by Cenarth Fox
‘Good luck with that,’ said Bernie. He held up each ingredient, named it, measured it and placed it in the bowl. He lit the Bunsen burner.
Luca was hooked. He asked questions, and moved in close. Bernie looked at Luca’s gun. It was close. Bernie planned a heist.
He kept calm on the outside, but inside, his heart and mind went toe to toe. The shed seemed to shrink. Would it become his tomb?
If I make this batch, I’m no longer of any use. He’ll use the Premier as hostage. So what happens to me? I’ve tricked him already. He can’t leave me behind to call the cops. Can I get that gun?
Bernie worked through the steps of the formula with Luca fascinated. They approached the end of the task when a startled Luca darted behind the door and pointed his gun. Silence. A soft knocking was heard. Pause. Jessica spoke.
‘I’ve made some coffee. Will Sir take it here or in the dining room?’
Luca opened the door. ‘We’re nearly done. Wait inside. And no lights.’
‘I hope you like it black,’ she said and left.
The Premier fumed but knew that when the music stops, the winner is the one holding the parcel. She had a plan.
Bernie had two opponents.
‘How do I know this batch will work?’ asked Luca.
‘Try it.’
Luca aimed his gun. ‘I’ve had enough of your crap. Tell me.’
‘Think about it. You watched. I used the right ingredients, the right amounts, and the right process. If it worked before, it’ll work again.’
Luca thought he had a brainwave.
‘Of course,’ he grinned. ‘We can test it on you.’
‘Well that’s pretty stupid.’ Bernie seemed to lose all fear.
If I’m going to die, I might as well go down stirring.
Luca added confusion to his anger. Bernie berated him.
‘Work it out, Einstein. If I’ve made it correctly, and then take the drug, my conscience won’t be troubled. If I’ve made it incorrectly, the drug won’t work and my conscience won’t be troubled. Stalemate, mate.’
‘Just finish it.’
Bernie fiddled. His mind wandered. This shed was where his old man introduced him to Chemistry.
I never thought I’d finish up making drugs for the Mafia.
He thought of his mother now living in fairyland, not knowing her husband, children or grandchildren. He remembered stories about young men dying on the battlefield, calling for their mother.
Just before Parisi pulls the trigger, will I call for my Mum?
He thought of his Dad. When Bernie was a nipper, Gus taught him science stuff; his kind father, his wonderful, loving, patient father.
‘Always handle with care, Bernie.’
‘This is highly flammable, Bernie.’
‘This combined with this produces a flash, Bernie.’
Tears formed in Bernie’s eyes, because of his impending death, and because his mind filled with thoughts of the love his parents gave him — boundless, unconditional, selfless love.
‘Have you finished?’ snapped Luca.
Bernie crashed back to reality. ‘Almost.’
Bernie’s childhood lessons in this shed pinged in his mind. He reached for some potassium permanganate.
‘What’s that?’ Luca wanted closure. ‘That’s not on your list.’
‘It’s a cleaning agent for the container.’ Bernie lied with ease. ‘The best drugs are useless with foreign bodies inside the container.’
Luca grunted, accepting the explanation.
Bernie explored his father’s favourite cabinet.
‘Hey, what now?’
‘Sealant. I assume you’ll be taking this to your Mafia mates in Italia. Do you want moisture inside the container, ruining the drug?’
Luca nodded assent. ‘Get on with it.’
Bernie knew his Dad’s supplies. Some of them had been used by Cain and Abel. Would these chemicals still work? He found an old bottle of propan-1,2,3-triol, and a couple of other items.
Have I remembered this correctly?
He made himself look busy. Luca grew impatient.
‘Do you want the drug in small containers or one large one?’
‘Whatever. Are we done?’
‘Just about. The beauty of this conscience drug is that it’s odourless. Sniffer dogs just walk on by. Here, have a sniff.’
Bernie stood back. Luca leant in and sniffed. Bernie flicked the liquid towards the potassium mixture and BANG! The flash struck Luca in the face.
He screamed, dropped his gun, and put his hands to his face. Bernie raced to get to the gun but was too slow.
‘Back, back, back, hero,’ said Jessica who was spying through the cracked window, and timed her entrance to perfection.
‘I’m blind,’ screamed Luca. ‘I can’t see.’
‘Shut up,’ hissed Jessica, and pistol-whipped the gangster for good measure. He screamed in slow motion.
‘You’ll be okay. It’s only a temporary blindness,’ said Bernie.
‘Yes, shut up, Dago,’ offered the Premier. Jessica could be all class.
She held the gun, Bernie came second — again, and Luciano slumped on the floor and suffered.
The Premier went all chummy. ‘Now Bernie, me old mate, how’s about you hand over the antidote to your wonderful invention?’
She moved to make sure Bernie saw the gun. He realised.
I’m now going to be shot by the Premier of Victoria. Surely, that guarantees a spot in The Guinness Book of Records.
‘There is no antidote, madam; other than confession and apology.’
‘Oh Bernard, please, you can’t bullshit a bullshitter. I know my Chief of Staff and the lovely Animal both took the antidote.’
Continual wailing from Luca.
‘No, you know they took what they thought was the antidote.’
Jessica froze. Panic stations. She sensed the scientist wasn’t lying. Oh no! She only sensed. Had Jessica’s great skill of picking lies deserted her?
Bernie continued. ‘In scientific circles, it’s the placebo effect. Labcope have a fine reputation for running trials using some of the best placebo drugs in the world. Haven’t you spotted the anagram of the company?’
‘You bastard.’
Oh great. I’ve outsmarted the crooked CEO, his spy Mata Hari, and the drug baron, only to be stymied by the psychopathic politician.
Jessica recovered. She may have lost the battle but she sure as hell had won the war. She grabbed the formula and stuffed it in her bra.
‘Now the drug. Just the drug and none of your fireworks.’
In the dim red light, Bernie placed his latest batch of the MCP on the bench close to the Premier. She grabbed the potion.
‘Well done, Bernie. Pity about the antidote. Still, two out of three ain’t bad. Now, what does the script say about our denouement?’
‘You’re the boss.’
Luca’s moaning was on a loop.
‘How about Luciano shoots you and, to save myself, I wrestle the gun from the murderer and shoot Luciano. Sound okay to you?’
‘Perfect. Just make sure you haven’t breathed in the vapours from that little explosion.’
Jessica stopped. Two thoughts bombarded her brain. Is he lying? Has my ability to detect bullshit deserted me?
‘Don’t play games, smart arse.’
‘There are traces of the conscience drug on the bench. The explosion sent particles floating in the air. Don’t take deep breaths unless you want to cop the same headaches as your Chief of Staff.’
‘You’re lying.’ Jessica’s pulse switched to rapid. She breathed slowly.
‘And you’re the one with the gun.’
I wish I hadn’t said that.
‘Exactly. So think of this as coming from the Italian drug-dealer.’
She moved closer to Luca, still slumped on the floor, whimpering. Rubbing his eyes made his suffering worse.
‘Been nice knowing you, Bernie.’
It seemed that time stood still. She aimed the gun then died.
The shed, the whole back yard, exploded with light — bright, dazzling, blinding light. A voice through a loud hailer split the night air.
‘This is the police. You are surrounded. Do not move.’
Jessica decided. Firing now would not be in her best interests.
Bernie rejoiced — internally.
The police spokesperson gave explicit orders. Exit with hands raised.
Jessica hauled Luca to his feet, and shoved him out the door. He staggered and fell, whacking his head on a homemade garden swing. It danced above him. Police swooped on the hapless drug baron.
Bernie spoke calmly. ‘You don’t want to be caught with that illegal substance. Imagine the headline. Premier charged in drug bust.’
Jessica thought about it then placed the container on the workbench.
Announcing she would throw out the gun, Jessica did so then followed with her hands above her head.
Only one person remained.
Bernie picked up the drugs and ingredients, dumped them in the old sink, and turned on the tap. The police called for Bernie’s appearance.
He wanted his former life, the one with Albert and Gary. He missed their cuddles and walks. Now this madness was over, Bernie longed for the old days; Signora Conti and her lasagna would do for starters. Black coffee and cinnamon doughnuts were right up there too. Goodbye shed.
He turned off the tap, opened the door and stepped into the backyard, his hands held high. He soon found himself in the back of a police vehicle being whisked away for a debriefing. That only took three hours.
Jessica missed the interview experience. Playing the victim helped. Being the Premier helped even more. She stood in the Slim backyard, beside the Police Commissioner.
‘So, Madam, I assume you got what you wanted?’
‘I did, Chief Commissioner.’
‘May I see it?’
She produced the calendar page, and handed it to the police officer.
He shone a pencil torch on the document.’
‘All Chinese to me.’
‘And what would the Chinese pay for it, I wonder?’
He grimaced and tore the page in two, handing her one-half. He proceeded to tear his portion into pieces. She shrugged then copied him.
‘I’ll leave you to dispose of your material, Premier. Please don’t litter. Now, can I give you a lift?’
‘Thank you, Commissioner, I have my driver. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight,’ said the top cop, who watched the Premier depart.
She took out her phone. Her Chief of Staff needed sorting.
At least the formula was dead.
Or was it?
23
AS SOON AS JESSICA left Hawthorn, she sped to St Kilda. Dealing with Genevieve dominated the Premier’s thinking.
Having clobbered her guest, Mother set about caring for the victim. Lois, having escaped the Labcope siege, thanks to the Premier, arrived home, and could not believe Mother had attacked the Chief of Staff.
Lois immediately summoned an ambulance. The patient had “fallen down the stairs”, and the wounded Genevieve departed for hospital.
Jessica arrived seeking her “pal”. By now, Lois and Mother were in their nighties, which meant nothing to the Premier. She demanded details. When told the tale of the phone call to the journalist, and the wayward walking stick, she asked nothing about Genevieve’s condition.
‘Did she speak to the journalist? Did she?’
Mother still had her wits about her at this late hour.
‘I stopped her,’ said Mother. ‘I won’t let anyone say bad things about my darling, devoted daughter.’
Lois still had trouble coming to terms with her mother’s personality makeover, which now apparently included a serve of thuggery.
Jessica felt a smidgeon of relief, but took off still in worry-mode.
The ambulance crew reckoned Genevieve had been assaulted. The doctor on duty at the Alfred Hospital agreed, and informed the police. Before they arrived, the patient had a visitor.
‘She’ll see me,’ said Jessica to the nurse, who had been told to admit only immediate family.
Nobody stops the Premier. She entered Genevieve’s room, and for the life of her, couldn’t remember if the husband was Jason or Justin.
‘Hello, darl,’ she oozed, kissing Genevieve, and making the patient’s headache even worse.
Genevieve felt crook, her mind hazy, but she could still remember the last time she and the Premier had a chat.
This woman threatened me and my family.
Jessica gushed. ‘I’m going to look after you, babe. You’re going to get the best care money can provide.’
The Chief of Staff kept having flashbacks.
You wouldn’t want your reckless behaviour to hurt anyone … like a certain Chief of Staff.
Before their chat could continue, two detectives arrived, and asked if Genevieve was up to answering some questions. She was.
Normally uniformed officers would investigate a possible domestic but with the ruckus at Labcope, word soon reached the Commissioner that the Premier’s buddy was involved. He sent the detectives.
‘Don’t mind me,’ smiled the Premier, settling in for the duration.
Wrong move. Word had come down from on high.
Under no circumstances is the Premier to be present at any interviews. She could well be a prime witness in any future trials.
The Commissioner wanted to include the following.
Besides, I wouldn’t trust that bitch as far as I could throw her.
‘Sorry, Premier; we must interview the witness alone,’ said the cops.
Jessica wanted to argue but the look on the face of the police, the husband, plus her former bestie, ended all resistance. Jessica left.
She worried unnecessarily because Genevieve gave the police nothing. She “thought” her head wound came from falling down the stairs. She became a reluctant witness.
After her hospital stay, Genevieve’s headaches slowly faded, as did her interest in making public confessions and apologies. Peace and quiet became her new mantra, meditation her antidote.
Did the MCP fade in time? Had her willingness to apologise been enough? Did Labcope have the best sugary pills in the world of placebo?
The Premier went public praising her heroic Chief of Staff.
‘Genevieve Kovács is a brave and brilliant woman. I have no doubt she will soon return to serve the people of Victoria.’
Perhaps, but in the meantime, Genevieve hatched a plan.
The morning after the gunfight at the Slim Shed, early, Bernie knocked on Signora Conti’s door. She was shocked, then worried, then delighted to be of assistance. Bernie used her phone. He could only guess as to where his mobile might be.
He rang Balaclava with more news than Yahoo on a busy day. He was fine, and his two favourite Balaclava babes were okay, well, glad to be alive. The only bad news involved Albert.
He completed an adoption claim. Life was sensationally grand in his new abode with human slaves on tap 24/7. Albert put in for a transfer.
Bernie rang his sister where her news topped his. Their folks were settled, and hubby, Brutus the Bastard, had been born again with nary a prayer or hallelujah in sight.
Then to Lois who found it hard to speak.
‘I’m finished, Bernie.’
‘We’re both finished, Lois. Our lab doesn’t exist.’
‘I know most of your news thanks to the TV.’
‘But wait till I give you the inside story.’
‘And mine.’
Bernie began to panic. ‘Pardon?’
‘You know my meek and mild mother.’
‘What’s happened?’
Oh no! The first guinea pig failure.
‘Would you believe Mother gave the Premier’s Chief of Staff a whack with her walking stick to stop her telling tales to a journalist?’
‘You’re kidding. Tell
me it’s not true.’
‘I think there’s a new antidote for your MCP.’
‘Lois, you’re winding me up.’
She wasn’t kidding, and when Bernie hung up, he had to go home and lie down to recover.
There was one last thing to do and that involved a trip to Hawthorn. He took the train, and climbed the ramp to Burwood Road.
He walked to the old family home. Last night he hadn’t noticed the sign on the front fence. It was the usual notice about proposed changes to the property. Tell the local authority if you object.
In this case, the proposed changes involved demolition of the existing dwelling to be replaced by two townhouses. This activity is known as, “keep the name of your suburb but few of its landmarks, trees or houses”.
Bernie was glad his folks wouldn’t see the sign or its consequences.
The property was deserted. Who’d be a short-term tenant in a house invaded by drug dealers? The previous tenants had scarpered.
He wandered down the drive, and entered the kitchen. Not much reason to lock anything, although the world’s homeless wouldn’t say no to a roof like this over their head.
He wandered into his old bedroom, where memories whacked him left and right.
Life moves on, Bernie.
In the back yard, he tried sitting on the swing his father erected decades ago. His nephew and niece loved it today. Farewell swing.
The tree would become firewood, and the swing tossed in a skip.
He entered the shed, the scene of his childhood education, the setting for his drug creation, and for last night’s soap opera.
The police had spent time giving the old building a forensic investigation. Bernie’s mind wandered.
Will I be charged with some Class A drug crime?
Bernie didn’t know the Commissioner gave orders to remove and destroy any drugs, dangerous materials or equipment in the shed. The police decided there was never any such thing as a conscience drug.
Move along; nothing to see here.
The only evidence needed to convict Luciano Parisi would come from police officers at the various scenes of crime, and from the lips of the Premier herself — an innocent victim in this whole sorry saga.