scooter, shone to brilliance under the lights, draped with pink ribbon and adorned with a large bow on the handlebars. A gaggle of admiring women and girls stood around it.

  ‘That’s the main prize – you’d look adorable on that, Rubie.’ She squeezed his arm.

  ‘I think I’d look even more adorable,’ a voice said behind them. Jolene appeared with Brayden wedged on her hip and Indya beside her clutching a sheet of tickets. With her hair in a bun and wearing a pinafore, tights and boots, Indya looked like a celebrity child from the pages of WHO magazine.

  ‘Don’t you think Mummy would look better than Uncle Reuben on that motor scooter?’ Jolene appealed to her daughter.

  Indya gave Reuben a scornful look. ‘Uncle Reuben would look silly, pink’s a girl’s colour.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Reuben. ‘I happen to like pink.’

  ‘Only homosexuals like pink,’ Indya pronounced.

  ‘Indya, that’s not very nice!’ Jolene gave an embarrassed giggle and rolled her eyes. ‘The things they learn in kindy! Say sorry to Uncle Reuben.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What’s my angel done this time?’

  Wayne ambled into view and patted Indya’s head.
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br />   ‘Uncle Reuben’s a homosexual,’ Indya said, ‘because he likes pink and he wants to win that scooter.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Wayne raised his eyebrows and grinned at Reuben. He’d held no grudges against Reuben for his roof escapade and waved away his offer to pay for the broken tiles. Reuben suspected that the amusement factor of the incident, undoubtedly recounted numerous times at the pub after work, far outweighed an angry Mrs Landers and the loss of two tiles; and a worker who’d proved to be not much of a loss at all.

  ‘He’s not going to win it, sweetheart, because we are.’ Wayne held up two ticket sheets with just the stubs left. ‘I put all those tickets in the box.’

  ‘Come on honey, we’ll go and put ours in,’ Reuben said. ‘That scooter would look great with my pink shirt and pink sneakers.’

  He took Carlene’s hand and led her through the crowd to the large box decorated in floral pink paper, in front of the scooter.

  ‘If that kid makes it to adulthood without someone throttling her, it’ll be a miracle,’ he said through gritted teeth.

  ‘She can’t help it,’ Carlene said. ‘She’s precocious because she’s so intelligent.’

  ‘If that’s intelligence, give me a dumb blonde any day.’ He tore off a sheet of tickets and posted them through the slit of the box. ‘Let’s see what else we can win.’

  The prizes were set up on trestle tables along the rear wall. Each was numbered with a box in which contenders placed their tickets. Reuben put in tickets for a massage, a facial for Carlene and a carry case of handyman’s tools. What he’d do with it he had no idea, but it seemed the sort of thing men acquired once they were tamed into domesticity.

  Alec stood behind the tables overseeing the process, smiling and nodding, with a look on his face that said he’d rather be anywhere else. Nancy strode in and out of the kitchen at the rear of the hall, a tea towel draped over her shoulder, eyes searching for someone to boss around. A roving MC, a round, jolly-faced man with a treble chin, kept up a running commentary.

  ‘Come on, folks – get your tickets in! We have some tremendous prizes here tonight and the profits will be helping to send some of our disadvantaged youth group members on an aid mission to Cambodia. These are the leaders of tomorrow, ladies and gentlemen, so this is a fantastically worthy cause, and I urge you to spend up big!’