PREVIEW - Chapter 6

.....Meet cousins Debbie and Ivan Dillinger, the most dangerous cops in NSW. This was because they kept shooting bad men.
They were pretty effective too, because they kept shooting them dead.

CHAPTER 6 - FATAL MISDEMEANERS

In a police force where most cops go their whole careers without firing at anyone, the Dillinger Gang, as the popular press dubbed them, had aced four menaces to peace and good order in a little over a month. The tabloid press loved them, the editorial writers and bleeding heart columnists of the serious press were aghast, the public was similarly polarised although heavily in the favor of our two expert marksmen, and they were heroes in the force, particularly with the Police Commissioner.

The first few years of the new millennium had been bad news for the NSW Police Department. A number of cops were gunned down in separate incidents. A Highway Patrol rookie climbed out of his chaser to be met with a hail of gunshot from the vehicle he had just pulled over. Shortly after two cops were blown away by a shotgun blast through an unopened door they had knocked on in answer to a domestic dispute. The next night, another cop was confronted a young punk running out of a Wendy’s in the city, the night takings in one hand and a 357 Magnum in the other. “Drop the gun!” screamed the cop. The punk hesitated, jerked the gun up and shot the cop dead. Add to this a spate of drive-by pot-shots at inner western suburbs police stations by death-or-glory ethnic gangs, and the whole force felt under siege.

Shortly after this, Sidewalk Eddie Murchurson decided to rob a building society in Maroubra Heights. Sidewalk Eddie was a member of Da Boyz , a pack of homeboys based on the public housing projects a couple of miles from the beach in that suburb. He had been in constant trouble with the law ever since his first bust for indecent exposure at the age of 13 - fast Eddie liked to flash his dick at 18 year old girls from St Mary’s convent. This was followed by several shoplifiting charges, a break and enter, demanding money with menace and two aggravated assault arrests. On top of all the trips to the station in relation to these, Eddie was constantly being hauled in for questioning every time someone in the district flashed his weenie.
People often confused Da Boyz with The Maroubra Boys , a rather more loosely based bunch of surfers who hung around the beach area. Both groups were in fact mortal enemies and often had fights and skirmishes which, combined with the predilection many members of each outift had to theft, assault, riotous behavior and drug and alcoholic abuse, drew them to the attention of the local cops. The Maroubra Boys or 'Bra Boys for short, made headlines when about 30 of them beat the shit out of 10 drunk off-duty cops in a local club. The surfers were celebrating a birthday and got a bit noisy. The cops told them to keep it down a bit, which was a big mistake - no handfull of boozed-out fat cops was going to tell the Bra Boys what to do. One-on-one, a bunch of mainly overweight cops would have a hard time handling a group of superfit surfers, but this was more like one on three. The cops got the hell kicked out of them. Debbie and Igor Dillinger were stationed at Maroubra but were not in the club that night. Which is lucky for the surfers, because otherwise a few of them may have been blown away.

Sidewalk Eddie was a bit of a legend to his homeboy mates because he liked to do things differently. Like, the last time he flashed his dick at the convent girls, he stuck it through a cardboard cutout of Michael Jackson’s head with a hole where that bad excuse for a nose should be. This cracked the girls up so much it took them an hour to ring it in to the cops. Most of the girls reckoned it was a big improvement on Thriller’s snoz.
So when doing-it-different Eddie ran out of the building society, his backpack full of money and waving a 38, he made his escape by skateboard. The road down through the Junction from Maroubra Heights is pretty steep, and good old Eddie was approaching warp speed by the time he hit the shopping area. He was doing real well - a swerve here, a turn there as he zapped through the traffic. He even got a bit fancy and banged a few cut-backs off the curbs and got some air over the speed humps.
Things changed a bit when a beer truck pulled out of the Maroubra Cellar’s loading dock. Sidewalk did an emergency avoidance, lost control for a bit and shot straight through the door of the beer garden, which was packed full of lunchtime drinkers downing burgers from the snack bar while they watched SWORDFISH on the big-screen video. Sidewalk got it back together inside and was weaving through the tables like a member of the Global Skateboards stunt team until Halle Berry up on the screen flashed her boobies at Hugh Jackman which so distracted our skater desperado that he crashed headlong into the tables down the front.
“Great entrance, Sidewalk,” said an appreciative female voice after all the dust, crashing plates and beer glasses settled a bit “But you need heaps more work on your stops.” Sidewalk looked up from the floor into the barrels of two Glock Police Specials held by Debbie and Igor Dillinger, who had been happily munching some quick lunchtime eats at one of those front tables.
Sidewalk still had a tight hold on the 38. “Drop the fucking gun, Sidewalk,” chimed in Igor. “You move it a millimeter and you are dead.” So of course Sidewalk moved it a millimeter. And ended up dead.
The investigation revealed that Debbie and Igor got off 9 shots between them. Only 3 hit Mr Stupid, but one of them went right through the cortex of his brain. A whole bunch of cops bagged the Dillinger Gang’s marksmanship, but more thoughtful people reckoned they were pretty darned good hitting a target that small.
When the TV, press and shock jock radio talkback hosts finally quietened down, cousins Debbie and Igor were celebrities. The new police commissioner, appointed from within the force as a no-nonsense get the job done manager to replace a disastrous experiment with a slick talking ineffective outsider, was delighted. His cops had been on the receiving end too much of late. He rewarded the Dillingers by issuing them with prototypes of a quick-release holster the cops were considering. The only blot on the whole issue was the rather poor strike rate of the Dillingers’ shooting so he instructed them to spend the next week at the police range with expert individual instruction. When they finished they were deadly shots.

This was proved a few weeks later. As Debbie and Igor walked out of the local station house to begin an evening shift, a big black stolen Landcruiser did a drive-by and popped a half dozen caps at the building. No-one was hit, although the station parakeet had his feathers parted by a richochet off the juke box. The shooters weren’t that lucky. Those quick draw holsters worked a charm because the Dillingers had their Glocks out and put 18 shots between them into the fleeing 4wd. 10 went through the back window and 8 into the lower tailgate, because bad guys are known to duck down when the rear glass begins to fly.
When the Dillingers caught up to the Landcruiser, which had done a head-on into a power pole, two guys in the back were dead and both occupants up front had gunshot wounds. The crash into the pole didn’t exactly do them a lot of good either, and one of them expired next day.
The big surprise was the identity of the goons. Debbie and Igor thought Da Boyz were doing a payback in memory of Sidewalk Eddie, but when they opened the doors, here were all these shot up surfer dudes. The 'Bra Boys were stirring things up again.
Round 2 to the cops in a very big way.
The media went ballistic. Headlines like:
Dillinger Gang Strikes Again!
Surfer Hoods Take Ultimate Wipeout!
Bra Boys Fatal Drop-In on Dillingers!
and Deadshot Dillingers Drill Drive-by Deadbeats!!
screamed from news stands and nightly TV newscasts. The bleeding-hearts columnists and commentators moaned about police brutality and summary executions. Responsible editorial writers referred to lack of care and the dangers of knee jerk police response. Most of the public loved it. The commissioner was ecstatic, so much so that he issued the Dillingers with one of the new Remington pump action shotguns the department was thinking of adopting for normal patrol duties. Because these riot guns were only used by the Special Response anti terrorist squad up to now, he sent Debbie and Igor away to do the full Special Response training course.
When they came out the were among the most dangerous cops in the force.

I just hoped I wouldn’t be near when they blew their next bad guys up.

Chapter 1 - Breaking News

My great uncle Bob, long-time mayor of Upper Tilba Tilba, once said there are no surprises in any job where you deal long enough with the public. He announced this two days before suddenly expiring of snakebite - a less than gruntled farmer protesting high local taxes sent him a death-adder in a U-post-it box. There are two points here: first - timing is everything. And second - you can tell old Bob never spent time in the public school system.

“This just in,” said Angie, my personal assistant, setting the 'phone back on its console. “There is a naked girl on the bandstand”.
Such news wouldn't raise an eyebrow if my office looked out over the stage at Sindy’s Sin City in the Cross. Or maybe the park at Tamarama beach. But in this particular case there was a certain element of the unexpected, because in fact it overlooked the assembly quadrangle of a pretty ordinary high school in the suburbs of Sydney - where I happen to have the misfortune of being one of the two deputy principals.
I got up and walked across to the window. This young woman was not quite naked. She had the most tiny of G-strings on, but the rest of her in all its glory was on full display. A pretty nice looking sweetie from this distance, about 17, tall, slim, blond hair, great tan all over.
“Nice eyes,” I said.
“I thought you’d be distracted by her other assets”.
“I’m a regular boy-scout”.
“I’m distracted.”
“Well knock me down with a feather”.
Angie bats for the other team, 100%. Which breaks my heart on account I’m madly in love with her.
“That girl has one sensational body,” breathed Angie. "But she doesn’t look like one of ours." This was a bit of a relief, but not that much. She sure looked familiar.
It was pretty lucky the time was mid-lesson with no kids outside. But I could tell by the shouts, hoots and general noise level that quite a few were already checking the scene from the classroom windows.
“Angie, I’m going to see what this lady wants.”
“Crazy if you don’t.”
“ I'll buy you the latest JD Lang if you can get all the teachers who are off lessons onto the doors to the quad to keep the kids away”.
Angie looked disappointed. “Come on Pete, I should go with you. You need a woman out there.” There is nothing Angie would like more than a close-up of some gorgeous near naked young woman. Normally I don’t mind such a sight either, but this situation was a bit different. I shook my head.
“This place is starting to get to you Pete. You’re no fun anymore. I thought boy scouts learned to have fun”.
“When we aren’t untangling knots”.

As I walked towards the door to the quadrangle, I could hear the kids had a syncopated clapping going. Miss Suntan was doing a kind of wriggle-sway to it. I headed into the open to an instant swell of cheers, boos and hisses. There are about 25 rooms fronting the quad and around 500 of our 1200 kids were at the windows. The average teacher hasn’t got a hope in hell of sitting them down when a show like this is on. Many average teachers didn’t want to. I could see old Harry Watts peering over his student’s heads with a huge grin on his face. I swear the old bugger was salivating. I bet his pacemaker was bouncing off the redline right now. Careful Harry, you could fritz the wiring.
A small group of Year 8 grubs had just climbed out one of the ground floor rooms. Their teacher, Arty Albert was probably having a smoke in the staff toilet again, against all regulations, leaving his class unsupervised. Bad luck Albert, you miss the burlesque show.
I summonsed up the sergeant-major voice. “ Get back inside!” The kids fell over each other to comply. I have a reputation as a bit of a heavy around the place. That did not stop a renewed and louder round of boos and catcalls. The anonymity of the group makes people real brave.
As I walked towards the girl, I noticed she had new bronze streaks in her hair and a small Aquarius tattoo on her left shoulder I hadn’t seen before.
A very clear female voice in the crowd yelled “Don't hit her, Fuggly”, which broke everyone up. This referred to two things; a nasty rumour around the place that some transgressors get smacked when they displease me, plus the fact that I haven’t got the best looking head in town. As a matter of fact it falls into the category of “only his mother would love it”. ‘Fuggly’ of course is short for ‘Fucking ugly’. Kids are at the cutting edge when it comes to thinking up names.
I reached the foot of the bandstand and looked up at the girl..
She grinned. “Fuggly? Wow Pete. You sure generate a lot of respect around here”.
I ignored the comment. Never show you are riled is number one rule when dealing with junior smartarses. I stared at her left shoulder and then moved my gaze up to her beautiful baby blues. “Nice tatt, sweetheart. Who did that, one of those spaced out granola eaters down at New Age Haven?”
She rolled her eyes. “You are so phoney, Pete, with that Joe Cool routine. You are supposed to get pissed and ask me what I’m doing here”
“Okay, I’ll play along. I’m pissed. What the hell are you doing here. Why aren’t you at school?”
She smiled and tossed her long hair in that familiar way. “I’m stripping for money”.
“What does that mean? Who’s going to pay you to strip?”
“You are.”
“You’re dreaming”.
“No way. But you pay for me to keep my stuff on, not take more off”.
Jesus! A shakedown from a 16 year old Lady Godiva.
“Listen sungirl, get one thing clear. No more money from me. I can’t afford it. There is no way I’m paying out.”
“Is that a fact?” she grinned and grasped the strings of her mico bikini bottom and began to edge them even lower. The noise from the crowd swelled to a crescendo.
So what does a guy do? I had half a mind to let the little scrubber go ahead, but imagine the response. I would have half the bible-bashing parents from the Christian Coalition banging on the District Superintendent’s door howling about how their kids’ lives had been ruined forever by such a sight and screaming for my resignation. Not to mention how the school’s Moral Majority and Feministas would react. Already I was heavily into combat with the District School Superintendent and Head Office. I could not really afford any extra aggravation.
So I folded. “Relax girl, slow down.” I shot her a genuinely pissed look. “ How much do you need?”
She gave a little victory smirk. “Five hundred would be fine”.
“ Five hundred dollars?” I paused for dramatic effect and gave her the flinty eyed stare I reserve for people who need kicking into line - bad kids, debt defaulters, brawlers at night-clubs, trash talking checkout girls. “Listen to me, sweetheart. Listen real good...”
“That’s ungrammatical Pete. What were you before the big promotion to deputy principal? A metalwork teacher?”
She knew damn well my background was metalwork teaching.
Once again I ignored the provocation. “Listen to me.... Five hundred, you have to be kidding. What the hell do you need five hundred for?”
“Benny’s amp blew up last night and they have a big gig on the weekend. A scout from the record company might be coming.”
What bullshit. Benny was her braindead boyfriend. Something was always going wrong with his lousy career. Or at least attempt at a career. The day Benny and his pathetic bunch of head bangers land a recording contract is the day I make Director General of Education.
I pulled my wallet out, took out a card and a pen from my pocket and pretended to write something down, while checking how much money I had. Perhaps the kids would think I was taking her name.
“Make sure you get her address for a snog later!” came the same clear female voice from the crowd. Much hilarity.
“I only have two hundred odd”, I said after a surreptitious count.
“That’s fine for now”, the stripper replied. “You can give me the rest tomorrow afternoon. We got a lesson, remember?”
“That’s ungrammatical”.
She just smiled. So, I took out my notebook, pretended to write a bit more, tore out the page, wrapped the cash in it and handed it across.
"He's giving her his phone number!” came the loud clear voice. How did that distant girl manage to project it above all the other shouted suggestions and the general racket?
With a smirk and a flourish, little Miss Striptease grabbed a sarong lying across the bandstand railing, wrapped it quickly around her and jumped down from the bandstand. A surge of groans and boos from the onlookers broke out. She fixed me with a level stare. “Pete, you don’t pay the rest of the money tomorrow and I’ll be back here Monday”.
She then strolled across the quadrangle to more boos and jeers. As she passed out through the main entrance, she held the index finger of her right hand high in the air. Such a sweetie. You could tell she had been brought up really well.

“ Mr Andrews, Mr Andrews!” I turned and saw the school's Girls’ Supervisor, old Hating Hillary, standing close by. Hillary is the school’s busybody, convener of the Christian Coalition and a big wheel in the affiliated Moral Majority. Naturally the old bat felt she should get herself out here.” Did I see you hand that young lady some money?”
“Just the cab fare, Hillary. She isn’t exactly dressed for public transport.”
“Who is she, Mr Andrews? You seemed to be talking to her with some familiarity?”
“She’s a lapdancer from Strippergram. She thought this was the Anglican seminary - one of the student clerics is having a birthday”.
Hillary shot me a withering look.
I began the long walk back to the building entrance. With the main attraction gone, many kids had already abandoned the windows, but there were still enough to give me a rousing payout.
It was all I could do to resist raising the index finger. What a circus! But then, what was new?
............

Note that this isn't a story about teachers and schools, even though it starts and ends there. Less than 10% of the action takes place in the school. The real story starts when the bad guys appear, and it's not at the school.

Chapter 2 - Calming Consultant

“Clever schools for a smart state!"
The dulcet tones and sincere visage of our beloved Premier were increasingly beaming at us from television even though the election was still 4 months away. The ads showed beautiful looking, immaculately uniformed kids in pristine high-tech classrooms being led by enthusiastic young schoolteachers straight from central casting. Perfect student behavior, one hundred percent attention and application.
As usual, reality mocked the hype. The state government was squeezing education spending as hard as most other departmental outlays. You don’t get votes by telling the electors their taxes are going to have to increase, or that state borrowing has blown out to third world proportions.
Less money meant decaying classrooms, a shortage of equipment, poor teacher salaries and so a failure to attract smart young graduates and a loss of experienced teachers to outside business, the private school sector or early retirement.
Plus no money for remedial programs and other strategies to handle the epidemic of out of control kids. Blame it on the deterioration of the family, flip television shows with trash talking rebel assholes, or too much red colouring in the New Fanta, but the fact was those lovely orderly high school classes with enthusiastic and polite students shown on the Premier’s ads were now more the exception than the rule.
And the politicians and the bureaucrats seemed incapable of taking the big steps to correct the situation. They cowered from attacks by liberal newspaper editorials about the high rate of student suspensions from schools, died anytime one of the radio shock-jocks picked up a story about some teacher getting over-enthusiastic in kicking a kid or complaining parent into line and had palpitations about the tsunami of parent/student litigation against schools and individual teachers.

Poor little Janey humiliated in front of the class just because she said a few swear words (actually ‘fucking cunt’). But no, these were directed at the child sitting in front of her, not the teacher in the same line of siight. Then she was made to stand in isolation for an eternity outside the principal's office where her peers could see her. All those taunts and laughter. This has affected her self-esteem for life. And when the principal said such demeaning and insulting things to her, her natural response was to slap his face. And yet this poor girl, the victim here, was suspended and then expelled (because she was over 15 - younger than that, the law says she can’t be expelled, just moved to another school where she can renew the chaos). Well as the parents' lawyer I must convey this is outrageous treatment and I'm seeking an injunction and compensatory damages.

The result of all these things was a state school system on the verge of chaos. Tilting ever closer to the downward spiral of loss of control.
As I said, what a circus. And I’m a ringmaster.

Well there are actually two other ringmasters, but you didn’t see too much of them around out little outpost. The principal, poor old Kevin Biltmoor was so shot down his office door was permanently shut after 10am, while he nursed a glass or five of whisky. The kids called him No More Biltmoor - No-More for short. Kevin had been in the system over 4O years and it had worn him down, brought to a head 5 years ago by a troubled kid suiciding in his office when he left to sort out another problem. Kevin got drunk with me at an end of year staff function a while back. “If only I hadn’t stopped to yarn with the groundsman.” he said as tears rolled down his face.
The other assistant deputy principal, Monica Zellwinger was one of those young ambitious go-getters who’s career plan involves spending as little time in the school as possible and maximum time at education conferences and seminars where she could give ground breaking addresses on the Behavioral Learning Paradigm and suck up madly to school inspectors, the District Superintendent and head office bureaucrats. Exotic Angie’s personal-assistant work was actually shared between myself, No-More and Monica, but Monica with all her reports, addresses, submissions for promotions and more took about three quarters of Angie’s time. As usual, Monica was out of the school on one of her self serving projects. Which was a real bastard right now, because whenever a school is disrupted by something out of the ordinary like this little flesh show, it takes a long time and all the muscle you can muster to get it back into line.
Any teacher will tell you that something as simple as a rainy or windy day will have the kids swinging from the overhead lights. Chuck in a more unusual activity like say a fire drill and chaos reigns for the rest of the day. We always do our yearly fire drill last teaching period, timed to finish just before the dismissal bell. I remember some arsehole once decided to liven one up by throwing a lighted match into some cardboard and paper textbook cartons left temporarily under the stairs after unpacking. Chaos supreme.

But hell, a near naked girl on the bandstand was unique. The place was in an uproar. So instead of heading for my office after the departure of the sun queen, I did a tour of the corridors. There were kids hanging out of doors and a deafening hubbub came from the rooms. Time for sergeant major again: “Move back inside!” I roared. “ Shut the noise! Get back to work!"
Most of the kids scuttled. A few cool ones took their time. “Too slow, Banisich! See you in my office after school!”
“Can’t, I gotta catch a bus”.
“Get on your mobile now and tell your parents to pick you up around 4”. Nearly every kid carries a mobile. If so, they never pretend to not have one. They know I will telephone for them on my mobile. My calls to parents are notorious.
“That’s gay sir!” Right now, everything bad was gay in kid-speak.

My mega volume tough talk had settled the racket to normal levels except in Art room 3.
Before I could reach it a call came in on my mobile. “Mr Andrews, Mr. Peter Andrews? This is Traci. I work for Silver Tree Finance.”
Traci had one of those sultry, sexy voices you hear on 1800 talk-dirty lines. Which is probably what she worked most of the time, knowing the guy who owned Silver Tree Finance.
“ That must be real nice for you Traci. I hope they have a good Health Plan.”
“ Mr Andrews, we notice you have missed several repayments on your account.”
I have some pretty expensive hobbies. Silver Tree Finance was a rather shady loan operation I had borrowed a substantial sum from a few months back. I was a bit behind in the payments. “Are you sure about that Traci? Maybe your computer is malfunctioning.”
“Mr Andrews, our computers never malfunction.”
That would be a first.
“Then it must be my financial consultant.” Nobody has an accountant these days. They have all metamorphosed into financial consultants. And instead of driving sensible Holdens and Fords they all cruise around in black Beemers and wear Versace. “I heard a rumour she’s run off to Port Douglas with Lord Conrad Black’s lifestyle guru. Maybe it’s true, which means she’s not scheduling any of my usual repayments.”
“Mr Andrews, I’m trying to be serious here. I would appreciate it if you would try to be serious too.”
“I am being serious. Next thing those bastards from The Home Leisure Depot will be around wanting to repossess Inflatable Ingrid and my life-size Barbie
replica.”
“Listen fuckwit!” Wow! Traci didn’t exactly have a high threshold of tolerance for idiots. “You get $2540 down here by 4pm tomorrow, plus an extra $500 late payment fee, or I’ll send two of our arrears consultants around to break your face!”
And she slammed down the phone. Well, I thought, metaphorically dusting my hands off, I sure straightened her out.

On to Art Room 3. At first I thought Arty Albert must still be puffing in the dunny, but there he was, up the front, abstractly drawing something on a sheet of paper, probably more of those scantily dressed nymphets a la Norman Lindsay. Arty Albert was a bit of a worry. I was always fielding complaints from the Moral Majority about Albert’s sketches. But Albert only had a few years to retirement. Hang in there Albert, don’t blow it.
Meanwhile his year 8 class rioted. I stuck my ugly face hard up against the glass panel in the door and glared. This has a scary effect. My head is big and raw boned, a bit too long for its width, with a large aquiline nose that was crooked at birth, piercing eyes and a slanted mouth. Some bastard had bitten off half my left ear in a football game in my teens, long before Mike Tyson ever thought of such a nifty move. People mustn’t like me, because a construction worker had got me a beauty across the face with shortened piece of scaffolding a half dozen years back, which knocked out an eye tooth and its front neighbour, smashed my already crooked nose further to the side and opened up my top lip, eyebrow and forehead, leaving a heavy duty scar from lip to hairline as a legacy. A head like mine tended to scare the hell out of a lot of kids, and I enhance the effect by shaving pm instead of am, so having a permanent stubble which contrasted somewhat with my longish black hair which I wear swept back and gathered in a short poneytail. Listen, when all those longhaired bastards were trooping around last century, I had a crew cut. Now that head stubble is almost universal if a guy isn’t bald, I wear mine longer. I also leave my teeth-bridge out most times. Besides Fuggly, the kids call me Pirate Pete and Gaptooth.
The first of Albert’s kids saw me and sat down real fast, nudging their friends. This had a rippling effect so that within a half minute all was quiet and in order except for one fat girl who was industriously loading a paintbrush with a huge glob of purple acrylic, preparatory to flicking it across the classroom at some poor sucker. A blob of purple sliding down the side of the door glass suggested she’d been busy. I tapped loudly on the glass door. The fat girl swung her head and nearly wet herself. I beckoned her outside.
“Bad move that paintbrush, Rebecca. Do you have a mobile?”
“Oh sir, that’s so completely gay!”
When she finished the call, I sent her back inside. Old Albert was still working on the sketch. He had not noticed a thing. I must admit another problem with the education system; too much deadwood in the teaching staff. The Teachers’ Union was super intransigent when it came to getting rid of problem teachers, which is probably just as well.

Otherwise I would have gone years ago.

Chapter 3 - Bad Deputy

“Mr Andrews, wait up please!” A very clear and rather familiar voice sounded behind me as I headed up the stairs to continue my calming consultancy onto the second floor. I propped on the middle landing while a tall, lithe girl with a face on the plain side of pretty and lovely long black hair caught up to me. Her school uniform was immaculate, just like in the Premier’s ads. She moved up the stairs in a sort of graceful glide and stood in front of me in an upright almost artistic stance, something rare in school kids, even as old as this one who had to be final year or possibly Year 11. Maybe she was a dancer or gymnast. I suddenly twigged; this was one of the lead actors in this year’s school production, AMERICAN BEAUTY. I had taught her in a few relief lessons when we couldn’t find substitute teachers. I struggled to remember her name. Sandy something.
Yeah, Sandy Tavernese. She had a beautiful voice for the stage. So clear even the suckers right down the back of the school auditorium could hear her against the roar of the cooling system.
“What do you want Sandy?”.
“Ms. Kristalou sent me sir”.
“What’s the problem?”
She gave a little embarrassed shuffle and the hint of a smile: “I’ve been a bad girl sir”.
“You’re in Year 12, right?” She nodded. “So how has a Year 12 girl been bad?”
Thing is, Year 12 ladies give the least trouble of any group in the school. Most are 17 or 18, some older, and as a group are about 3 years more mature than the guys in the form. Most have been working part-time jobs since their mid-teens and many have boyfriends in their 20s. In our type of school only about two thirds of the girls who started in Year 7 make it through the final year. The trouble-makers have been thrown out or have voluntarily departed as soon as it was legal to go, the academically challenged have dropped out, quite a few others find jobs after the Year 10 School Certificate, and some become “homemakers”. Year 12 girls who go right through consider themselves a little bit special.
So how had Sandra Tavernese been a bad girl?
“Ms. Kristalou came into the senior’s locker room and sprung me shouting comments out the window.”
“When was this?’
“When that strange girl was doing her act.”
“What sort of comments, Sandy”.
“Ah.... things about phone numbers, addresses, you know, just silly stuff”.
“I don’t suppose the name Fuggly was mentioned”.
Sandy looked at her shoes and shuffled a bit more. She seemed genuinely embarrassed. But I seemed to remember she was a hell of a good actor, not just a great voice: “Well yes sir, that name might have been mentioned.”.
Good on Pene Kristalou. Sounds like she heard the heckler and went looking for the source. I made a mental note to shift Pene off girls’ toilet duty when I updated the playground-duty roster.
I stood and gave Sandy the flinty eyed stare, but she was still peering at her shoes: “Look at me Sandy. Look at me”. Sandy lifted her gaze and looked me straight in the eyes. She had an angelic but contrite look on her face.
“What have you got to say?” I continued.
“John Travolta, sir”.
“John Travolta? What do you mean John Travolta?”
“Straight out of GET SHORTY”.
“What is straight out of GET SHORTY?’”
“Those lines, sir”.
“Which lines?” I fully knew which lines. This girl was taking the piss out of me.
“’Look at me, whoever. LOOK at me’. John Travolta’s character, Chili Palmer, the lead in GET SHORTY was always saying that when he wanted to kick someone’s ars..ar.. ah, posterior, sir ”.
She then gave me a smile. It was a ripper, a two thousand watt dazzler which lit up her whole face into an infectious grin. It altered her appearance and made her look so appealing, almost beautiful.
Pow, she nailed me! I was a sucker for American crime movies. Well more American crime novels to be accurate , particularly ones by Elmore Leonard. I gave a little snort. I hoped it sounded like displeasure and not the fact I was trying to choke back a laugh: “Sandy, you are not trying to be a smart ar...ah...Martha, by any chance? I mean, the way I see it, you are already in deep trouble”.
She gave a short little giggle, which was immediately replaced by the serious honest girl look. I got the feeling this lady was more than very good, acting wise. “I’m sorry sir. I can’t help myself. It’s a performer’s curse. Whenever I see an audience I have to perform. I truly apologize for the smart comments. I’m working up a stand-up act for the Comedy Club next term break, and I have to polish my ad-libs. You know what those audiences are like. If I don’t have good putdowns for the hecklers it’s instant death down there”.
"Comedy Club? - you’re scamming me, right?”
“Oh no sir, I’ve already done a week down in the Blue Room at the Pussy Pit.”
Pussy Pit? Jesus! The Pussy Pit was a dyke hangout in town. Angie and her friends often went there. Apart from the usual bar and disco plus those back rooms where all sorts of wild things went down, they had a Blue Room where artistic stuff like plays, serious lesbian musicians and female comedians did their thing.
“What are you doing in the Pussy Pit, Sandy? Are you eighteen yet?”
“Well almost sir. But I have fake ID, not that it matters, all sorts of underage girls get in there. Some of those lesbians are seriously into underage girls.”
I paused to take all this in. I had to be a bit careful here. I wasn’t too sure of this girl’s sexuality and the age of consent for females in this state was 16, so warning her to be careful in a place like that was skating on thin ice.
“If you don’t believe me sir, I can bring in the fliers from my Blue Room gig. It was my first paying performance and I kept everything related to it”.
I shook my head: “That‘s real interesting Sandy. I think you better tag along while I work out what to do about your little brain explosion”
She gave me another two thousand watt dazzler: “Oh great sir, maybe I’ll pick up some snappy dialogue! You always were funny when you put down the bad kids in those relief classes”.
I gave her the flinty eyed stare and she snapped back to angelic contrition. What a pro. I was beginning to really like this girl. She had heaps of spunk and spark.

We did a cruise along the top corridor and with the usual bit of arse kicking the place settled back towards normality. As we turned the corner into block C, my mobile rang. Back in the dark ages, the school administration and teachers on playground duty had used walkie-talkies to communicate trouble. If five Hells Angels jump the fence and start selling dope to the Year 7 sports class, the lone PE teacher wants help in a big way. Same for the petite student teacher when two 190cm Year 10 brutes start to brawl on the handball courts. These days, the compact mobile phone is much easier to carry and more flexible than 2 way radios. Teachers in the classroom could contact me directly, just like this call from Miss Evenly, one of the English teachers: “Mr Andrews, I have Philip Bently here. He just struck one of the other boys in class and refuses to leave the room.”
Talking about 190cm Year 10 brutes, Philip Bently is a perfect copy of the blueprint. One of the grunts on the school rugby league team, an oversized sneering, lying, bullying braggart. He was always creating maximum chaos and had been suspended twice this year alone. Big deal: a kid is suspended and gets to roam the streets and make trouble just like in the school holidays. Or he stays home, watches daytime TV and pornographic videos while smoking big sister’s dope and drinking dad’s booze, usually with a posse of friends who truant school. Some punishment. Yet, short of the very difficult transfer to another school and the almost impossible expulsion from the state system, it is our big weapon.
Bently was sprawled across his chair at the back of the room, one leg draped across the desk when I looked through the door pane. Sally Evenly was trying to teach up front, but every time she said something, Bently would loudly announce, “Bullshit!”
I slowly opened the door and stared at him for a while. Things got really quiet.
“Did Miss Evenly tell you to leave the room?” I asked in a very calm voice.
“You know she did,” he sneered. “She told you on her cheap Nokia.”
A couple of kids in the class sniggered.
“So why are you still here?”
“Because I want to be. Nobody can make me leave. It’s a free world.”
I made my voice quieter, so that everyone had to strain to hear: “I’m only going to tell you this once. Get yourself out of the room and down to my office.”
He gave a sneering smile: “Or what? What are you gunna do? I aint worried about you, Andrews. You think you are such a tough guy, but you’d last about 2 minutes on the field. Even the halfback could roll you.”
A few more sniggers from the class.
“Ms. Evenly, where is the boy who was hit?”
“Down in the sick bay, Mr Andrews. Thomas Mackie. I think his nose is broken.”
“Ms Evenly, I want you to take the class down to the quadrangle.” Big creeps like this thrive on an audience. With a chorus of groans and disappointed comments at being cut from the entertainment, and a scrape of desks and chairs, the class moved out. Sandy turned to leave.
“I want you to stay here Sandy and watch carefully.” No way was I going to risk being the only one in the room with this bastard. I needed a witness, and one who could write up a good statement.
So what is the next step when a kid refuses an order like this? My routine is to call the parents, get them down here and they tell the gorilla what to do. Parents hate that, and usually give the kid hell. If the kid still refuses to move, the teaching guidelines say call the cops. Two problems here, Bently’s parents had a history of non co-operation and the local cops did not want to get involved in what they termed internal school disputes. Sure, a kid had been assaulted, but the cops reckoned this was really something we should handle. They had enough on their hands without doing our jobs for us. Professional pride had me agreeing with them. Plus the whole thing takes so long. This arsehole could tie up the classroom for most of the rest of the day and rooming is so tight for many of our teaching periods that there are no backup classrooms. Some kids want to learn; they are relying on good exam marks for jobs, university entrance, bursaries. They shouldn’t be sitting in the quadrangle.
I walked up the back of the room and stood very close to the desk. Bently still had his feet draped on it. “Last time we suspended you, your parents refused to come into school to pick you up. Is that still the case?”
“You know it is, Gaptooth. My dad told you never to call. They got real jobs. They can’t afford to be rousted from their shop to talk to fucking losers like you.”
I bent over so my face was only a few inches from his. I dropped my voice to little more than a whisper. Sandy up the front would have a hard time hearing the next bit: “Are you still seeing Susan Pellow?” Susan Pellow was a Year 9 football groupie. I had seen them hanging around hand in hand, real lovey-dovey.
Bently’s lip curled. “What if I am?”
“Well, you’re not the only one. Coach James over at City High said their whole team reamed her last week after training.”
Bently snarled and came up out of the seat swinging. I swayed to the side and brought a nice little uppercut from about floor level straight into his gut and right up under his rib-cage. It knocked every ounce of wind out of him. He let out a terrible sound and crashed arse first to the floor, knocking his desk and chair flying. He sat and choked, gasped and gulped like a space-walker out of oxygen.
I raised my voice a little so Sandy could hear: “Now here’s what we are going to do. When you can walk, we are going to go down to my office. You will ring your parents and tell them maybe you need a doctor. If they won’t come in, I am going to take you to their business or your home, whichever they say. And if you swing at me again or give me any other grief, I am taking you down the police station and having you charged with assault. Is that clear?”
All the fight was gone. He nodded weakly and then proceeded to lose his lunch.
“Oh yuck you loser, that is so gross!” said Sandy.

Chapter 4 - Parent Counselling 101

Around 5pm I decided to wrap things up. The rest of the day had been pretty routine once Bently’s mother had taken him away. I told her she either lined up a new school or I would press charges both on my own behalf and for the kid with the busted nose. I thought maybe Bently would get a bit of fire back in him once he got his wind back, but he was completely docile. The sight of him staggering across the quadrangle in front of his classmates, holding his gut and with vomit down the front of his shirt must have been a complete loss of face.

Sandy brought her written witness statement around just after classes finished at 3. “It isn’t complete sir, I didn’t quite catch what you said to him when you went up the back of the room.”
“I gave him one more chance to leave, Sandy.”
“Gee sir, I thought I heard the words ream and, uh, team.” And she shot me one of those clear eyed innocent gazes.
“Well yes, I mentioned something like it would seem he would be off the team to play City High if he didn’t leave the room. Just write something like that.”
She gave a sweet little smile: “Well yes sir, I did hear something like that.”
She was back within fifteen minutes with the statement all typed up on a word processor down in the computer room. “Ah sir, what did you decide about my bad girl act?”
“What I decided was that maybe you could do your comedy routine at the Christian Coalition meeting this Tuesday night. They need someone to do the entertainment spot because Singing Brother Joe and his holey guitar can’t make it.”
“Yeah, he probably got defrocked over some alterboys.” She gave a little giggle, which turned into a deep, full blooded throaty chortle. Actually, it came more from the belly than the throat. It was a ripper. I had heard some other woman do this laugh and it was so infectious that despite my best efforts I gave a couple of snorts and a smile.
The Chistian Coalition was the school’s religious club, made up of about 30 kids who met every Friday lunchtime under the patronage of Hating Hilary. Most of their parents and 3 of the local religious ministers also held meetings on the first Tuesday evening of each month in the school hall. Many of the same parents, plus a few non religious wowsers were part of a similar group called the Moral Majority, which was always giving us grief about sex in texts, unsuitable videos, immodest school uniforms and the rest.
“Seriously sir, I don’t think the Pussy Pit routine would go down too well with the God-Squad. Those people are pretty uptight and there is some pretty raunchy language and stuff in there.”
“What do you have in your Blue Room routine?”
“Oh, I run a line on how I lost my cherr.....ah .... you know, my virginity to some hopeless bloke and then I do a putdown on the write-off guys I met with after that. The lesbians love it, anything that makes men look sexually incompetent. I throw in a lot of stuff about small wieners and even smaller duration. You know, all that male put-down kind of stuff.”
Well I walked into that one. It was not such a good idea talking with a female student about losing her virginity, no matter how jokey-jokey the atmosphere. "Always be in control of the discussion" is one of the first management rules about dealing with underlings sprouted by those Dale Carnegie type books. I wasn’t too sure who was controlling this discussion right now.
“Mixed audiences are different sir. I can’t get away with that kind of stuff in a place like the Comedy Club”, Sandy continued.” I can throw in a bit of the old routine, but the males in the audience won’t like the full thing.” She paused and gave me a level eyed gaze. “ My mum says men can’t handle being made fun of. What do you think, sir?”
Nicely done Sandy. If she wasn’t fully in control, she was maneuvering pretty cleverly. I had the distinct impression I was being screwed over big time. Without any kisses. I pretended to give her question some consideration: “I’m not too sure what I think, Sandy. But you’re probably right about the Christian Coalition. Those people have been in a bad mood ever since I removed the Goth Club’s ban on signing up juniors.”
“Was that a black-ban, sir?”
“Jeez Sandy, I hope your Comedy Club stuff is better than that.”
“ Well thanks sir, you are a real prince”.
“ My pleasure. Listen, I hear Mr Jordan is short of helpers during recesses to sell tickets to the school disco Monday night. I think a fitting punishment may be for you to go along and offer a hand.”
She shot me the two thousand watter. “That is way cool sir. See my mum was wrong, men can take a joke.” And then she did the little giggle into that wonderful deep chortle again.
“Mini Driver.”
“Pardon sir?”
“Mini Driver. That’s who I first heard do that laugh.”
“Well yes sir, it is so unique When I first heard it I said ‘How does she do that?” I just had to develop it. It took me so much practice but it was worth it. When my jokes aren’t going over too well I rip out a Mini and the audience can’t help but join in.”
I smiled and pointed to the door.
As she headed out she turned: “Mr Andrews, if you don’t mind me asking, how come you know about the Pussy Pit?”
“I had a crush on one of those big Samoan door-nazis down there. But it never came to anything, she didn’t seem interested.”
“Yeah, I figured it was something like that.”
Sandy flashed the two thousand watter, ripped out a Mini and gave a little wave as she disappeared down the corridor.

I got the after-school detention class settled in room one and did the paperwork on Bently at the teacher’s table. I let all but three of detainees leave at 4pm - these three had talked, so they stayed another half hour. The school was deserted when I moved back to my office. Even the cleaners had finished. I was working on the supervision timetable for the swimming carnival when the outside line rang.
“Jack Sharp High School,” I said. Jack Sharp was a former Minister for Education. He was a ex-wharfie union official who worked his way up through Labor Party politics to the big job. Jack Sharp could not deliver a 30 second speech without making 31 grammatical and syntax errors. Teachers called him Not-Too-Sharp.
“This is Edith Pope,” said an indignant voice. Jesus, just what I didn’t need right now! Edith Pope was one of the Moral Majority parents. She was always on the phone whining about something or nothing. Get her going and she never stopped. “I am completely disgusted about that obscene display my son told me occurred in your playground today! A naked girl! How outrageous and offensive that our children are subjected to such an ordeal! I feel there have to be steps taken to stamp out such outrageous behavior! Why were the police not called? My son tells me the girl simply walked out of the school! What sort of standard of behavior does this give to young people? The school disco is Monday night; are we going to have a repeat of those skimpy revealing outfits I observed when I helped on the drink stall last time? One girl had a tiny halter top and a skirt slung so low I feared I would see her bottom cleavage! This is not acceptable at all! And the swimming carnival is to be conducted soon. I suggest the school institutes the old rule I had as a girl, any bikini wearer has to have a covering T-shit. Not one that goes transparent when wet!.........” And on she went .... moan moan, whinge whinge, carp carp. I call the Moral Majority the Moaning Minority . I waited for her to run out of steam, but she kept the harangue going….
“Excuse me madam,” I broke in, using my best Prince Charles voice. “Do you know to whom you are speaking?”
“Well no, I don’t,” she replied, somewhat miffed.
“So why don’t you go fuck yourself?”
I slammed down the phone, bundled up my work and shot out the door.

Chapter 5 - Meet the Law

“This is a great old car, Pete, but maybe a bit noisy, you think?”
I shot Angie a grin, shifted up a gear to cut the bellow of the twin exhausts a bit, and headed on down Anzac Parade. It was 7.45 on a Friday evening. Sydney was moving into weekend mode. Cars and 4wds, many with surfboards, bike-racks or camping trailers were already moving out to the motels, holiday houses and camp grounds along the coast. Late workers were heading their weary way home but uplifted within by the thought of a weekend of freedom. Earlier departees from the offices, feeling nicely mellow after the ritual Friday night drinks were also heading for home or to the next port of call, mostly tucked into cabs or with a non-drinking dedicated driver in this age of harsh penalties for booze-driving. And people were already heading out for dinner or early Friday night entertainment. Or like us, for more work.

Angie wasn’t wrong about the great old car. The truth is that I am in love with my car even more than I adore Angie. It is a near replica of the 1965 Touring Car Championship winner. Back then, a racer called Norm Beechey got sick of those wickedly fast Jaguar MK11s constantly winning races, and imported a Chevrolet Impala with the biggest 409 cubic inch motor and 4 speed manual gearbox. This weapon had been cleaning up in American Nascar stock car racing and with a few modifications from Norm, proceeded to do the same here. Those Jags didn’t see which way it went.
I was into both historic car racing and the street machine scene. I couldn’t think of any vehicle which could combine the two better. So I found myself an Impala. I cheated a bit and got the far sleeker 2 door coupe version, which was within the regulations, found a 409 motor and a lot of the other special and rare gear, mainly in America and mostly over the net, and gradually built up a copy of old Stormin’ Norman’s beautiful machine. It was painted dark blue just like most of Norm’s racers and had a few of the defunct Neptune Oil’s stickers and some Goodyear decals behind the front wheel arches, like the original. And this was my street car, this great long hunkered down monster with big fat wheels, enormous tyres and two grumbling pipes sticking out from under the side just behind the doors. It was a knockout and attracted attention everywhere. And unlike just about every other car I drool over, you never saw another of these coming the other way. And could this baby haul. It could spin its wheels going into third gear and get sideways turning out of any intersection with just a whiff of throttle. I never spin wheels or get sideways on public streets. Any fool knows the car can do it, so why bother?
I shot another look at Angie. We were on our way back to school the same night of Master Bently’s unfortunate demise, for the opening of the new library and computer block. It was hard not to glance at Angie: she was one great looking woman.

Angela Vung Truy was born in Vietnam 29 years ago and came to Australia as a baby with her single mother via a refugee boat and camps in eastern Malaysia. By her appearance her father must have been African-American. Things were very tough in Vietnam after the war for the products of such a relationship and for their mothers, hence the refugee boat. Angie had an exotic mixture of Asian and African features and was way taller than the average Vietnamese girl at something like 185cm or six-one. Maybe dad was a basketballer before he got called up. Her legs were impossibly long, her skin almost midnight black, the rest of her body just perfect and she had very short hair, almost a buzz cut, which emphasised her longish neck and the proud way she held her stunningly exotic head. Tonight she was heading off to party after the library opening and was dressed in a little grey silk shift, toeless white strappy sandals with two inch heels, and had a simple golden chain around her throat with matching pendant earrings. She was reclined back in her seat with her head against the backrest, eyes closed. Her right leg was hooked up over the midsection of the protective roll cage, which had her dress way up past the high cut panty line. Jesus! I got so distracted I gave a bit too much throttle away from a set of lights and chirped the back tyres.
A blue light started flashing in the rear-view, and a siren gave a short blip. Cars like mine are real cop magnets. The wallopers are always waiting to pounce on something stupid, but that little chirp of tyres? I swung out of the traffic into the next side street and rolled to a stop.
“Get out of the car,” came an amplified voice. “Turn around, put your hands on the roof, legs stretched wide.”
How completely boring. I’d done this little charade before, so I stood there with hands in my pockets, watching the two cops haul themselves out of their patrol car. A striking lady cop a good 5 centimeters over my 183 strode across, gave me a smirk and stepped behind Angie who, good girl that she was, had adopted the required position. Placing her hands on Angie’s shoulders, the pigette began to frisk her down. It was a very thorough frisk, down over Angies back and bum, sliding down her lovely long legs to those anklestraps, up again on the insides to way into paradise territory, up over her hips and flat stomach to her lovely breasts. She spun Angie around, and planted a passionate kiss on her lips. Angie responded and they proceeded to eat each others’ face.
“Hey Pete, that looks like fun,” said the short fat male cop, who was leaning on the bonnet of the cruiser. “What say we pile in the backseat of that jalopy of yours and have a little smooch?”
“I’m not too sure Igor. I don’t think I know you that well. Maybe we should just hold hands.”
Welcome to Debbie and Igor Dillinger, the two best known and most feared cops in NSW.

This was because cousins Debbie and Igor kept shooting bad guys. They were pretty effective too, because they kept shooting them dead.

Chapter 6 - Fatal Misdemeaners

In a police force where most cops go their whole careers without popping anyone, the Dillinger Gang, as the popular press dubbed them, had cancelled the contracts of four bad guys in a little over a month. The tabloid press loved them, the editorial writers and bleeding heart columnists of the serious press were aghast, the public was similarly polarised although heavily in the favor of our two expert marksmen, and they were heroes in the force, particularly with the Police Commissioner.

The first few years of the new millennium had been bad news for the NSW Police Department. A number of cops were gunned down in separate incidents. A Highway Patrol rookie had climbed out of his chaser to be met with a hail of gunshot from the vehicle he had just pulled over. Shortly after two cops were blown away by a shotgun blast through an unopened door they had knocked on in answer to a domestic dispute. The next night, another cop was confronted a young punk running out of a Wendy’s in the city, the night takings in one hand and a 357 Magnum in the other. “Drop the gun!” screamed the cop. The punk hesitated, jerked the gun up and shot the cop dead. Add to this a spate of drive-by pot-shots at inner western suburbs police stations by death-or-glory ethnic gangs, and the whole force felt under siege.

Shortly after this, Sidewalk Eddie Murchurson decided to rob a building society in Maroubra Heights. Sidewalk Eddie was a member of Da Boyz , a pack of homeboys based on the public housing projects a couple of miles from the beach in that suburb. He had been in constant trouble with the law ever since his first bust for indecent exposure at the age of 13 - fast Eddie liked to flash his dick at 18 year old girls from St Mary’s convent. This was followed by several shoplifiting charges, a break and enter, demanding money with menace and two aggravated assault arrests. On top of all the trips to the station in relation to these, Eddie was constantly being hauled in for questioning every time someone in the district flashed his weenie.
People often confused Da Boyz with The Maroubra Boys , a rather more loosely based bunch of surfers who hung around the beach area. Both groups were in fact mortal enemies and often had fights and skirmishes which, combined with the predilection many members of each gang had to theft, assault, riotous behavior and drug and alcoholic abuse, drew them to the attention of the local cops. The Maroubra Boys or 'Bra Boys for short, made headlines when about 30 of them beat the shit out of 10 drunk off-duty cops in a local club. The surfers were celebrating a birthday and got a bit noisy. The cops told them to keep it down a bit, which was a big mistake - no handfull of boozed-out fat cops was going to tell the Bra Boys what to do. One-on-one, a bunch of mainly overweight cops would have a hard time handling a group of superfit surfers, but this was more like one on three. The cops got the hell kicked out of them. Debbie and Igor Dillinger were stationed at Maroubra but were not in the club that night. Which is lucky for the surfers, because otherwise a few of them may have been blown away.

Sidewalk Eddie was a bit of a legend to his homeboy mates because he liked to do things differently. Like, the last time he flashed his dick at the convent girls, he stuck it through a cardboard cutout of Michael Jackson’s head with a hole where that bad excuse for a nose should be. This cracked the girls up so much it took them an hour to ring it in to the cops. Most of the girls reckoned it was a big improvement on Thriller’s snoz.
So when doing-it-different Eddie ran out of the building society, his backpack full of money and waving a 38, he made his escape by skateboard. The road down through the Junction from Maroubra Heights is pretty steep, and good old Eddie was approaching warp speed by the time he hit the shopping area. He was doing real well - a swerve here, a turn there as he zapped through the traffic. He even got a bit fancy and banged a few cut-backs off the curbs and got some air over the speed humps.
Things changed a bit when a beer truck pulled out of the Maroubra Cellar’s loading dock. Sidewalk did an emergency avoidance, lost control for a bit and shot straight through the door of the beer garden, which was packed full of lunchtime drinkers downing burgers from the snack bar while they watched SWORDFISH on the big-screen video. Sidewalk got it back together inside and was weaving through the tables like a member of the Global Skateboards stunt team until Halle Berry up on the screen flashed her boobies at Hugh Jackman which so distracted our skater desperado that he crashed headlong into the tables down the front.
“Great entrance, Sidewalk,” said an appreciative female voice after all the dust, crashing plates and beer glasses settled a bit “But you need heaps more work on your stops.” Sidewalk looked up from the floor into the barrels of two Glock Police Specials held by Debbie and Igor Dillinger, who had been happily munching some quick lunchtime eats at one of those front tables.
Sidewalk still had a tight hold on the 38. “Drop the fucking gun, Sidewalk,” chimed in Igor. “You move it a millimeter and you are dead.” So of course Sidewalk moved it a millimeter. And ended up dead.
The investigation revealed that Debbie and Igor got off 9 shots between them. Only 3 hit Mr Stupid, but one of them went right through the cortex of his brain. A whole bunch of cops bagged the Dillinger Gang’s marksmanship, but more thoughtful people reckoned they were pretty darned good hitting a target that small.
When the TV, press and shock jock radio talkback hosts finally quietened down, cousins Debbie and Igor were celebrities. The new police commissioner, appointed from within the force as a no-nonsense get the job done manager to replace a disastrous experiment with a slick talking ineffective outsider, was delighted. His cops had been on the receiving end too much of late. He rewarded the Dillingers by issuing them with prototypes of a fast draw holster the cops were considering. The only blot on the whole issue was the rather poor strike rate of the Dillingers’ shooting so he instructed them to spend the next week at the police range with expert individual instruction. When they finished they were deadly shots.

This was proved a few weeks later. As Debbie and Igor walked out of the local station house to begin an evening shift, a big black stolen Landcruiser did a drive-by and popped a half dozen caps at the building. No-one was hit, although the station parakeet had his feathers parted by a richochet off the juke box. The shooters weren’t that lucky. Those quick draw holsters worked a charm because the Dillingers had their Glocks out and put 18 shots between them into the fleeing 4wd. 10 went through the back window and 8 into the lower tailgate, because bad guys are known to duck down when the rear glass begins to fly.
When the Dillingers caught up to the Landcruiser, which had done a head-on into a power pole, two guys in the back were dead and both occupants up front had gunshot wounds. The crash into the pole didn’t exactly do them a lot of good either, and one of them expired next day.
The big surprise was the identity of the goons. Debbie and Igor thought Da Boyz were doing a payback in memory of Sidewalk Eddie, but when they opened the doors, here were all these shot up surfer dudes. The 'Bra Boys were stirring things up again.
Round 2 to the cops in a very big way.
The media went ballistic. Headlines like:
Dillinger Gang Strikes Again!
Surfer Hoods Take Ultimate Wipeout!
Bra Boys Fatal Drop-In on Dillingers!
and Deadshot Dillingers Drill Drive-by Deadbeats!!
screamed from news stands and nightly TV newscasts. The bleeding-hearts columnists and commentators moaned about police brutality and summary executions. Responsible editorial writers referred to lack of care and the dangers of knee jerk police response. Most of the public loved it. The commissioner was ecstatic, so much so that he issued the Dillingers with one of the new Remington pump action shotguns the department was thinking of adopting for normal patrol duties. Because these riot guns were only used by the Special Response anti terrorist squad up to now, he sent Debbie and Igor away to do the full Special Response training course.
When they came out the were among the most dangerous cops in the force.

I just hoped I wouldn’t be near when they blew their next bad guys up.

Chapter 7 - Peer Bonding

The new library was packed with the usual suspects, plus some extras. We had teachers, departmental bigwigs, members of the P&C and other parents, the school student leaders and some immaculately uniformed year 10 girls being organised by Angie and the domestic science teachers to pass around eats and other goodies. The extras were mainly the press - a TV camera crew with a well known reporter from the nightly news and current affairs show in heavy makeup, plus a few print journalists. Normally a little show like this would be of no interest to them, but the Minister for Education was coming to open the extensions, and right now the minister was big news. To put it more accurately, right now the minister was in deep shit. An investigation by the Corruption Commission had uncovered big time handouts from building firms to Education Department officials in relation to granting of new contracts. The rumor was the handouts went right to the top.
"Petey! Petey you old stand-over merchant, how you doing?"
I turned to the source of the shout, a small pugnacious looking barrel of a man who was standing next to No More Biltmore. He gave a wave, said something to the boss, and trotted across to give me a hearty slap on the back. “Christ Pete, you look better every time I see you! Still doing that triathlon stuff and hitting the gym, uh? Hey, wish I had the time.”
“Hi Bazza, how’s the building industry?”
Bazza Payne was the guy who built our new extensions. An inside job really, because Bazza was also one of our parents. He’s had four kids through the school, with the youngest currently in final year. As a builder, Bazza was pretty big time in the city. He specialised in new apartment blocks and some retail outlets. Our extensions were the first school work he’d done as far as I knew. A lot of his normal stuff was built on spec but some he kept for himself, making Bazza a pretty big time landlord.
As a parent, Bazza was a winner. All his kids were polite A-grade students and talented in sports, music, acting etc. Probably a lot of the kudos here should go to Edie, Bazza’s long-time wife. Edie was that old style of Aussie woman - no shit, all calm action and efficient family management.
As a husband Bazza was also pretty special. He sidelined in running night clubs, strip joints and bars, in making porno videos and being a financial backer of new legitimate movie and recording industry talent, and yet, despite all the gorgeous and go-getting women in these industries, I had never seen him pay special attention to anyone but Edie. Sure, there were always really great babes around Bazza and his entourage, but there was never one hanging off him.
As a person, Bazza was polarising. Many people could not stand his brashness, loud mouth and aggressive determination to win at any cost. They reckon Bazza had the typical small man’s disease and was a top pain in the bum. Me, I really liked the man. Bazza was a straight shooter who got things done. And I enjoyed his smartarse loudmouth routine - it was usually directed at the right people.
“The building industry, Pete is real great. All those suckers wanting to buy investment apartments are just wading in with their dollars, making guys like me rich. Interest rates are inching up, that guy at the Reserve Bank says property prices are gunna tank, and they still keep on buying. Hey Monica! Nice skirt! "
Our second deputy principal had just walked in, looking a million dollars. Plenty of big-wigs were here to impress, so naturally Monica was here too. She turned towards us with a half scowl on her face, which instantly changed to a nice smile and a little wave. Bazza Payne was a big wheel on our P&C.
“Christ Pete, that Monica is one little cutie. You doing anything about her? Crazy if you don’t.”
“Nah Bazza, she’s never at school long enough to get a conversation going.”
“Sure, I know the type. Christ, look at how she’s moved in on Bill Casey. Sucking up to the District Superintendent, now that’s a better career move than kicking smokers out of the girls’ dunny.”
“Monica hasn’t been near the girls’ dunny in her whole teaching career. As a matter of fact, I’m not sure she’s been near a classroom.”
“I tell you Pete, people like Monica are going places fast. Before you know it she’s gunna be the Director General of Education and she’ll be handing you a transfer to Broken Hill.” It was no secret that things were a bit strained between Monica and me.
Bazza was peering towards the doorway. “Hey, check out the Minister. Christ, a Labor Party hack, no brains, no talent, serves his time as a party yes-man, gets elected to a no-effort seat, kisses the Premier’s bum and winds up calling all the shots in Education”
John Hefforn, M.P had just entered the room. He was instantly besieged by the press, which he studiously ignored. One of his minders was telling them firmly that the minister had nothing further to say at this point; that it would be improper to comment while the Corruption Commission was still engaged in its investigation. The entourage moved across to District Superintendent Bill Casey who introduced a gushing Monica.
“That little trio was made for each other - Arse Lickers Incorporated”, grunted Bazza. “Say Pete, I want you to do a job for me.” I often did jobs for Bazza. As a matter of fact, for quite extended times over the past 10 years I had worked nearly as many hours for him as for the Education Department. “Old Mazzy is having a bit of trouble with one of her tenants, the bastard is 5 weeks behind in his rent. Angie! Angie baby, I got you a contract! We gunna make a video! You're gunna be a star!” Angie was gliding across the room with a tray of jam pikelets. She didn’t even glance this way, but I noticed an index finger subtly extend itself above the edge of the tray. Bazza turned back to me. “Christ, can you imagine Angie in a video? Those lesbians make great videos!” He gazed off into the distance with an absent smille on his face as he pictured Angie in action. He snapped back to the present. “Anyway, I want you to take Mazzy across to this creep’s place and have a talk to him.”
Mazzy was Marilyn, Bazza’s mum. She lived in my apartment building, two floors up. The building was one of Bazza’s, stuck high on the ridge at Potts Point, one of those modern glass and balcony jobs with panoramic city and harbour views from all rooms plus a fantastic rooftop pool and sundeck. Three minutes walk got you to the restaurants and clubs of the Cross and the city was another three by subway. Bazza offered me a special deal on the purchase of a one bedroom unit, which was still above what I could really afford. But I jumped at it. That apartment in that location was a dream.
The minister moved across the room, working the crowd, TV cameras in tow. I noticed Monica had taken over the introductions.
“Minister, meet the most important person here, the person who built this beautiful building, Barry Payne. Barry is also one of our most active PandC members.” Hefforn pumped Bazza’s hand, gripping his forearm with the other hand like some Hollywood star playing the politician. “A pleasure to meet you Barry.”
“Mr Minister, the pleasure is mine!!!” replied Bazza in his normal loud way. “You don’t know how long I been waiting to ask you what favors I got to do to get priority on that new contract I just put in for the extensions at the primary school!!!” Everyone froze, there was an intake of breath and the Minister's minders looked like they were about to kill Bazza. The current affairs reporter’s mouth was agape like she couldn’t believe all her Christmases had come at once. The Minister looked at Bazza blankly for about half a second and then rolled back his head and let out a great guffaw, which was quickly taken up by his minders, the Superintendent and of course Monica.
“You’re a real card, Barry. How about you take me on a tour of this great facility you built for us?”
Well bless my soul. And here is me thinking the minister is a dumb time-serving party hack. Well he sure could do a neat little side-step in a crisis.
“Before you move on Minister,” Monica chimed in. “I would like you to meet our second deputy principal, Peter Andrews.”
The minister fixed me with a stare. “ Ah yes, a face to the report,” he said. “I was reading your file this morning.” And with that he turned, threw his arm across Bazza’s shoulders and walked on.
Jesus! I collared the District Superintendent before he joined them. “What is this shit, Bill? Who’s been crying to Head Office? Why is that lightweight reading my file?”

Chapter 8 - More Peer Bonding

He gave me his usual frank, sincere, Honest Abe look. Bill Casey is everything Monica Zellwinger wants to be. He is a tall poppy in the NSW educational system and is moving at Mach2 towards the top. At a slim 185cm, with a boyish face countered by perfectly cut prematurely grey hair, a winning smile, a voice that conveyed friendliness, authority and sincerity all at once, Bill had everything to get there. Everyone liked him. Bill was deputy principal at my school back when I was a mere Head Teacher Manual Arts. He was an excellent classroom teacher and a scrupulously fair disciplinarian, so the kids liked him. The staff loved his brilliant administrative skills, his affable nature, how he could kick hard-case kids into line and smooch intransigent parents and the way he gave maximum support to his teachers. And naturally the big wigs in Education adored him, promoting him quickly to headmaster of a neighboring school and then a few years later to District Superintendent. As I said, everyone liked Bill. That included my wife, Susan. She liked him so much she moved in with him and married him a short time after - as soon as she could divorce me.
“It coud be that the Minister got one of the phone calls I received this afternoon,” said Bill in the usual smooth voice. When I said nothing he continued. “It might have been the one from a Mrs Pope who told me she got some unsolicited sexual advice from an unknown person when she rang your school. You didn’t happen to be working back around five this afternoon by any chance?"
“Come on Bill, you know I’m too lazy to work back. I always beat the kids out the gate.”
“Or perhaps he got the call from Mr George Bently, claiming that you had deliberately enraged his son to the point where the boy lost his temper, whereby you assaulted him.”
“That’s crap Bill, the kid took a swing at me, read the report tomorrow. Angie sent the statement to Area Office, check what it says.”
“Yes, Ms. Vung Truy.” Bill shot a look over to where Angie was chatting with a group of senior girls. "It’s remarkable how loyal a back-stop she is for you. Like the time you both claimed that parent..ah .. Folkstone.. got so upset in your office that he pushed her out of the way to get at you, and she, in fear of further attack, flattened him. And note, flattened him to the point where he ended up with a broken jaw and two broken arms.”
In the personal-security and events-calming industry it was considered just punishment for a real bastard if he ended up eating his dinner through a straw or unable to wipe his own bum. Folkestone got the double whammy. But I didn’t think this little snippet of information would go over too well with Bill. “So the guy hit the stretch-rack on the way down and then smacked his face against the beer keg.” I paused, but it was impossible to get Bill to bite. “But Jesus, Bill, how many times have we been through this? It’s completely true about Angie. She has a double dan over fourteen black belts in one of those chop-socky Asian martial arts routines. Angie can kick the shit out of anyone. Look at her - would you mess with that lady?”
Angie was leaning over the arrivals desk, checking something a pretty senior girl was showing her in a book. This exposed a magnificent stretch of long and leanly muscled leg plus a peep at her upper breasts. I knew Bill wanted to give a smartarse answer about messing with her, but he was way too cool for that.
“I’ve known you for a long time Pete, and I never thought you’d hide behind the cover of a woman.”
“That’s bullshit Bill.”
“No Pete, time is running out on your cowboy routine. The Director General asked me for your file and she’s passed it up to the Minister - someone has been making official complaints further up the tree than me. Now this Bently parent is yelling legal action and demanding that his son be readmitted to the school. You know all litigation goes straight through to Head Office, so the Minister will end up seeing that too.”
“Listen Bill, don’t go limp on me here, not on this Bently readmission and not on any crap from Head Office or the Minister. You always prided yourself in supporting your teachers.”
“Any suggestions on what I should tell them?”
“ Tell them how Sharp High’s results in the standard reference tests have improved since someone has decided to kick a bit of order into the joint to improve the learning environment. Tell them how student-on-student assaults and all those other things we have to notify under Critical Incident rules are way down, how staff stress leave and resignations have dropped, how we don’t get any incursions from deadbeat outsiders since that drug-selling goon was found behind the PE shed all smashed up with a no-trespass sign around his neck.”
Bill turned to leave. “Pete, I can’t protect anyone who steps over the line as far as you. And keep this in mind,” he glanced across to where Monica Zellwinger was gushing away with the Minister and Bazza. “ There are other people at your school who are doing outstanding work and should be given some credit for the undoubted improvements you have outlined.”
Bill was another who knew Monica and I didn’t get on.
And off he strode. Well, at least he didn’t bring up the junior couple having a very energetic workout of the reproductive kind behind the D-block stairwell who got a water bomb dropped on them from high above. The fact it had "from Pirate with love" textrad on the enclosing plastic shopping-bag didn't prove a thing.

I stood up the back and seethed about the file while the Minister did his opening speech. Monica sidled up. We are talking about one very attractive woman here, early 30s, striking, great body, a sort of three-quarter sized Uma Thurman. Monica knows how to jerk my strings really well: “Hello Pete, I hear you did your Jackie Chan routine again today, and another one bit the dust.”
“Well bless me, Monica, I wanted to pass the problem on to the deputy in charge of Year 10.” Monica and I shared out the form-year supervision - I took Year7, she 8, me 9 etc. “But she wasn’t in the school as usual. Oh yeah, I also did the swimming carnival and school disco supervision rosters you promised would be on the notice board by close of lessons today.”
Monica gave me one of her get fucked smiles. “You are such a prince Pete.”
“Ah, I shouldn’t complain.” I said."You didn’t do anything.”
I wasn’t sure whether she let that one go because it was so lame, or didn’t get it because it was so lame.
“Talking of princes, I hear you had a near naked Cinderella on the bandstand today, and according to Hillary you did the big Prince Charming rescue with a monetary handout.”
“She needed fifty cents for an upgrade to a Whopper.” Kids were always scrounging money from teachers for the school canteen, where the home-made hamburger “Whoppers” were a legend.
“ Who was the girl? Hillary said you were swapping insults like best buddies.”
“That was my Aunt Florence, she looks real young for her age. When she gets into the claret her dementia kicks in and she thinks she’s back in the chorus line at the Tivoli.”
“Yes, I can believe your family is heavily demented.”
We watched the current affairs reporter interviewing Bazza across the room. “I’m surprised those TV people didn’t interview you about teacher brutality, Pete. From what the Minister said, your notoriety is starting to spread.” She gave a smirk. “But then, those TV shows are pretty fussy on appearance, and, as the saying goes, you have a great face for radio.”
“And you have a great arse,” I said. “For kicking.”
I copped another get fucked smile as she walked away.
“Hey Monica, I’ll come around to your place later.”
“In your dreams,” she replied.

Chapter 9 - Meet the Bad Guys

By 10.30 the show had well and truly finished and there was only a handful of staff and kids left in the library to clean up. Naturally Monica had disappeared as soon as the Minister and Superintendent departed and old No-More had shot home to attack his bottle of Dewar’s. One of Angie’s dyke-on-bike girlfriends resplendent in shiny leathers called around to collect her, which caused a minor sensation among the kids as they roared off to some hellhole on a big Harley.
Angie is not monogamous. In fact she is a regular slut when it comes to sleeping around. Besides the biker and killer cop Debbie Dillinger, Angie had at least 3 other girls she currently spent time with, and these were replaced and renewed pretty regularly. The fact was, Angie hit on any woman who was attractive, and being so gorgeous herself, a lot of them responded. Even straight ones.
Like Debbie Dillinger was straight before she met Angie. I know, because I was going out with her. Good-old Pete was the one who introduced them and within a week it was good-bye Pete.
Actually Debbie really kicked on after she and Angie started to swing. When I first met her in a singles bar in town she was a big gangly pleasant looking slightly overweight babe who was a bit self conscious about her height, heft and lack of style. Which is probably the only way a bloke like me had any chance with her. But she started to hit the gym with Angie, lost about 10 kilos, got a real nice $80 hairstyle from Freddie the Faggot, Oxford Street’s hair legend to the lesbians, and started to wear the really great clothes that made so many of those lipstick lesbians look irresistible. So hey, big improvement for Debbie, who am I to complain?
Debbie wasn’t the first girl Angie poached from me. A nice little 20 year old student teacher seemed flattered that the big experienced deputy was showing so much interest in her. I asked her to an end of term bash in the function room at one of the local clubs and walked into an adjacent and supposedly closed spa area late in the night to find Angie and her locked in a naked and very passionate embrace in the pool.
Ah well, lose one, lose a few.

I had just finished setting the library’s security code when two rather colourful looking individuals walked in. One guy was in his 30s; skinny, average height, acne scarred face. He wore heeled Cuban boots, tight black jeans, an almost three-quarter length black western gambler’s jacket covering a white frilly necked shirt with one of those shoe-string ties, all topped with dark greasy hair slicked back into a small ponytail just like mine. His pal was 190 cm slob who must have been way over 120 kilos in a rumpled dirty business suit nicely set off by a purple open necked shirt and dirty white joggers. This guy was pushing 45, hadn’t shaved for 4 days and looked like half his dinner was smeared across his jacket.
“Mr. Andrews,” said the gambler. “We need to talk.”
These two did not look like parents. They were even too rough to be staff inspectors from the Board of Studies.
“So blab away,” I replied.
“I’m Mr Alvaro and this is my associate, Mr Linders.”
The big guy stepped across and shook my hand. Just like The Minister, he too used his other hand to brace the arm, but braced it behind my elbow instead of high on the forearm. He had a good grip and kept it applied as the gambler continued.
“We work for Silver Tree Finance, chasing delinquent accounts. We believe you got a call from Traci in our office about your arrears,” Alvaro continued.
As he said this, the slob tightened his grip further and hey, this guy had some power there. A lot of people, particularly the superfit who spend so much of their time keeping trim, taut and terrific, make the mistake of thinking really big slobs are weak bastards. Hell, slobs in the debt collection game are often ex-rugby league players or boxers and most of them have still got muscle under that flab - what they lack is endurance.


Silver Tree Finance was an outfit that used to be run by a friend of Bazza Payne, an old guy called Barney Hollinger. He was a pretty sweet old guy for a loan-shark. I used to collect the occasional debt for him when his enforcers were really busy: “I don’t want any first time defaulters hurt, Pete, just put a scare into them.”
Some bad luck a while back saw me getting a substantial loan off Barney. It started in an historic car race out at Oran Park Raceway when a mad Japanese bastard called Takeshi Koizumi made a typically kamikaze overtaking move down the outside into a corner, locked up his brakes of his ratty Datsun tarmac-rally racer and got very sideways. Which caused complete chaos in the following pack. My beautiful 409 Impala ended up with a Porche Speedster spearing into the passenger side door and a great big ‘68 Mustang stuffed into the trunk. With my metalworking background I’m pretty handy straightening out dings and I’m not too bad with a spray gun, but this was heavy duty structural damage way beyond my capabilities. Costing megga-bucks.
The very next race after the repairs, I missed a gear-shift, hit about 15000 rpm on the old 409 and blew it to shrapnel. The rebuild was a bastard. 409s are a bit rare these days and so too are the really good bits to make big horsepower. My engine building mate Steve explained that we could go low bucks with second grade stuff or spend big, have an engine that was durable and one that made bulk horsepower.
More horsepower than before, and maybe enough to get far enough out front of those pesky Porsche 911s on the straights that they couldn’t catch me under brakes for the corners. Those big old 60s Yank tanks did not have particularly brilliant brakes even in modified racing trim and the rules of historic racing limit rebuilds to roughly the technology available at the time the cars were racing.
Well to any racer there was no decision to make - when it comes to horsepower the rule is: if a bit’s good a lot’s better. The only trouble was that the mortgage payments on my flash apartment plus monthly contributions to my daughter’s upkeep were taking most of my salary and supplementary earnings. The banks were not interested in extending their exposure, considering me at their prudency limit, so I tied up a loan with Barney, at a discounted interest rate because of my occasional collection services for him. This was sweet until Barney decided to retire and sold his loan book to East Australian Credit Corporation.
E.A.C.C. was owned by an up and coming hood called Donny Manem. Donny was one of our growing band of ethnic criminals, one of the young Lebanese guys who has started their careers in the south-west suburbs with car stealing, petty drug pushing and standover routines. But Donny was smarter, more ruthless and more ambitious than his mates and less than 10 years later had expanded both his territory - he was now operating in the city and inner suburbs as well as his home suburbs - and his activities. He was a major loan shark, a fairly big mover in illicit drugs, owned a whole bunch of stip-clubs and brothels and ran a protection racket on many others.

The first thing E.A.C.C. did when it took over from Barney was to phone and tell me the concessional interest rate was finished. This was from sweet Traci in the office, with her low sexy talkline voice - never mind that she was probably 45 and as ugly as a hat full of hemorrhoids . I pointed out that I had a signed contract that was legally enforceable and so EACC could go jump. Traci said the firm would send one of its loan consultants around to see me. I gave the name of my solicitor and told her to send the consultant there.
I must have won that little bullshit exchange, because I heard no more from them. At least not on that little issue.
A while later I had another disaster. I was out on a training ride on my triathlon bike and got engaged in a downhill race with a dude on one of those gorgeous Ducati 991 sports motorcycles. Don’t laugh - this was through a really tricky set of downhill corners in the Royal National Park. The Ducati rider couldn’t use his wicked acceleration and I could take advantage of the better maneuverability of the skinny tri-bike through the nasty super steep switchbacks and hairpins. In the tightest section I was doing real well for a short while. Then we hit a little straight and the Ducati shot past like a rocket, so a few second later at the next hairpin I delayed my braking to the last fraction and had just inched ahead when I hit a wet patch on the road. Down I went, off my bike, sliding on my ass across the road and over the steep embankment into the top of big gum-tree. I tumbled halfway to the ground, smacking smaller branches and swallowing leaves as I went. It was like that time Homer Simpson fell over Snake Canyon: Ouch, ouch, wow, jeez, yelp, agh, aaaah, ouch!!! I finished wedged into the fork of two big branches like a battered and bruised Johnny Appleseed.
It took about 10 minutes to climb down and then painfully haul myself up the bank, where a horrible sight met me. My beautiful two and a half grand Cannondale had slid along the road into a roadside rock bank, bounced back and was run over by a huge Pioneer tourist couch coming the other way. It was a write-off and there was a big district tri race coming up a week later where I had a chance of a trophy in my age division.
So with the expense of buying a new bike, I kinda got in arrears a little with my loan repayments. To the tune of about two and a half grand.

“Mr Andrews, you have not complied with the payment reminder Traci conveyed to you this afternoon.,” said the gambler, shooting the cuffs of his frilly shirt.
“I’ve had a busy day, Mr Alvaro. On top of which, my millionaire aunt is in St. Moritz for the ski season and I can’t reach her for a loan.”
“Yes, now I remember, our Traci mentioned that you were a bit of a spray mouth smartfart.”
The Slob increased the pressure of his handshake further and stepped a bit closer. I know this move - the next part is a sudden forward jerk of the elbow being braced by the his other hand. If this move didn’t break my arm or dislocate the elbow, it would still cause a hell of a lot of damage. I wasn’t sure if these guys really intended that or if they were just trying to put a scare into me. I mean, busting some guy’s arm in the middle of a school library where half a dozen witnesses were now giving the scene their undivided attention seemed pretty dumb to me. But these goons did not exactly look like Mensa candidates. Why take the risk?
So I stepped even closer to The Slob and brought my head forward into a beautiful Liverpool kiss that caught the him smack on the nose. As he clutched his face I followed up with a nice knee lift to his groin. He gurgled and sank to the floor. I turned to The Gambler and smacked a really short right fair between his eyes. He sat on the floor too. Normally this would be the perfect opportunity for a few of those round leg karate type kicks to loosen a tooth or five, but I didn’t want to set a bad example to the two or three kids still in the hall. Which was pretty good self control in my humble opinion, seeing that sweet little punch had popped the usual knuckle on my right hand and it hurt like hell. Memo to Pirate: develop a left hand eye bulger.
Instead I stepped hard on The Slob’s right hand which was supporting his considerable weight on the floor.
“Listen to me.” I said quietly. “ Listen real good. Tell Traci I will resume normal repayments when I can afford it. Tell her to forget about the penalty payments. And if I ever see you two clowns again I’m going to get very angry. Which means I’ll do a lot of damage.”
I strode across and picked up a broom to finish the clean-up. Gambler and The Slob were staggering for the door when I returned. Someone who knows what he is doing can create some heavy duty mayhem with a broom handle.
“Mr Andrews, Mr Andrews.” I turned to see Hateful Hillary. “Who were those two men? You seemed to be very forthright with them.”
“They were collectors for the priesthood paedophilia defence fund. Those guys are very aggressive, wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
Hillary did a surprising thing. She shot me a cheesy. It was a perfect copy of Monica Zellwinger’s get-fucked smile.
Hey, nice one Hillary, there’s hope for you yet.