Directive RIP

by Stuart Parker

  6

  After his frequent breakups, the handle of his Honda sports car was an effective guide to his state of mind. Sometimes the engine was purring so smoothly he could swear it had been completely reconditioned. And sometimes there was the drag of a hundred thousand kilometres of gluggy unchanged oil. This time the tyres just felt a bit splashy. But it was still early days.

  When Furn entered bars he usually always scouted out the college-type bar tenders. At least then his tips would probably be going towards an education. His own education had come on the wrong end of the bottle.

  The Black Gate, on tree-lined Gillon Street, was within walking distance of his modest East Balaclava house. He had adopted it as his regular because it didn’t attract any one kind of people and always had bar tenders worth tipping. Furn entered, realising it was a quiet night even for a quiet night of the week. The bar-top was clean and dry enough for her to plant her elbows as she watched the back corner TV. She was mid-twenties with school teacher glasses; smooth, creamy complexion; brown hair bunned to a vacuum; and a white and green Greenpeace t-shirt – just in case you couldn’t think of anything better to talk to her about.

  ‘You’re studying to be a teacher, right?’ said Furn as he arrived at the row of brass taps. ‘Twenty years too late to be the school crush I should have had.’

  ‘You wouldn’t make much of a detective,’ she said removing her elbows from the bar.

  Furn flashed his badge. It only seemed to shave another couple of degrees off those analytical eyes.

  ‘What’ll you have?’ she asked.

  He ordered a Victorian Bitter out of word association. The bartender poured it into a pint glass.

  ‘Are you going to set me straight about what you do?’ said Furn.

  ‘Occupational nursing. Fourth year student at Monash University.’

  She over poured, dabbed the glass dry, and slid it across. Assured hands well suited to the eggshell that was the human body.

  ‘Do you like your job?’ she asked.

  ‘Cops and bartenders work in unison, keeping scum off the streets.’ He handed over a mango-coloured fifty dollar note.‘Our bribes probably beat your tips.’

  ‘You kidding?’

  ‘I might be underestimating your looks.’

  She counted out his change from the till. She put it down next to the beer and pointed to a distant corner. ‘You’ll be more comfortable over there.’

  ‘Did I say something wrong?’

  She shook her head. ‘Tuesday nights the ballroom dancing crowd comes in. Better to get as far away from them as possible. And wiping down your table every few minutes will give me respite from the painful flirtations of anyone who couldn’t at least get his partner this far.’

  ‘Tell me your name and I’ll undertake to keep my table as beer soaked as possible.’

  ‘For that service you might even score my number. My name’s Jalice.’

  Furn took the recommended position in time to avoid the flood of dancers who seemed to assume the judges had followed them into the Black Gate and would be handing out points on everything from smile sincerity to alluring hair flicks. All that got, however, was Furn, whose dislike was fuelling an already healthy thirst. By the end of the night Jalice was beginning to form the same opinion as the ballroom dancers: that he was a back corner drunk whose voice could find an echo in space.

  It was 1am and the day had been kept out of the refrigerator way too long. Furn swayed upright and cajoled his sea legs to the lavatory only to be bumped aside by a man whose shirt seemed to be made of May’s bright pink toilet paper of choice. Grappling with his anger, Furn did an about face. He would settle for the car that looked like his.

  ‘Tuesdays and Thursdays,’ Jalice called out as he marched out the bar.

  Too early for the bakers the streets were running cold. There was a Volvo parked out front. A ballroom dancer would drive that. Furn luxuriously relieved himself on it door. It helped that it was the same metallic green as May’s. What he hadn’t checked was if the engine was running. He felt a gun press against the back of his head.

  ‘I’m going to let you finish. Just don’t panic.’ The voice was coolly matter of fact, professional.

  ‘Don’t go to any trouble on my account,’ Furn replied.

  ‘I don’t even let myself get near shit or piss when it’s in the diapers of my two little girls.’

  ‘Take five steps back and I promise you’ll be even safer.’

  ‘How about I count to five and if your noodle ain’t tucked away I’ll shoot it off?’

  ‘I’m a cop.’

  ‘That’s why I’m surprised you’ve got a dick at all. Still, I can see why I’m going to need to take careful aim.’

  ‘Reach into my pocket and you won’t find a wallet with money in it, ‘cause it’s all been spent, but what you will find is a police badge. That’s the trouble you’re in.’ Furn tried to be convincing as he said it, though he didn’t get the impression the gunman felt in any kind of trouble - the gun was just too steady, the voice too calm. At least Furn didn’t sense a bullet was coming. The gunman seemed to be a professional, but he was not taking his work particularly seriously. It felt more akin to a prostitute being paid to snuggle up.

  ‘I can see where all the money went,’ said the gunman. ‘That’s one wet door.’

  ‘Is it your car?’

  ‘Oh, it’s mine, alright. Just as you’re mine. I have a skeleton key, you see. This thing pressed up against your head. Say you’re prayers because I’m about to show you how it works.’

  Furn had had enough of being taunted and spun sharply, seeking to knock the gun away. He didn’t get very far, however, before a vicious pain struck him between the shoulder blades and a thick icy black engulfed him.