by Cenarth Fox
Hoops fired first but missed. Murphy fired twice. It was your typical chaos when criminals discharge firearms without fear or favour.
Luca dived back inside his restaurant, scrambling for cover, when suddenly a gun slid towards him. He grabbed it, and prepared to return fire. The shooting stopped.
Silence. The seconds ticked by. Luca yelled.
‘Tony? You okay?’
The chef was not okay. He was without war wounds, but desperately wanted to puke. He croaked his words.
‘It’s okay, boss. They gone.’
Luca crept towards the kitchen, and took a quick peak through the round glass window in the door. No bandits. He pushed open the door, and ducked inside, pointing his gun in different directions.
The chef was only partly correct. Murphy had gone but not so Hoops, and he was not going anywhere.
The Italians surveyed the scene. They checked the corpse. Then the wail of a police siren made Luca sick to his guts.
This time the police came with guns drawn. Luca wanted to throw up. It was stunning stuff as Murphy whacked Luca twice; stunning because of the surprise element, and stunning because the cops arrived en masse.
Crims expect revenge but not a double serve. After the drive-by shooting on his home, Luca planned his payback. While he planned, Murphy struck again; he got his retaliation in first.
The Irishman was doubly smart. Luca now had cops crashing through his privacy, and arresting him for murder. Murphy framed his rival, and did it well. The boy from Belfast now ruled the Melbourne drug scene.
Hoops lay dead on Luca’s kitchen floor. The pint-sized teen took two bullets from Luca’s gun, which had Luca’s prints all over it. Wearing flesh-coloured gloves, Murphy had “accidentally” killed his own man, and boy was he cut up about that — not.
Murphy raced back to his car. En route, he called triple zero on a pay-as-you-go mobile, and sent the cops to Carlton —‘dere’s been a murder,’ he screamed, gave the address, cut the call, and later dumped the phone and steps. He leapt into the car blabbing about Hoops being shot.
‘Hoops is dead?’ whined Noddy.
‘I’ll kill dat feckin’ Iti wid me bare hands,’ growled Murphy, while secretly grinning inside, knowing Luca was up to his eyes in shit.
‘Just drive, drive,’ screamed Murphy. He was home free as the cops burst into Luca’s HQ.
The police saw what they saw.
Yes, it was a robbery or an attempted hit, or both, and yes, Luca had every right to defend himself and his staff. But this did not look good.
Luca knew the police would seize any chance to nail him. He knew his so-called squeaky-clean image did not wash with the pigs. The whiff of a set-up counted for nothing.
I spy the smoking gun and you, chummy, are going down.
In the interview-room, a detective spoke. ‘Look at the facts, Mr Parisi. We have a dead man in your restaurant, shot with your gun which has one set of fingerprints — yours. What can you tell us about that?’
Luca remained mute. His solicitor spoke.
‘My client has nothing further to add to the statement he’s already provided. Please officer, either charge or release Mr Parisi.’
The police turned off the recording equipment, and left the room.
‘It’s bullshit,’ snapped Luca, pacing the room. ‘No way can they charge me with murder. Three witnesses saw Murphy shoot his own man.’
‘Two witnesses; one was out cold.’
‘He will say he was pretending and playing dead. He will swear he saw Murphy shoot his own man — three eye witnesses.’
‘Of course we fight any murder charge. But having unregistered and unsecured firearms on the property is trouble, Luca. You’ll be charged.’
Luca kicked a chair. ‘Fines, a slap on the wrist.’ He pointed at his solicitor. ‘Just make sure there’s no fucken murder charge.’
There was. The police woke a sleepy Office of Public Prosecutions lawyer then returned. Luca’s ears expelled steam.
The detective spoke. ‘Mr Parisi, you will be charged with murder. You can apply for bail before the magistrate in the morning — but I wouldn’t hold your breath.’
Luca thought about screaming abuse, about lunging at the police, about threatening to kill Murphy, but remained outwardly calm — just.
He ordered his solicitor to be at Luca’s home first thing in the morning to explain matters to Sheila and Kellie. They would not be happy. Then Luca called Animal.
6
BERNIE EXPERIMENTED in his father’s shed. For 31 years, Gus taught science in secondary colleges until his devastating car accident. He gave son Bernie a love for all things scientific and, as a wee lad; Bernie explored chemistry with his father in this backyard bungalow.
Tonight Bernie beavered away mixing chemicals, heating them, testing reactions, and making notes.
It was a fortnight since he first met Annuska. He went a second time, and they hit it off. She gave him copies of her private notes on drugs influencing the brain. By night he digested them, re-read Norman Doidge’s texts, read more generally about drugs affecting the brain, and even threw in ideas from his own training.
He rang one of his father’s friends, a neurologist. He picked people’s brains about brains, and all this enabled Bernie to create a formula with equal amounts of guesswork, hope and science. He clung to his wild idea of a conscience drug.
He worked alone. Annuska’s message about spies rang alarm bells. Everything he did was offline, at home with Albert, or here in the old man’s shed. Bernie and Luca Parisi had something in common — no paper trails and nothing online.
Bernie heard a strange sound, and stopped work. It got louder. Bernie waited. Had the company spies tracked him here?
‘It’s only the poor, old cripple,’ called Gus.
Bernie relaxed, opened the shed door, and helped push his father inside. The wheelchair only just made it.
‘Dad, this is crazy. There’s mud all over your tyres. Mum’ll have a fit.’
‘Long time since we were in here together.’
Bernie nodded. His father’s shed held heaps of happy memories.
‘You sure you don’t mind me being in here,’ asked Bernie?
‘Mind? I’m delighted, but curious to know what you’re doing.’
Bernie grew nervous. What possible reason could his father have to slip and slide through the backyard? Any chat could far more easily occur indoors. He originally told his father he wanted to “fix” the shed so he could teach his parents’ grandchildren about science. Then Annuska’s warning jarred his brain.
Is my father a spy? Hardly.
‘Ah, I’m just testing a theory on a new drug for the brain.’
‘In here? You have a million dollar research lab, and you choose this ramshackle garden shed?’
‘It’s the nostalgia, Dad. It’s my lucky charm locale.’
‘Well I hope you’re a better scientist than you are a liar.’
Bernie grimaced. He had been sprung.
‘I could never fool you, Dad. If I broke a window, and tried to blame Maddy, or told you I was out with the boys when I was with a girl, you always knew.’
‘It wasn’t me being clever; it was more you failing the baloney test.’
They laughed. Gus examined his son’s apparatus and concoctions, becoming nosy in a polite and genuinely interested way.
‘So what’s the real reason you’re working out here?’
‘You won’t believe this,’ said Bernie. ‘I really am testing a theory on a new drug for the brain, but I’m working here because my crazy idea is not part of my job, and I think there are spies at work.’
Gus looked at his son. This time the boy spoke the truth.
‘Spies — as in Russian diplomats and spooks?’
Bernie shrugged. ‘More your lackeys-for-the-management spies, but yes, people who check your work and tell others.’
‘Have you told your boss?’
‘Ah, therein lie
s the problem.’
The old man’s eyes widened. ‘Your boss is a spy?’
‘Well, perhaps the collator of data delivered by his spies.’
‘So what’s this theory of yours? No, don’t speak. You could say, but you’ll have to kill me.’
They laughed again but without enthusiasm.
It was time for a role reversal with Bernie asking the questions.
‘You haven’t come out here to inspect my chemistry.’ Bernie looked at his father. ‘What’s up, Dad? Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine.’
Silence filled the shed. Bernie sensed bad news but hesitated to ask. Ignorance is bliss. Finally, Gus spoke about his wife, Daphne.
‘It’s your mother. She’s not well.’ Bernie’s heart sank.
‘But she can’t be sick; she looks terrific. I’ve never seen her looking better.’
Gus hesitated. ‘Physically she’s tickety-boo.’ More silence. ‘But I’m afraid she has early signs of dementia.’
Wow.
Tears appeared in the old man’s eyes. He became numb, and grasped the arms of his wheelchair, turning his knuckles white.
Bernie slumped. Words failed. Finally, he spoke in a whisper.
‘Are you sure?’
Gus nodded. ‘The GP told me the other day. Maddy knows.’
‘But Mum’s your carer. How can she cope with all your needs?’
‘Oh that’s not a problem. We’ll swap and I’ll become her carer.’
Bernie looked at his pathetic father. His black comedy sense of humour thrived. But this once active, proud and loving man now lived in a wheelchair, needing help to perform even the most basic of tasks. Bottom wiping was barely within his remit.
‘Why haven’t you told me this before?’ pleaded Bernie.
His father shrugged. ‘At first it was just the odd thing. She’d forget someone’s name or ask me a question, and then five minutes later, ask me again. I forget things. I thought it was just old age.’
‘You and Mum aren’t old.’
‘I talked to the GP and he arranged some tests. The results came back and …’
Gus could not finish the sentence. He did not care that Daphne would no longer be able to care for his crippled body. He cared because the woman he loved was no longer the woman he loved.
Bernie squeezed his father’s shoulder. Gus squeezed his son’s arm. They were not big on hugs, and the wheelchair didn’t help, yet both found the activity natural and comforting.
Emotional?
You bet.
They went inside and Bernie knew his instructions. Say nothing. Treat your mother as if everything is normal, and everyone is fine and dandy.
They found Daphne with Madeline and her two kids.
‘What were you doing outside, Uncle Bernie?’ one asked.
‘I was being a scientist in Pa’s shed. I can teach you two all sorts of things about science. Would that be cool?’
His nephew and niece bubbled with enthusiasm.
‘But not now,’ said their mother. ‘Show Gran and Pa your projects.’
The children proudly displayed their school material. Gus was delighted and made all sorts of positive comments. The room buzzed with excitement until an innocent six year-old asked a question.
‘Do you like my project, Gran?’
Daphne looked at the artwork, then at the child, and then dropped a bombshell when she spoke.
‘What’s your name?’
The silence was deafening. Gus looked at his adult children with tears in his eyes. Madeline took control. She told her kids to kiss their grandparents, then bundled her offspring out the door. Bernie kissed his mother, and shook his father’s hand with both hands.
‘Bye Mum. I’ll call you tomorrow, Dad.’ He looked straight at his father, nodded, and then followed his sister.
In the street, the grandkids sat strapped in the car, while the adult siblings stood in the street not able to look at one another.
Madeline cried. Bernie embraced her, struggling to find words of comfort.
‘It’s Dad I feel sorry for,’ she wept. ‘Mum has no idea.’
‘Probably,’ said Bernie.
‘Probably?’
‘We can’t be sure how much knowledge dementia patients have about their condition.’
Conversation proved tricky. Madeline had problems of her own, and her mother’s condition exacerbated her woe. She unloaded her grief.
‘Poor Dad. He sits there, helpless, and watches the woman he loves fall apart in front of him. It’s not fair.’
‘I know,’ whispered Bernie.
‘I’d like a word with God. Surely one disabled parent’s enough. Why two? And what are we going to do?’
‘Dad told me they’ll switch roles; he’ll become Mum’s carer.’
Madeline looked at her brother in disbelief, and then cried the more. The black comedy quip fell flat. Bernie was nervous but felt he had to ask.
‘How’s Bruce?’
The loaded question intensified Madeline’s suffering. Her unhappy marriage now had a rival; her mother’s dementia. Bernie promised to call his sister the next day when they would have a full-on discussion about this latest crisis. Suddenly Bernie’s wonder drug idea lost its relevance.
Bernie rang Annuska and asked if he might visit. She agreed. When he arrived, Annuska opened the door almost as wide as her smile.
‘Bernard, it is so lovely to see you again.’ He handed her a bunch of flowers. ‘And flowers too.’ She stiffened and spoke in a mock threatening way. ‘Are they for me or that floozy, Dorothy?’
‘I heard that,’ said Dorothy entering the hall.
‘For both of you, of course,’ replied Bernie.
The trio entered the lounge room where Annuska indicated a chair for Bernie. He remained standing, waiting for Dorothy to sit.
‘I’m not staying,’ she said. ‘I’ll pop these in water, and then fetch your black coffee and cinnamon doughnut.’
The stunned look on Bernie’s face caused the women to laugh with gay abandon. Annuska was well ahead in the volume stakes, and the mirth took some time to subside. Dorothy departed.
‘How on earth did you know?’ asked Bernie.
Annuska tapped her nose. ‘Labcope are not the only ones who have the spies. Do you know Bruno in the basement?’
‘I do, and he’s a lovely man.’
‘We Hungarians stick together, no? He did some exploring for me and we found your only weakness.’
Bernie sat and purred. ‘I’m afraid I have many weaknesses.’
‘Good, these we can explore later,’ added Annuska with a wink.
‘Dr Eszes, thank you for all your help. Your notes have been fantastic.’
‘Dr Eszes? Please, I tell you to call me Annuska.’ She slipped into a Marlene Dietrich voice for the last two words. ‘Or else, my darling.’
‘Annuska,’ grinned Bernie.
‘But that previous conversation on the telephone, my friend, must be our last.’ Bernie frowned. ‘You forget my warning about spies?’
The penny dropped. ‘The lines are tapped?’ he gasped. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I tell you everything what happened when I worked at Labcope. You can then decide for yourself.’
Dorothy entered with that favourite snack.
Bernie munched as Annuska told stories. They blew his mind. If only half were true, Labcope was a hotbed of intrigue. If the Hyphen was a sneaky bastard, some of Annuska’s bosses were positively Machiavellian.
‘If we talk on the phone in the future, Bernard, we discuss the weather and our love lifes.’
‘Love lives,’ corrected Dorothy.
‘Oh take no notice of her, Bernard. She is not like you and me. We are still full of romance with a passion for love, yes?’
She winked and, for a moment, Bernie thought he was in some drug-induced fantasy.
‘And we know what they say about those who talk about it,’ added Dorothy.
Finally
, barbs and boasts aside, they turned to Bernie’s proposed formula. He opened his backpack, and handed Annuska his notes. She started to read, fascinated with the contents. Occasionally, without looking up, she threw in a comment.
‘That won’t work … it’s the right side of the brain … you are wrong here … that is something I never would have thought about … I’m not sure that’s correct … Ez a csodálatos.’*
(*Hungarian for ‘That is amazing’.)
After what seemed like ages, she stopped reading, removed her glasses, and handed Bernie his notes. She did not speak.
‘Well, put the young man out of his misery,’ ordered Dorothy.
‘You have taken my work and added something completely new,’ said Annuska. ‘I think you may have found a stunning new way to treat the brain.’
Bernie found it hard to breathe. The lump in his throat got lumpier.
‘I’m not saying it will work, mind, but maybe,’ said Annuska.
‘That’s very encouraging, thank you, Annuska.’
‘However, you have one major problem.’ Bernie’s happiness stalled. ‘You know that animals help us to understand many results and side effects when we trial a new drug. And you know that testing a drug on animals can be unreliable, sometimes impossible. But your situation is far worse. With your proposed drug, we are talking morality, and physical pain caused by mental torment. To put it sharply …’
‘Bluntly,’ said Dorothy.
‘To put it bluntly, Bernard, your guinea pigs will have to be human.’
Smack! Bernie felt as if Annuska had slapped his face. He argued.
‘But I must work with animals first. To start with human testing is against everything a scientist does, not to mention illegal.’
‘Do you like the irony?’
Bernard paused, not sure of the question.
‘It’s all right, Bernard,’ said Dorothy. ‘This time the good doctor’s grasp of irony is, ironically, perfectly correct.’
‘Thank you, Dotty,’ added an appreciative Annuska.
Bernard realised. He planned to make a drug for the conscience, yet had to test it in an unconscionable way.