The Case of the Drunken Man

The escapade I’m about to describe happened a few years back. I know this because I was driving in the big red car (Toyota Yaris, since you ask) with Daisy May. I can’t give real names and serial numbers but Daisy May’s my daughter, now 28 and sharp as a whistle. I’d picked her up from swim squad at Ithaca Pool, and she can’t have been aged more than 10 on the night in question. She’d done close to 3000 laps that night and smelled like she’d been given the once over by a trauma cleaner with 10 buckets of White King, so we had the car windows open to clean out her lungs and other organs.

As we drove down a steep, dark street near Mean Streets headquarters, we spotted a man lying under a streetlamp on what City Council comically likes to call a footpath. Me, I call it a death trap of dirt and weeds and clay shale that’ll break your ankle quicker than you can say RBH Emergency. But I digress.

The guy lying on the nature strip under the streetlamp was goin’ nowhere. Concerned for his state of health, we pulled up alongside him. He looked like he’d inhaled a hanky full of chloroform. He was out for the count and coulda been dead for all I knew. There seemed to be a party going on somewhere nearby, so I was hoping he’d just stumbled out from barbecue central with a skinful of amber liquid on board. I weighed up the situation and told Daisy May to stay put and lock the car doors. I climbed outta the car and approached the potential corpse, leaving myself a few feet of exit strategy.

‘Hey, fella, you okay?’ I prompted, knowing full well he was a long way down the okay scale.

A groan emerged from him like a creaky door on the Deadly Earnest show, and it smelled like the floor of the Normanby pub.

‘Where have you come from?’ I asked him – a question I’d also posed to the mutt in the Case of the Three-Legged Dog.

The chlorine fumes were wafting over from the open car window where Daisy May sat goggle-eyed, and they seemed to have a restorative effect on the pickled victim. He opened his eyes and took in the view.

‘Have you come from the house over there?’ I asked, indicating barbecue central.

‘Nah, I bin the city. Had too meddy beer. Caught the bus home. Bit crook.’ That was an understatement. I knew if I left him there alone, he might follow the great rock ‘n roll tradition of choking on his own vomit. But I had Daisy May to think of, and I didn’t like my chances of getting him vertical without some help. 

‘Where do you live?’ Once again, it was me asking the questions. Pickled guy couldn’t form a question if you gave him a magnetic fridge poetry kit and Tracy Grimshaw as an assistant.

‘Bosky Terrace. Flats,’ he said. It was broad, but it gave me something to work with.

‘Listen, I’m going to take this kiddo home, then I’m comin’ back for you, buddy. Stay here.’ This last bit of advice was as pointless as a blunt H2B. The only way he was moving was if Brisbane’s ball-bearing schist rolled him to the foot of the hill avalanche-style.

I hopped back in the car with Daisy May and fanged it round the corner to headquarters. As luck would have it, Mr Mean Streets (who I married when I was a giddy young showgirl) was at home. Daisy May and I gave him the lowdown, tandem fashion, on what had taken place at the crime scene. I laid my cards on the table.

‘I say we go back there together. We leave Daisy May here with the doors locked. We pick up this guy and get him home. What happens after that is up to him.’ Mr Mean Streets was doubtful, but when you’re in a tight spot he backs you all the way.

We got in the car, leaving Daisy May to shower off the White King before a chlorine gas explosion wiped out the neighbourhood.

The big red car took the corner on two wheels as we headed back to find the victim. We needn’t have hurried. His face was developing a 3D imprint of Westside gravel, and his drool was bringing drought-relief to the parched soil.

‘Okay wise guy, you’re coming with us,’ I told him. He was in no position to argue. We bundled him into the car like a council-depot flood-prevention sandbag and made our way to Bosky Terrace. There were two contenders for the block of flats he might have lived in. The first one drew a blank from pickled guy. We drove on. The second one generated a short-lived electrical spark in his sozzled brain. We slammed on the brakes and hauled him outta the car.

‘Where’s your key?’ No response.

I banged on a few doors and roused every barking pooch in the area until a neighbour shot out and recognised our victim. He dug out the keys to pickled guy’s flat, and not a minute too soon. Pickled guy was holding in a rumbling reservoir of superfluous food and beverage that no man or woman could hold back. It propelled him into his toilet like a human cannonball at the Ekka. I had to give him credit: his timing and aim were perfect.

I slapped my forehead. ‘How could I be so stoopid? One more minute and my big red car would have been written off as uninhabitable – full of Heinz Chunky Soup and diced carrot!’

Mr Mean Streets nodded. What a chump I’d been. But a lucky chump all the same.

‘Let’s split, dollface, before things get even uglier,’ said Mr Mean Streets. The neighbour waved us off.

We never saw pickled guy again, but I hope he’s out there somewhere. Somewhere in this big city.

Case closed.

The Case of the Westside Gang

A few years ago now, a gang emerged on the hilly streets of the Westside. There must have been about twenty members at one stage and, unlike most of your two-bit, low-life mongrel mobs, their ages ranged from about 4 to 14. We called them the Westside Gang.

During school holidays, they roamed the streets from sun-up to sun-down and sometimes on into the night. What was their racket, you ask. Heck, what wasn’t their racket? They were into hide-and-seek, street cricket, chalk graffiti, tree climbing and every kind of crazy stunt you could think of.

In school holidays, the streets became dangerous. People hid in their houses and peered through the venetians. You never knew when or where they’d strike next. Fear cast a long shadow over the suburb.

But I always had a soft spot for the Westside Gang. They were fearless. They were reckless. But inside them I always sensed tiny hearts of gold and stomachs full of Weet Bix.

I remember one day I was working a case from Mean Streets headquarters. It might have been the Case of the Long Day’s Journey into Flat White, I can’t recall, but I was sitting at my desk staring out the window. I was sporting polka-dotted palazzo pants, striped neckerchief, satin halter-neck, cat’s-eye glasses and a hangover. I was tapping a pen against my teeth when screams punctuated the still air like exclamation marks on A4 only louder. Six male small-fry came barrelling around the corner. They swarmed over the embankment and scattered. Three of them ran, crouching, up my driveway. One ducked behind the wheelie bin, another behind a shrub, and the third cast his eyes around trying to find a hiding spot. He was sweating terror and staring death in the face. I bust open the window and hissed at him, ‘Under the stairs’. It was lame but it was all I got. He threw himself behind a tall pot plant just as three leggy gals came pounding down the street like hyenas on the Masai Mara.

I closed my eyes. I couldn’t bear to see those little guys dragged from their hideouts like vermin. But the footfalls continued on down the hill and faded into the distance. I opened my eyes. Three little guys raised their tawny heads and gazed out. They were safe. For now. They hoofed it down the drive and fled like little ghosts without a backward glance.

‘God speed, little fellas,’ I said to myself.

Some weeks later, I was out the front of headquarters, spreading H2O on the garden with a watering hose. A couple of those 12-year-old gals came prancing down the road holding the hands of a strange little figure walking between them. Other kids of varying shapes and dimensions trailed behind. The prisoner was wearing what looked like his mother’s nightie, a pink wig and a freightload of makeup smeared over his tiny suntanned face.

‘What racket are you running here, gals? What’s the deal?’ I asked them.

‘George lost the game of hide-and-seek, and this is what the loser has to do. Now he’s Georgina,’ one of the Amazon guards explained.

To tell you the truth, George-Georgina didn’t seem too flummoxed by his gender fluidity, change of threads or layer of badly applied greasepaint. He was a cool customer and seemed to bask in the glow of public attention.

‘Go easy on him, gals. He’s only a little guy,’ I said.

‘I’m all wight,’ said Georgina. ‘I’m having fun.’

I looked him up and down. ‘You’re a tough guy, aint you, Georgina. I admire that in a kid. Now get along home before I squirt you all with the hose.’

They ran off, shrieking.

‘So long, kids. Sayonara,’ I said under my breath.

And that’s all there was to it. Sure, they were wild, they were unruly, they rode their bikes too fast, stayed out late and drank more Milo than they should have, but hell, if kids can’t terrify each other and engage in cross-dressing, what’s the world coming to?

Case closed. 

The case of the three-legged dog

It was a winter’s morning in Bardon, crisp enough to freeze last night’s leftovers. I was driving the big red car down to Discount Dave’s Emporium to pick up some of the good stuff: premium potting mix and composted manure with an aroma on it that’d knock out Jeff Horn in one hit. I’d thrown a right onto Rosalie when I saw a suspicious-looking black mutt sniffing his way along a nature strip. He was all alone in the big city and I didn’t like the look of things. Where were his folks? Who was looking out for him? I pulled over, sprang the door and sauntered over, smooth-like so as not to startle him. It was then I noticed he had only three legs.
‘Hey there, tripod, where’s your folks? Whatcha up to?’

But he wasn’t talking, so I gave him a little pat on the back, real gentle and friendly. He jumped like a skateboarder at a speedbump, which made me think he must be challenged in the earhole department as well. I fingered his collar to make sure he wasn’t going to bolt, and picked him up ― no easy task. He was shaped like a barrel and must have weighed 30 kilos. He coulda been a contender for a Canine Biggest Loser.

I looked him in the eyes but he didn’t look back. Those peepers of his were whiter than a debutante’s gown. He’d won the trifecta: deaf, blind and amputeed. Heck, it broke your heart just to think about it. But I’m a tough old broad, and I like to play my cards close to my chest, so I started working out a plan.

I checked the mutt for tags but there was no little anodised plate with a handy local address on his collar, no sir ― just some crazy bit of plastic that said findyurpetz.com and a 1-800 number. I looked around at the nearby houses. Maybe he lived in one. It was worth a try.

‘Let’s bowl into one of these joints, Furball. Maybe your owner lives in this one.’ With all the grace and agility of a toddler with a bowling ball, I carried him into the nearest yard, fronted up to the door and rang the bell. Behind the flyscreen, a blonde appeared with one kid on her hip and another at her heels.

‘Is this your dog, ma’am?’ I asked.

She looked at me like I was carrying a pet rat with bubonic plague, and I can’t say I blamed her. She had her hands full with small fry and would sooner open that flyscreen to Ivan Milat than take in a stray dog. We stood there chewin’ the fat about Furball’s pedigree and domicile for a while but we were getting nowhere, so I cut and ran.

I’d left my mobile back at headquarters, so it looked like my only option was to take old Furball back with me and make some calls to findyurpetz.com from there. I didn’t relish the prospect.

‘Boots aint gonna like it, Furball,’ I said. ‘Deaf and blind and three-legged won’t count for nothin’ with her. She’ll take one look at you and give you a close-up of her pearly whites ― and that’s if she’s in a good mood.’

Bootsy. The toughest mutt in Bardon

Old Bootsy is my 10-year-old cavoodle, and she's meaner than a junkyard dog when it comes to waifs and strays. If Furball was coming back to headquarters, he’d have to stay on the gated front verandah and mind his manners while Bootsy snarled at him from behind the French doors.

I hoisted my three-legged friend over to the rear of the big red car, lifted the hatch and dropped him in. He was lurching around in there like a drunken sailor on shore leave but there was nothing I could do about that. I executed the slowest U-turn on record to avoid putting him off balance, and stopped at the T-intersect. Headquarters were left, but as I looked right I clocked a barefoot brunette clambering up the hill like she was summiting the Matterhorn.

Now grown-up women around this town don’t go barefoot on gravelly bitumen unless they’re in too much of a rush to slip on their Dunlops, so I put two and two together and came up with five.

‘Furball, you might just be in luck, little guy,’ I said. I punched the passenger-side window button like I was playing the pokies at the Broncos Leagues Club, and drove towards the brunette.

‘Excuse me, is this your-’ But she was moving on up that slope like Tenzing Norgay on speed. I drove on a bit.

‘Are you looking for a-’ Again, she just kept on climbing. I was starting to wonder if she was hard of hearing, like her pooch.

Finally, I stopped right alongside her like a hoon at a drag race and yelled, ‘HAVE YOU LOST A DOG?’

She pulled up real fast and looked at me with eyes full of H2O.

‘He’s in the back!’ I shouted, gesturing like Marcel Marceau. I leapt out, popped the boot, picked up Furball and dumped him in his mama’s arms. He sat there all cool and collected, like Stevie Wonder at a hen’s night, while his owner burbled incoherently.

‘Someone left the gate open… I didn’t know where he’d … I thought he’d gone up to the main road and… Oh my god I was so worried…’ she sobbed.

We chatted for a bit and then I left her to cuddle him and make a big old fuss while he just kicked back and lapped up the filet mignon and attention. Furball knew when he was onto a good thing.

‘So long amigo. Stay outta trouble,’ I said, and drove off. I still had time to make it to Discount Dave’s before the hard stuff sold out.

As for the culprit behind Furball’s escape, my money’s on a tradie.  Don’t get me wrong; they’re a great buncha guys, and Brisbane would grind to a tyre-scorching Hilux halt without them. But some of your tradesmen look at a gate like it’s an encumbrance to easy egress; a plug in the handbasin of progress; a greenies blockade at a clearfell logging site. They breeze through your home like they’re more accustomed to living in a tepee on the plains of Nebraska or a Coleman’s tent on the beach at Straddy. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve had to hare off down the road in hot pursuit of Bootsy, who’s all set to rock ’n roll in a dead possum in the gutter outside number 99 - all because a tradie left the side gate swingin' in the breeze. 

So if you’re a plumber or a sparky with a hazy recollection of a job at the house of a blind three-legged dog, keep an eye out for an old dame with a bag of manure next time you’re strolling down the mean streets of the Westside. I'll want a word in your ear.

Case closed.