How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery

by Robin Storey

  ‘In trouble again?’ murmured Nina as she dumped an armload of dirty dishes onto the sink.

  ‘He’s always in trouble!’ Joe shouted. ‘Always a hundred miles away, God knows where! I don’t know what you saw in him! And me, I don’t know why I hired him!’

  ‘You said he makes you laugh,’ Nina reminded him.

  Joe snorted. ‘Laugh! I laugh on the other side of my face!’

  After Joe had gone back out into the shop, Nina returned with more dishes. She glanced sideways at him. ‘You weren’t daydreaming about being at the beach, were you? Lounging around with a gorgeous blonde?’

  She busied herself washing her hands with an enigmatic half-smile. It took him a few seconds to realise she was referring to his photo spread in the latest City News. Was there anyone in the entire city of Brisbane who hadn’t seen it?

  ‘As a matter of fact, no,’ Reuben said. ‘At least not with that gorgeous blonde, we didn’t exactly hit it off.’

  ‘Really? Are you telling me your charm and good looks didn’t impress her?’

  There was no sarcasm in her tone, just gentle teasing. Her hard edges had softened a little and he’d come to realise that her brusqueness was a cover for shyness. Or maybe a protective mechanism she used for men.

  He grinned. ‘Once in a blue moon it happens. Sometimes I think there’s an inverse relationship between a woman’s beauty and her niceness. Present company excepted, of course,’ he added.

  ‘Of course.’

  She swished past him out the door.

  ***

  Reuben glanced in the Barbiemobile’s rear-view mirror numerous times during the trip to the Bulimba Soccer Club. SC Bonazzi’s warning echoed in his mind. Surely the cops wouldn’t be following him, they had bigger fish to fry. But if they happened to see him with Frank and Bomber, they’d be asking questions – apart from the fact that he was breaching his parole. Frank’s maxim was ‘invisibility in a crowd’. In other words, meeting in a public place was less likely to draw attention to you than sneaking around undercover. Reuben wasn’t so sure, but even so, he wished he’d taken the bus. It was impossible to be invisible in a crowd on a pink motor scooter.

  He’d told Carlene he was shopping for her Christmas present and so needed to go out alone. That had impressed her as Christmas was still ten weeks away.

  ‘I’ve never known a man to be so organised – usually they leave it until five o’clock on Christmas Eve.’ She entwined her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him. ‘What are you buying me? Give me a clue.’

  ‘You’ll have to wait and see,’ he whispered into her ear.

  His mysteriousness was authentic as he had no idea what he was buying her. And as he would return empty-handed, the decision was so important it would require further excursions.

  He arrived at the soccer club with ten minutes to spare. The spring sunshine blazed down on the field swarming with children in their soccer gear. The muddy-coloured Brisbane River lurked in the background. At one end of the field, a coach was taking his teams through some moves. At the other end near the grandstand, a few rows of wooden seats with no shelter, a match was in progress. The players looked about ten to twelve years; one had blonde plaits, another a ponytail. As Reuben stopped to watch, the ponytailed player kicked a goal. Her teammates cheered, slapped her on the back and punched her arm. He was sure that as a kid he would have enjoyed soccer a lot more if girls had been allowed to play.

  He hadn’t had lunch, so he joined the queue of jostling, chattering children at

  the canteen. He ordered a hot dog and a coke, and stood in the shade of the clubhouse to eat it. As the sauce dripped down his arm, he realised it was the first hot dog he’d had in almost four years. He’d always found that the amount of sauce dribble was in direct proportion to the palatability of the food. Some things never changed.

  The ponytailed girl’s team scored another goal and the opposition looked downcast, scuffing their shoes on the grass. Reuben thought of his own short-lived soccer career. He’d tried out for the under-tens – he was small for his age, not naturally sporty; but he ran and tackled and kicked his heart out, and finally made it into the B-side.

  When he told his mother, the creases in her face softened. ‘That’s great, Rube, I’d love to come and watch, but Saturday is my busiest day. I’ll organise a lift there for you with Michael’s mum.’

  When he pleaded, her face grew stony. ‘I said no and I meant it. How do you think I’m going to afford the fees and the clobber you wear if I don’t work?’

  She turned away from him and fumbled with a cigarette. Reuben, close to tears, yelled, ‘If you gave up smoking, you’d have enough money!’ and ran from the room before she could retaliate.

  He played regardless, but after a few lacklustre performances, was dropped from the team. From then on, he avoided sport altogether, throwing his energy into inventing ingenious methods of dodging PE classes and selling his best ideas to his classmates.

  Someone slapped him on the back. Bomber stood in front of him, grinning, a roll-your-own cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth.

  ‘His Highness awaits you,’ he said. He inclined his head towards the grandstand. Frank sat in the middle of the back row, sipping on something in a polystyrene cup. The grandstand was about half full, but the seats around him were vacant. He wore cargo shorts, t-shirt and cap, eyes on the game, looking like any other devoted soccer dad. Reuben stuffed the rest of his hotdog into his mouth and followed Bomber. He steeled himself for Frank’s greeting, reminding himself that in this public setting, the worst thing Frank could do was throw his coffee at him, and the coffee at these places was always lukewarm anyway.

  They climbed up to the back row and sat one each side of Frank. Eyes still straight ahead, Frank said in a low voice, ‘I’m pissed off, Littledick.’

  ‘How was I to know she wouldn’t turn up for her lesson? She could have been doing anything – maybe she was Christmas shopping.’

  ‘People don’t go Christmas shopping in October. And besides, the shops aren’t open on Wednesday nights.’

  How come Frank was so knowledgeable about shopping?

  ‘And I’m wondering if there was a reason she didn’t go – maybe she had a little premonition that something was going to happen.’

  Reuben met Frank’s steely gaze. ‘What are you saying? You think I forewarned her?’ At least he didn’t have to fake his indignation.

  ‘You’ve got the hots for the bitch; you could have dropped a hint.’

  Reuben swallowed. ‘Why would I do that? I’m not going to risk my wife’s life for her. She means nothing to me.’

  A cheer went up from the crowd. A goal had been scored by the losing team. Bomber jumped up in his seat. ‘You beauty!’ he yelled, punching the air. ‘Gotta play the part,’ he muttered out of the side of his mouth as he sat down again.

  ‘Think about it, Frank,’ Reuben said. ‘I could hardly have warned her not to go to her pole dancing class. How would I have known about it? She’d have me charged with stalking.’

  ‘You could have been more subtle as in “don’t go anywhere tonight because you’ll be blown to smithereens”.’

  ‘And she’d have believed me, of course. The first thing she’d do would be to call the cops.’

  Another cheer went up from the crowd and Bomber jumped up again. ‘Good onya, kid!’

  Reuben looked over. ‘That was the other team.’

  Bomber shrugged. ‘Hey, I don’t care who wins. I’m just here for the party.’

  A large family, armed with hot chips and coke, straggled up the grandstand and sat down in the row in front of them. Frank scowled, inclined his head and got up. Reuben and Bomber followed him out of the row onto a grassy knoll to the side of the soccer field and out of earshot of passersby. Frank lowered himself onto the grass and sat awkwardly with his legs out in front of him.

  ‘All right, Littledick, I’m giving you another chance to prove yourself. And this time
there’ll be no room for error. Does she park her car behind the parole office?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do the windows of the parole office overlook the car park?’

  Reuben hesitated. No point in lying – Frank could easily find out the truth.

  ‘No. The parole office is at the front of the building; there are financial planners at the back.’

  ‘Perfect. When’s your next appointment?’

  ‘Not next Tuesday, the one after. Three-thirty.’

  Frank looked at Bomber.

  ‘I’ll check with me travel agent,’ Bomber said. ‘Should be okay though. I’ve got somewhere offshore I can hole up until the next ship sails.’

  ‘Good,’ Frank said. ‘You do the car while Littledick is smooching with Loose-Lips.’

  ‘That’s a bit risky, isn’t it?’ Reuben said. ‘An open car park in broad daylight?’

  ‘That’s where Plan B comes in,’ Bomber said.

  ‘Breakdown Bob, again?’

  ‘You never use the same get-up twice, mate. You should know that.’

  ‘Of course,’ Reuben said.

  ‘Different modus operandi,’ said Frank. He pronounced it ‘operandy.’ ‘You ring Bomber’s phone just before you go into the interview room – two rings, then hang up, that’s the signal. Bomber will be in the car park, he’ll unlock the car, plant the bomb under the driver’s seat and be gone in the space of a few minutes.’

  ‘What excuse are you going to have this time for breaking into her car?’ Reuben said.

  ‘Dan’s Detailing Service,’ Bomber said. ‘Leaves your car fresh as a daisy.’

  ‘Make sure you string the interview out for as long as possible,’ Frank said, ‘because while she’s talking to you she’s not going to her car for any reason. And if someone from the financial planners happens to look out the window and see Dan’s Detailing at her car, there’s no reason for them to think it’s not legit – they probably won’t even know whose car it is.’

  The hooter sounded for half-time and the players straggled off the field, panting and red-faced.

  ‘Frank, you’re not on orange duty, are you?’ Bomber said.

  Frank ignored him. ‘Are you both clear on your instructions?’

  ‘Yep,’ said Bomber. Reuben nodded.

  Frank reached into his shorts pocket and pulled out two mobile phones. He handed them one each. ‘Not to be used until the day. Same deal – after the job’s done, wait for me to call then get rid of them.’

  The players huddled in their respective teams, swigging on water as their coaches talked them up for the second half. A tall, lanky boy broke away and sauntered towards them. His restless eyes took in the group.

  ‘You made it, Dad,’ he said. ‘Were you watching?’

  ‘Of course I was,’ Frank said. ‘You were great.’

  The boy looked down at his feet and kicked at a tuft of grass. ‘No I wasn’t, I was shit.’

  ‘We all have our off days, mate,’ Bomber said, ‘even your dad, believe it or not.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Frank said. Then, to the boy, ‘You did good, kid.’

  The boy looked up at Frank from under his eyebrows.

  ‘Did you see the goal I kicked?’

  ‘Sure did, mate, it was a beauty!’

  The boy’s head jerked up. His eyes blazed.

  ‘I didn’t score a goal. You’re so full of shit. Why do you even bother coming?’

  He turned and strode back to his team, shoulders squared and head high.

  ‘Bloody kids,’ Frank muttered. ‘You give them the world and they’re still not happy.’

  ‘You got kids?’ Bomber asked Reuben.

  Reuben shook his head.

  ‘I got five,’ he said.

  ‘Five!’ If it was hard to imagine Frank as a father, it was impossible to imagine Bomber in that role. ‘Where are they all?’

  Bomber shrugged. ‘Dunno. Haven’t seen any of them for years. Five different mothers, I’ve lost track of them.’

  Reuben tried not to look incredulous. Was Bomber having him on? It was hard enough believing that one woman had found him attractive enough to sleep with, but five? If he was using marijuana to seduce them, it must be powerful stuff.

  Bomber grinned. ‘I had a hard time keeping it in my pants when I was a young fella.’

  ‘And you can fucking well keep it in your pants until this job is over,’ Frank said. ‘I need your mind on the job, not on your next piece of pussy.’

  The whistle blew for the game to recommence. The players trailed back to the field. Shouts of encouragement echoed from the grandstand. Frank’s son looked pointedly away from the spectators and in a show of bravado, shadow-boxed a teammate back on to the field.

  ‘Gotta go and watch the star player,’ Frank said. ‘Remember, Littledick, keep her occupied for as long as you can. Have it off with her on the desk, if you have to.’

  ***

  Holy fucking hell. How was he going to get Lucy out of this one alive? A dozen ideas bounced around in his head as he rode home: ring her up and reschedule the appointment to play for time; tell Frank she was sick; had gone on holidays; had resigned even. But it would be easy enough for him to check if Reuben was telling the truth.

  He had ten days to come up with something. Even if he could think of a way to foil Frank’s plan, he’d be furious at another failure and even more suspicious of Reuben. The only way out was to alert the police so they could set up surveillance and subvert the operation. But in the event they managed to do that without bungling it, there were so many other things that could go wrong. What if they arrested Bomber, being the man on the ground, but not Frank? What if Bomber refused to dob Frank in, and the police couldn’t find any evidence to link Frank with the operation? Even Reuben’s testimony was just his word against Frank’s, and both Frank and Bomber could deny having any contact with him. Frank at large and on the warpath seeking revenge didn’t bear thinking about. If it was a choice between his and Lucy’s death ... Much as I adore you, Lucy, I’m not prepared to die for you. He would never have made it as a medieval knight.

  As he walked through the front door, voices floated out to him from the back patio. He recognized Nancy’s imperious tones and Alec’s quiet acquiescence. That was all he needed to ramp up his stress levels. Why the hell couldn’t he and Carlene have just one weekend without a visit from them, or even a whole week without their ‘popping round for a cuppa’?

  ‘Hi honey,’ Carlene said, jumping up and flinging her arms around his neck. ‘How did your shopping go?’

  ‘Oh … good.’

  ‘Obviously,’ Nancy said, staring pointedly at his non-existent parcels.

  ‘I was just looking around to get ideas,’ Reuben said.

  ‘Just go to the jewellery store,’ said Alec. ‘Any woman will tell you it’s full of ideas. You’ve had some of your most creative thoughts there, haven’t you, dear?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Alec,’ Nancy said.

  Reuben looked at her pearl necklace and the diamond rings jostling for prominence on her fingers. Was she going to pronounce them to be fake in keeping with the principles of the nouveau poor? Maybe it didn’t extend to jewellery. If Carlene was expecting something sparkly in a tiny box for Christmas, she’d be sorely disappointed.

  ‘By the way, Posie rang,’ Carlene said. ‘She asked could you phone her back, something about an audition. She tried your mobile but you didn’t answer.’

  Nancy pursed her lips. It was obvious she wanted to ask who Posie was, but good manners prevented her. Reuben stepped back into the living room and dialled Posie’s number.

  ‘Reuben! I’m so glad you called back! A film company called New Wave Productions is calling for auditions for a beer commercial. I thought you might be interested.’

  ‘What do I have to do?’

  ‘They’ll tell you when you get there. All I know is that you have to be the quintessential Aussie male in his thirties who drinks beer. And who has
film presence.’

  ‘I fit the first category, anyway,’ Reuben said.

  ‘That’s false modesty and you know it,’ Posie said reprovingly. ‘Get out there and show them what you’ve got. Monday morning, nine am.’

  Shit. Another day off work. Joe would kill him. Or fire him. Reuben wrote down the address she gave him. It sounded promising, much more up his alley than modelling. Could he give up jogging now?

  ‘Oh, and keep up the jogging,’ Posie said. ‘The quintessential Aussie male likes his beer but still likes to keep fit and look good.’

  ‘What was that about an audition?’ Carlene said as Reuben returned to the patio.

  Reuben told her.

  ‘A beer commercial? For TV?’

  ‘I presume so.’

  ‘An audition, eh? Sounds interesting,’ Alec said.

  Nancy looked unimpressed.

  Reuben could see Carlene weighing up its long-term career prospects and finding it light on.

  ‘From what I’ve heard, the money’s pretty good. You stand around all day, say a few words for your six seconds of fame and get paid a few hundred for your efforts.’

  He had no idea if that were true – at least the bit about the pay – but hope imbued his comments with conviction.

  ‘So we might have a TV star in the family,’ Alec said. ‘Bit of a step-up from swimwear, eh?’

  Nancy made a noise between a snort and a grunt, though it was unclear whether it was due to the possibility of Reuben being a TV star or the thought of him modelling swimwear. Contrary to Carlene’s wish for the rest of the family not to know about his modelling, she hadn’t been able to stop them from reading the City News, which was delivered free to homes within a certain inner city radius.

  ‘I suppose we’ll have to wait and see how he goes in the audition,’ Carlene said. ‘Anyone for more coffee?’

  Fortunately, Nancy and Alec left shortly afterwards to go home and get ready for a charity cocktail party in aid of homeless orangutans in South Africa. Reuben went into the bedroom and checked himself from all angles in the full-length mirror. He was sure his stomach was flatter, but he’d give it one last-ditch effort. Digging deep into his reserves of motivation, he donned his shorts, t-shirt and joggers.