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.