by Gary Gregor
“Of course,” Paddy responded, “one can never be too well prepared. ‘Tis a dangerous road I walk, and one can never tell just how far from relief one might be when struck down with a savage thirst.”
Sam laughed and returned to his seat, placing the mugs on the desk in front of Paddy. He watched as the newsman poured a generous measure into each.
“Sorry I can’t offer you my best crystal,” he said. “I keep that for visiting heads of state and royalty.”
“Fook the heads of state,” Paddy said with earnest. “And I’m the closest you’ve ever been, or ever will be, to drinking fine Irish whiskey in the company of royalty, Sam me lad. Here’s looking at your ugly dial.” He raised his mug in salute.
“And yours,” Sam said.
Both men leaned forward, touched their coffee mugs together, and sipped their drinks. It was good; warm and strong tasting, yet smooth and mellow at the same time. The taste was uniquely Irish. There was a difference between Irish whiskey and Scotch whiskey; some would say a subtle difference. Unless, of course, you happened to be of Irish or Scottish descent, in which case there was simply no comparison. Sam liked beer and red wine, and drank more of both than he should; his gradually thickening waistline was testament to that, but he loved whiskey. In particular, he loved good whiskey, and this was very good whiskey. Both men sat in silence enjoying the moment.
“This is nice,” Sam said finally. “And a fitting end to the working day, if I do say so.”
“Aye, it is to be sure, it is to be sure,” Paddy agreed.
Sam cupped his drink in both hands, leaned back in his chair and gazed at his old friend. Paddy was staring into his drink, slowly swirling the liquid around in the mug.
“Okay,” Sam began, “now that we have dispensed with the formalities and all the peripheral bullshit, what the fuck are you doing here?”
Paddy lifted his eyes to meet Sam’s, then shifted his attention to the newspaper lying discarded on the desk. He put down his drink, picked up the paper and gave it, then Sam, a cursory look.
“What about this business with the judges then?” he asked, a little too casually.
Sam shrugged. “It’s a shitty business. But, murder is like that.”
“Have you got any thoughts on the matter?” Paddy queried, tossing the paper aside and picking up his drink.
“I’ve thought about it,” Sam offered, “who hasn’t? The media’s been full of it for weeks. As for speculation in regards to motive or offender, that’s not my job anymore. That’s for Foley and his band of merry men to lose sleep over.”
Paddy offered the whiskey flask across the desk, and Sam held out his mug.
“You should have stayed with the Force, Sam,” Paddy said.
“Is that a personal opinion, or are you here on behalf of the Commissioner, to offer me my old job back?”
“You should have stayed,” Paddy repeated, ignoring Sam’s attempt at light-heartedness.
Sam shifted in his seat. “Well, I thank you for your vote of confidence, but twenty years running around in circles with my head up my arse chasing scum-bags from one end of the Territory to the other, ‘yes Siring’ to some of the greatest wankers that ever pulled on a police uniform was, in hindsight, probably fifteen too many.”
“Ah, come now,” Paddy smiled. “Have you forgotten I have been a fly on many a wall in the hallowed halls of Police Headquarters for every year of your career, and then some. And, while I agree the force, sadly, has more than its share of Twinkie fiddlers, I never once… not once, was aware of you cow-towing to any of those very same Twinkie fiddlers.”
“Perhaps that’s why I’m doing what I’m doing now, and why I like you, Paddy,” Sam smiled at him across the desk. “You’re such a condescending arsehole, an impeccable judge of character I hasten to add, but a condescending arsehole nonetheless.” He raised his mug in a toast, and sipped at the contents. The whiskey was beginning to have an effect. He felt relaxed, and was enjoying the good-natured banter between himself and Paddy.
“We’re alike, you and me, lad,” Paddy said as his nose disappeared into his mug. “That’s something you have more than likely never thought about, but it’s true to be sure.”
“Why don’t we get back to the purpose of your visit?” Sam suggested dismissively, “before we both get too pissed to appreciate the mutual appreciation.”
“It’s these bloody murders, sure it is” Paddy said with earnest.
“The judge murders?” Sam asked, indicating the discarded newspaper. “You’re here because of the judge murders?”
“And Carl Richter,” Paddy added.
“You came to me for information?” Sam asked incredulously. “I’m not in the job anymore. You need to talk to Russell Foley; he’s heading up the investigation.”
Paddy talked across the lip of his mug. “I’m not here for information, Sam lad.”
“I don’t understand. Is there something you know about them? Something you’ve learned?”
Paddy leaned forward in his chair. “In a manner of speaking,” he confirmed. “I’m a mere messenger.”
Now Sam was even more intrigued. “A messenger, a messenger from whom?”
Again, Paddy reached into the depths of his jacket. This time he produced a bulky, brown envelope. He paused, glanced at the envelope, and then flicked it across the desk, almost upsetting Sam’s drink.
Sam looked at Paddy, held his eyes briefly, and then dropped his eyes to the envelope. Finally, his curiosity overpowered him, and he reached for the package, a standard, business size, brown envelope. He turned it over in his hands, found it blank on both sides, and sealed with a strip of clear cello tape.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Open it,” Paddy suggested.
Sam glanced again at Paddy and then ripped at the sealed flap of the envelope. A bundle of money, wrapped in an elastic band, fell out onto the desk. Sam picked it up and stared at it. It was a thick bundle of one-hundred dollar notes. Stunned, and more than a little confused, Sam flipped through the notes, for no other reason than to convince himself they were real.
“There must be…” he hesitated, then flipped through the neatly bundled notes again.
“Five thousand dollars,” Paddy confirmed.
Sam looked across at the Irishman. “Five thousand dollars?”
“Aye lad, five thousand dollars.”
Sam reached for his drink and took a long swallow. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the distant hum of traffic filtering in from the peak hour scramble outside the building.
“I still don’t understand,” Sam said finally. “I’ve been sent messages before, but this is the most interesting to date, not to mention the most profitable. Where did this come from?”
Paddy topped up his drink and offered the remains in the bottle to Sam.
“Gordon Hackett gave it to me,” he explained, “with instructions to pass it on to you.”
“Gordon Hackett? You mean Justice Gordon Hackett?”
“His honour himself,” Paddy confirmed.
“Why?” Sam managed to mumble.
“It’s a retainer, as I understand it.”
Sam fondled the notes and indulged in another sip of his drink. “A retainer for what?” he queried, a hint of suspicion in his voice.
“Why, for your services of course. It seems Judge Hackett has need of them.”
“Really, what kind of services?” Sam asked, just one of a thousand questions running through his rapidly numbing mind. “If he wants a private investigator, why not just call me?”
“He wants your investigative abilities sure enough,” Paddy confirmed “but he wants them anonymously, at least that’s how he put it to me.”
Sam stared intently at Paddy. “You’re not kidding are you?”
“Absolutely not, you see, an unsigned note, addressed to me, arrived at my home this morning, instructing me to go to a particular address in Fannie Bay. You know, where all the rich folk live?
”
“Yeah, I know Fannie Bay,” Sam smiled. “I’ve lived here all my life, remember?”
“Well,” Paddy continued, patting the side of his nose with a nicotine-stained finger, “I sniffed a story in the wind, sure I did. So, I took meself there. It turned out to be Hackett’s home. It was him who sent the note.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing; not at first. Not until I agreed to maintain confidentiality in relation to his identity, and to the substance of our meeting.”
Sam knew that confidentiality on Paddy’s behalf would be a foregone conclusion. Paddy O’Reily had once served thirty days in Berrimah Prison, charged with contempt of court after refusing to comply with a court order to disclose the source of incriminating evidence he possessed; evidence leading to a Royal Commission of enquiry into allegations of corruption within the Northern Territory branch of the Miscellaneous Workers Union. He paid dearly for his strict adherence to the ethics of journalistic confidentiality. For someone who earned his living disclosing information to the public, Paddy was one of the best at keeping secrets when he believed the occasion demanded it.
“What exactly was the substance of your meeting?” Sam asked. “Are you permitted to tell me?”
“He told me he was acting on behalf of the entire Supreme Court Judiciary, or what remains of them,” he scoffed jokingly. "I suppose you could say he is their spokesman. I was chosen to act as a conduit between them and you.”
“What the bloody hell for?” Sam was unable to mask his surprise.
“They want to find out who is responsible for dispatching their colleagues at such an alarming rate.”
“Now I know you are fucking kidding,” Sam chuffed.
“I swear to you, Sam lad, on the soul of me dear departed mother, may she forever rest in peace, I’m not fooking kidding.” Paddy hastily made the sign of the cross in the Catholic tradition.
“Did it not occur to you to remind his Honour that I’m not a cop anymore?” Sam asked with a hint of sarcasm. “Did you also remind him that we have a highly efficient police force to look into that sort of thing?”
“Aye, I did. But it seems that they, like your good self and many others just like you, are rapidly losing faith in the ability of our boys in khaki to bring this matter to a satisfactory conclusion.”
“Why me?” was all Sam could think of to say.
“Because,” Paddy began, “as the good Judge Hackett explained to me, they know you." They remember you well from the days when you were out there on the streets, chasing down wrongdoers and winning. It would seem your investigative skills left our collective Honours with nothing but favourable impressions, to be sure, and they are scared.”
“Scared? Scared of what?”
“Scared of meeting the same fate as their recently departed colleagues,” Paddy explained.
“If that’s true, why don’t they ask for police protection? Surely they know that is an option available to them; they only have to ask.”
“My sentiments exactly,” Paddy said, “and I put just that question to him, so I did.”
“And?” Sam prompted.
Paddy removed a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, offered one to Sam, who declined with a shake of his head. The building was non-smoking, but he wasn’t about to tell Paddy and risk him leaving the complex and have to wait until he finished his smoke before he returned to finish his tale. He watched Paddy light up, inhale deeply, and emit a rasping cough. A stream of smoke spiralled towards the ceiling.
Paddy cleared his throat and continued.
“Hackett said the police offered protection. I guess they figured with two judges down, there might be a pattern forming.”
“They think?” Sam said with undisguised sarcasm.
“Whatever,” Paddy shrugged. “Anyway, they all decided to pass on the offer. He said something about not wanting to appear too concerned in the eyes of the public. Said to do so might create undue alarm within the legal community. You see, they’re concerned that an unsatisfactory length of time has elapsed, and the Territory’s finest don’t seem to be making any real progress.”
“Perhaps the police are just keeping a lid on what they have; they do that from time to time,” Sam defended with little conviction.
“Ah, yes. The old ‘keeping-a-lid-on-it’ cliché. You don’t believe that any more than I do,” Paddy said accusingly.
“What about Russell Foley?” Sam asked. “Have you spoken to him?”
“Just a couple of hours ago, and he’s not saying anything. You’d think he left his tongue at home. Orders from upstairs I believe. I did a bit of snooping on me own after I left Hackett, and a few of the boys and girls close to the investigation are feeling a tad frustrated. When Henderson’s body was found, early this morning, I heard that a couple of the lads went to Foley with their frustrations.”
“Really, what happened?” Sam prodded.
“Nothing, I guess Foley is as frustrated as the rest of them.”
“Like I said, Paddy, it’s a shitty business.”
“Aye, that it is. Still, Hackett and his fellow judges want you to look into it on their behalf. I’m to tell you there’s another five grand, in cash of course, when you catch the sick foocker who’s bumping them off one by one.”
Sam whistled through his teeth. “Ten thousand! That’s a lot of hard earned.”
“Plus any expenses you incur,” Paddy added.
“Sounds like these old boys are serious.”
“Ten thousand bucks worth of serious,” Paddy agreed, sipping at his drink.
“With respect Paddy,” Sam said, “why didn’t Hackett come to me himself? Why send a third party to hire my services?”
“Now then, that’s the best part, Sam lad. Hackett and the others know I have been following this case from day one. He said they were following my reports with interest. They are aware, if you’ll excuse my modesty, of my exceptional journalistic skills, and they know I will not let go until this nastiness is over. It seems they feel if they had come to you, it would only be a matter of time before I found out about it and reported on it. They all agree it wouldn’t do to have their lack of faith in our constabulary made a matter of public record. That would be embarrassing to them, not to mention the police.”
“I can see how that might bring about a red face or two,” Sam agreed. “But what’s to stop you writing it up anyway? It’s the sort of thing you bloodhounds thrive on.”
“Ah yes,” Paddy nodded, “it’s newsworthy all right, and it’s hard.”
“Okay, so tell me why you are not at your desk tapping away at your trusty typewriter at the speed of light?”
“Exclusivity,” Paddy grinned broadly.
“Of course,” Sam laughed, “the journalist’s very justification for existence.”
“It’s true, Sam. He made me an offer I simply couldn’t refuse.”
“Such as?”
“Such as exclusive and unlimited access to each of them, should I elect to expand the profile series I’m working on to include those still in the land of the living.”
“Why do I get the feeling there’s more in it for you?”
“That’s because there is, Sam lad,” Paddy smiled.
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“I get to tag along with you, and I get the exclusive when your investigation is over.”
“They offered you that?” Sam said incredulously.
“Not exactly, at least not at first,” Paddy explained. “That’s my price for holding back until you catch the killer.”
“Assuming I catch the killer,” Sam scoffed. “No; assuming I even want to catch the killer. What makes you, or them, even think I would want this job in the first place?”
“Because, we all agree the reason you were the best homicide investigator in the department was because you loved it.”
“Loved it?”
“Aye, loved it.”
“You’re a crusty old bastard, Paddy.”
“And what’s more, you still love it.”
“Am I that predictable?” Sam laughed.
“It’s your most endearing quality, Sam lad. As a matter of fact, I think it could well be your only endearing quality. How about it? We’ll make a great team.”
“Even if I were to consider taking this on, I work alone, Paddy.”
“Not on this one you don’t,” the affable Irishman smiled.
“I can’t go snooping around sticking my nose in this thing. Murder’s a matter for the police. Private investigators only go after murderers in Hollywood.” Sam lifted the mug to his lips and drained the contents. The whiskey burned his throat.
“Welcome to Hollywood,” Paddy laughed.
Sam sat looking at his old friend for a moment. Finally, he said, “I could find myself in a world of shit if I do this, Paddy.”
“Am I to conclude from that statement you are on board?”
Every nerve in his being screamed at Sam that this was a bad move. He should pass the money back to Paddy and tell him to give it back to Hackett. This was not what he did anymore. It was not about the money; the money was irrelevant. He spent twenty years as a member of the police force, his pension was adequate, and he was earning good money doing what he did now. He sat back in his chair and looked at the old newshound.
“Well?” Paddy asked.
“Okay… I’ll do it,” Sam said before he could stop himself.
“This calls for a celebration,” Paddy declared. He looked around the room. “Got any whiskey in this dump?”
“No,” Sam said, “but I know where we can get some.”
“Good,” Paddy laughed, “let’s go. I have the devil of a time trying to work when I’m sober.”
“You’re still a crusty old bastard, Paddy.”
“I know Sam, lad. I know,” Paddy burped. “By the way, is it true?”
“Is what true?” Sam asked, getting up from the desk.
“The talk around the station… the real reason you left the force… the trouble, between you and Foley?”
“Take me out and get me drunk. You never know what I might cough to, especially if you’re buying.”
Paddy moved towards the door. “Okay, Gumshoe, you’ve got yourself a deal, sure you have.”