For A Friend

A friend of mine died this past week. I’d like to say we were good friends, but I’m not sure I upheld my end of the bargain. We’d known each other for more than 35 years but when you live at opposite ends of the world, well, life’s challenges and the passing of time can make the simple act of communicating more complicated. Though that’s not meant as an excuse, just an introspective glimpse at one of my many failings.

          I was a gangly teenager when I first met Sid, and his wife, Helen. Fellow members of a non-descript tennis club in Melbourne’s northern suburbs. While I dreamed of greatness via the dusty courts, Helen contentedly enjoyed her weekends batting the ball around, aSidnd Sid provided commentary with his sardonic wit.

          However, it was through music that our friendship blossomed. Sid owned a music store and, if memory serves, had something to do with Takamine guitars and their Australian distribution rights. It was through the store and the guitar manufacturer that he got to know Shane Howard, singer/songwriter of the legendary Australian band, Goanna.

       “Wanna go see a show?” Sid asked. “Goanna’s opening for Santana. Shane got me a couple of tickets.”

            He didn’t need to ask twice.

         My life-long love of music, and in particular, live concerts sprung from that day. The name of the venue escapes me. But from the first row of the loge, close enough to almost reach out and touch the band members, I sat glued to my seat, enthralled. At the mercy of the pulsating rhythms and soaring guitar work. It was back in the days when Santana was still relevant. Decades before Carlos sold his soul to commercial America and pop-radio. And in the days when Shane and his band were fast becoming the latest in Australian musical Gods.

          I moved to America not long after. The Goanna cassette tucked away in my suitcase remained in constant rotation over the next few years. Unfortunately, after a meteoric rise, their star quickly dimmed. They never were able to recapture the magic of their first album, but that meant little to me. I had my memories and they could never be erased.

          Sid and I last spoke a couple of years ago, at my niece’s Melbourne wedding. He’d been battling cancer for several years, but in outward appearance was putting up one hell of a fight. And I was heartened to discover the disease had little effect on his sense of humor. We fell into an easy banter of days long passed; of what his old acquaintances in the music business were doing – “Stupid bastard can’t stay off the smack”; of a Keith Urban concert he’d recently attended – “Fuckin’ brilliant guitarist, mate. Best concert I’ve seen in years.” And of the inevitable end; though buoyed that he’d long since surpassed the best estimates of his doctors.

          Later that evening, he cadged a cigarette from my wife and snuck outside the hotel while Helen’s back was turned.  I couldn’t help smiling, it was pure Sid.  Still thumbing his nose at the big guy upstairs who, he knew, would eventually get the last laugh.

         Cassettes have long since gone the way of the dodo, so tonight I’ll enjoy a beer while blasting out an MP3 of Solid Rock.  For as Shane Howard sang on his most popular song, even though we’re all “living on borrowed time”, I know Sid’s memory will live on.


Vale Sid West


Cuban Getaway

As the sun slipped behind palm trees waving languidly in the evening breeze to be consumed a moment later by a fuchsia-tinged cloud bank, our Boeing 737 touched down at José Martí International Airport. The flight from Miami to Havana was a mere bunny hop; a few minutes at cruising altitude bookended by ascending and descending. In fact, with our flight being one of five back-to-back arrivals, it took longer to get through customs and immigration than we spent in the air.

          With a grunt of acknowledgment and thundering stamps in our passports, the dour Customs officer allowed us to proceed onward into a tropical wonderland where time has seemingly stood still. Our driver ushered us into his vehicle – a ’57 Ford Fairlane in body style only, original parts having long since expired – and we set out on our 45-minute journey into the heart of Havana.

          Travel to Cuba hovered near the top of our bucket list since the easing of U.S. travel restrictions in 2014 and notched higher when U.S. air carriers commenced service in 2016. A great price on airfare, a two-bedroom apartment for $100/night on the Malecón overlooking the water, and the simplicity of obtaining a visa sealed the deal. A note on accommodations; our apartment was clean, safe, and smartly furnished, but the building itself may have worried less-experienced travelers. If “roughing it” a little isn’t for you, stick with the 5-star hotels; the stand-out is the luxurious Hotel Nacional de Cuba.

          Strangely enough, Cuba has two currencies. The universally accepted Cuban convertible peso (CUC), and the Cuban peso (CUP) – used primarily by locals. As tourists, you will only ever use, or need, the CUC. The CUC converts 1:1 with the American dollar – but with an asterisk. When converting American dollars, the Cuban government takes a 10% cut off the top, then the bank a further 2-3%. Banks will exchange all other world currencies at the going rate without the 10% penalty. Therefore, better to exchange American dollars into Canadian or Euros before leaving the United States. Finally, as the CUP is worth only 1/25th the CUC, be careful to check for the correct currency when receiving change. The difference between the two are easily identifiable.

          Wanting to immerse ourselves fully in the city of Havana, we hired a car and driver our first day – approx. 5 hours @ $30pp. Not only is it a fascinating and instructional introduction to Cuba, but will give you a plethora of choices requiring further exploration over the following days. Our day began cruising the Malecón in a ’56 Chevy under an azure sky and the wintertime temperature inching into the 80s. First stop, the immense Revolution Plaza, and its fascinating history. Then, to Havana’s urban forest where we glided along the banks of the Almendares River under a canopy of banyan trees dripping with vines within the Parque Almendares. Havana’s grandest arcade, the Prada, dotted with foreign embassies, led to a secluded enclave where government officials reside in luxurious homes. After cruising along the seafront past the long-shuttered casinos – famous from the Bautista/Mafia days of the ‘50s – we’d come full-circle. The driving portion of our tour ended at the cobblestoned streets and alleyways of the Old Town. Here, the centuries-old fort and lighthouse welcome cruise ships into its harbor, the threat of attack from pirates long passed. A further two hour guided tour through Old Town Havana completed our day. All-in-all, an entertaining, educational experience, and money well-spent.

          If beaches are your thing, the smooth white-sands of Varadero – 95 miles east of Havana – will not disappoint. A few select resorts dot the coastline; however, we braved the 2 ½ hour trip – each way – in a ’55 Chevy with a short-tempered radiator. Even still, the scenery, towns, and experiencing the Cuban people’s way-of-life up-close was an adventure in itself.

          I mentioned briefly at the outset of a place where time has stood still. Beyond the automobiles from the 1950s – imports being so expensive that they must keep what they have running come hell-or-high-water – Castro’s communist state relies heavily on keeping the borders closed to all but the fewest imports from overseas. Apart from a select few stores, choices for products – outside of Cuban brands – remain incredibly sparse. The reason? With an average salary $20/mo, the cost would be far beyond the majority of Cuban’s reach, and create undue competition for locally produced items. The revolution’s communist experiment remains a tightly controlled house of cards.

          For those looking to cut their smartphone cord, Cuba is a great place to detox. Free WiFi is non-existent. You can purchase WiFi cards – approx. $1-3/hr – however, there are precious few hotspots. The small city parks being the most popular, which leads to the amusing sight, day and night, of tourist clumps standing like zombies staring intently at smartphones.

         The Cuban people are a marvel of disparate cultures; descendants of Spanish colonialists, African slaves, and the near-extinct indigenous peoples. They’ve come together under a repressive regime, but co-exist, thrive and explode with an enthusiasm for life. Music is the lifeblood binding the people. The pulsating beat of reggaetón blasts from every vehicle. A restaurant without live music is a rarity. And if your feet aren’t already beginning to feel the beat while enjoying a delicious, well-priced meal, just sit back and have another Cuba Libre – or two. For those ready to dance the night away, the party at Sarao’s begins at 10:30 supplying non-stop reggaetón until the early morning hours.
The island itself is a befuddling paradox. A unique juxtaposition between magnificent verdant beauty and – after decades of neglect by its repressive regime – of a crumbling infrastructure. In Old Town Havana, glorious centuries-old colonial mansions stand toe-to-toe with abandoned concrete shells where plants grow wild from the cracks of second-floor terraces. Tumble-down villages line the shore where the Gulf of Mexico’s turquoise water laps gently upon pristine white-sand beaches.

          At first glance, one would think the U.S. embargo has hindered progress. However, non-stop flights full of tourists from Europe and South America land daily and have done for decades. Its dilapidated state seems more a carefully crafted measure by the ruling party to maintain total control. Piecemealing out modest changes in bite-size chunks to keep a tight rein on the populace. Still, we heard not a murmur of dissent. Keep in mind, three generations have grown-up under Castro’s communist ideal and have little else with which to compare their lives. Call it propaganda, or call it well-founded fear, but we heard not a disparaging word about the people’s lot in life.

          I asked one of our taxi drivers – assuming he was able – if he’d ever visited Florida; he shrugged off my suggestion, said he was happy, and that he felt safe in Havana. Our trip was a week after the Parkland, Florida school shooting; he had a point. My wife and I have traveled the globe and would place the streets of Havana near the top regarding safety. In Cuba, crime and punishment is no laughing matter. It may be the one endearing principle of their Communist regime.

          Overall, we thoroughly enjoyed our stay and would return in a reggaetón infused heartbeat. Cuba is an eclectic mix of culture, history, economic and political nuance, and tropical delights. Something to pique the interest for just about any inquisitive traveler.

Turn A Blind Eye – cover reveal

Turn A Blind Eye is first and foremost a novel of greed which takes place on both an institutional – corporate, political, religious – and individual level.  And as with my first book, Closure, the story revolves around a few well-intentioned people – for the most part – and the choices they make when the line between right and wrong is often hard to define.

The title itself is a turn of phrase on the legal and banking term, willful blindness.  Which is, simply put, when an individual chooses to intentionally ignore facts that, if known and un-acted upon, would render them liable in a court of law.

In regards to the cover design, I wanted to convey a foreboding, over-arching image that incorporated two of the main antagonists in the novel; the corporate and religious elite.  I sent photos of different variations on that theme to my publisher for discussion, and not only did the250px-St-Michael's-at-Nighty like the concept, decided to use one for the cover.

The image was taken in Melbourne, Australia’s central business district by my wife, Anna Osiczko.  The church shown is St.Michael’s Uniting Church at the corner of Collins and Russell St.  St. Michael’s, built in 1839, was one of the first churches in the state of Victoria.  The original was demolished in 1866 to make way for the building you see today.  For those with an architectural eye, may recognise it’s construction is of the Lombardic style with Romanesque arches.  I just thought it would make for a nice photo.

Finally, St. Michael’s Uniting, interestingly enough, is known today as a center of liberal theology and political radicalism.

Now that sounds like a church I could get behind.

Two Texans Talk – Russia

One of our two intrepid friend’s gets to the bottom of the “Russia” scandal.  Well, kind of.


–         There he is.  Let me getcha’ a beer.  How was the vacation with the missus?  Where did you get to again?

–         Russia.  The wife has always wanted to go.  And seeing as the Donald has given it his blessing, I thought, what’s the harm?   

–         So, you were in Moscow!

–         Yep, for seven days.  Saw all the sights, too.  Red Square.  Took the wife to the ballet at the Bullshit Theatre one night.

–         You mean the Bolshoi?

–         Whatever.  And saw that dead guy they have laid out in this huge mausoleum.

–         Lenin.

–         Nah, he didn’t look like one of the Beatles . . .  We even toured the Kremlin.

–         Get outta’ here?

–         Sure did.  Though I got lost during the tour looking for a bathroom.  That food over there was something else.

–         What happened?

–         Well, I wandered around for a while and ended up finding a nice little spot to squat.  And right when I was getting comfortable, I overhear two guys chatting in the room next door.  And I think one of ‘em was Putin.

–         He had gas?

–         Nah, the President of Russia.  So, I thought to myself, this’ll make a fine memento, so I started recording them on my phone.  Here, listen.  


“Mr. President, we must talk.  The American F.B.I. is on to me.”

“Oleg, Oleg.  Relax.  We knew that they’d eventually find out about your relationship with that greedy bastard Manafort.  Do not worry my friend.”

“But, if they put two and two together . . .”

“And what?  My plan has already exceeded our wildest expectations.  And you know I have some doozies at times.  Can you believe we stole back the Crimea and the rest of Europe did nothing?”

(both men are heard laughing)

“Yes, Mr. President.  That was good one.  And what about Olympics!”

“We don’t speak of that one, Oleg.  Damn drug testing.”

“So, you are not worried, Mr. President?”

“Why should I be?  If we get away with our plan, we make billions when America loosens sanctions.  And if not, we still create havoc in their pretty little democratic system.”

“You aren’t worried about what people will say about you?”

“Me?  Oleg, my friend.  And I call you my friend because I own you and could kill you at any moment.  Nobody like me now.  What have I to lose?”

“And what will become of your secret weapon over there?”

 (grunting and groaning drowns out the voices)


–        Jesus!  What’s that noise.  Is he strangling him?

–         Nah, that’s me.  That borscht does a number on your insides.

–         So, what happened after that?

–         The usual.  Though, a word to the wise.  I’ve got to warn ya’, Russian toilet paper is not too gentle on the old private parts.

–         No.  I meant about the rest of the conversation.   

–         Oh.  Battery died on my phone.  The wife left the charger at the hotel.

–         So, we’ll never know who his secret weapon is?

–         I guess not.  But if anyone can figure it out, I’m sure the Donald can.



Turn a Blind Eye


Melbourne, Australia

March 31, 2016


Brian Monroe gripped the steering wheel with both hands, looked up at the evening sky and shivered.  A storm front had moved through the city earlier that afternoon, the brief squall had cleared the air and cleansed the streets, leaving in its wake a cloudless sky and a brisk evening.

          – Can I turn on the heater?

The older man turned slowly, a piercing glare his only response.

          – I guess that’s a no.

 Brian surveyed the dashboard.  He had stolen the late-model Jetta earlier that afternoon from a parking lot at the Northland Shopping Centre, then swapped out the registration plates with those of an abandoned vehicle at his cousin’s scrap metal yard.  He liked the styling of the German vehicle, it didn’t have the power of the Caprice he’d had earlier in the week, but the handling was smooth and responsive.  Brian was disheartened knowing he’d have to torch it at the end of the evening, but better safe than sorry.

Nine o’clock and the Thursday night traffic was light on Johnston Street.  A smattering of parked cars stood outside Abbotsford’s Yarra Hotel.  Inside, a band entertained a small crowd.  From their vantage point across the road, the sound was too muffled to be able to make out any of the tunes.  Just a low-pitched hum from the bass guitar and the soft thud of a drum kit seeped into the cabin to break the silence.  Occasionally, when the front doors swung open, above the music and crowd noise, they could make out some of the vocals.

Their target had entered the bar a little over two hours ago.  A tall, thin, young man.  Collar-length brown hair.  Casually dressed in blue jeans and a black leather jacket.  A perfect match for the man in the photo that lay in the glove compartment.

They now waited impatiently for him to depart.


Steve Slattery slunk into his tenth-floor office.  He dropped his battered leather briefcase to the floor beside his desk.  Then collapsed his wiry 178-centimetre frame into the high-backed leather chair behind it.  For the Acting Chief Commissioner of the Victoria Police force, it was another far too early start to the workday.  At least, it being a Friday, the prospect of a peaceful weekend away from it all beckoned alluringly.

He also thought acting was an accurate description of his current role.  An imposter.  A man that wished to be anywhere but where he found himself.  Slattery presumed he’d be able to survive the ordeal relatively unscathed until one morning he awoke, peered wearily into his bathroom mirror, and a stranger stared back.  The lines on his face grew deeper and longer by the day.  Lines deeply etched that read like a road map of his life.

He hadn’t gained weight like many blokes his age, but as the final kilometres of middle-age disappeared in the rear-view mirror and the road ahead angled down sharply towards the valley of old-age, he knew someone, somewhere, was playing fast and loose with the laws of gravity.  Skin and muscle were losing the battle against time.   Even his once taut, rosy, cheeks had turned an appalling shade of grey and had begun a slow migration southward.

          – Jowls!

He’d moaned.

          – I’m getting bloody jowls!

 He’d become an “in his day” man.  He’d been:  handsome, a decent club-cricketer, bloody good detective – in his day.

The Chief Commissioner had retired at the end of December, and for the past three months, Slattery had been struggling mightily to keep the behemoth that was the Victoria Police department afloat until the Premier selected a full-time replacement.  As the former Chief’s deputy, this should have been the opportunity of a lifetime.  A chance to prove himself, to grab that brass ring.  To prove to the politicians that he had the mettle to succeed and was more than up to the task.  He lacked just one essential ingredient – ambition.

Slattery had been protected from much of the day-to-day political minutiae by his good friend, the now retired Chief Lay, allowing him to do what he did best, lead his men in his inimitable hands-on style.  There was no guarantee the new Chief would maintain that status quo.

He would celebrate his sixtieth birthday this September.  The force had been his life for the past forty years.  But as the days passed, trading in his tenth-floor office for his bungalow down at Rye became an increasingly enticing proposition.  The fire in his belly no longer sufficient to power the engine of commitment.  Though not a messy divorce, no bitterness, more a long-held passion that no longer responded to nurturing and had died on the vine.

He dreamt of having nothing more to do than dig his toes into the soft sand, read a good book and with only the rousing crash of surf meeting shore followed by the soothing hiss of its retreat to invade the silence.  Then, of an evening, as seagulls searched for their dinner amongst the shallows and rock pools, he imagined walking the trails along the coast that wound through the sand dunes dotted with spinifex and tee tree.  Pirates Bay lay twenty minutes to the north-west, where the waves crashed violently against the rocky outcrops.  And to the south-east, St. Andrews beach, where the surf approached the shore with far less anger.

He could already smell the lamb chops searing on the barbecue, the pop and crackle of fat dropping onto the fire.  Visualise the vegetables softening and turning ever so slightly translucent as he sautéed them off to the side.  And taste the earthy, pungent, tones of a bold Heathcote Shiraz.

No meetings to attend, budget reports to prepare, personnel issues to quell, or the need to kowtow to pampered politicians.  The cumulative effect of all that bullshit, he knew, was slowly transforming his brain into something resembling chocolate pudding.  Hell, if he wished – a man could dream – not even a computer or mobile phone in sight.



Brian Monroe checked his watch, 10:30 turned to 10:31 and he was growing impatient.  His fingers beat out a steady tattoo on the steering wheel to a tune only he could hear.  He craved the action and adrenaline rush that his chosen profession provided; however, he bemoaned the monotonous waiting game that he often had to endure.

          – How much longer do you reckon?

 Again, the icy stare.

          – As long as it takes, you just be ready when I say go.

He’d picked up the older man that morning from outside The Blarney Stone Hotel.  Just minutes, ironically, from where they now sat.  Brian mused that the dozen words the old bloke had just uttered were the most he’d gotten out of him the entire day.  He’d also been his driver earlier in the week, but the old bastard – as Brian considered him – acted as if they’d never met.  Brian bristled at the lack of manners; no name offered, no small talk, just spitting out orders in that Irish accent of his.

Brian turned away from the slight man in the passenger seat and concentrated his attention on the pub across the road, looking into those wild eyes for too long did strange things to his guts.  The older man was short and wiry, not an ounce of fat to be found.  His thin mousy-brown hair shot out at various angles like he’d played chicken with an electrical socket and his eyes were best described as being bat-shit crazy.  And judging from the sickly pallor of his skin, he looked like he’d spent a lot of time indoors, the kind where you can’t go outside anytime you wish.

Brian had given it some thought over the past week and determined the old man looked like that bloke in the movies:  What was his name?  He was in Fargo, played the crazy bastard that stuck people in the wood chipper.  Steve . . . something.   It would come to him sooner or later.  No, “Steve” wasn’t the type of bloke he’d willingly have a beer with, but this was work, and none of the niceties mattered.


Slattery smiled at the prospect of being “electronics free,” until the sight of the blank monitor on his desk dragged him back to reality.  He punched the power button, leant back in his chair and stared out the window to the city below.  It was the beginning of another gorgeous Melbourne day, an endless blue sky above, with wisps of high white clouds off on the horizon.  The northern suburbs of Melbourne stretched out like a tapestry before disappearing below the horizon.  The perky Channel Seven weather girl on last night’s news promised a high of twenty-four Celsius.  Summer may be over, yet Autumn was in no hurry to make an appearance.

The rising sun had not yet peeked over the buildings on Spencer Street yet below; Victoria Harbour, Etihad Stadium and the Southern Cross train station were streaked with intermittent bands of sunlight that had found their way through the canyons of concrete and steel.  The hustle and bustle of the awakening city were mute to him, only the hum of the central air-conditioning system and the computer’s hard drive broke the silence.

Slattery had only himself to blame for his current dilemma.  His fatal flaw – being good at his job and unable to say no to a superior.  At age twenty-four, after just four years as a Constable, he became one of the youngest Homicide detectives in the history of the force.  For the next twenty-three years, he worked Homicide, then in 2003 was tapped on the shoulder to join Taskforce Purana.  Slattery spent the next five years investigating, and bringing to justice, many high-profile gangland figures.  His strong work ethic, and unimpeachable integrity, did not go unnoticed.  His appointment to an Assistant Commissioner position soon followed, culminating in the Deputy Chief Commissioner position in 2012.

The higher he climbed, the more political his role became.  And his rancour grew.  In his mind, he was no longer a cop.  Just another paper-pusher.  An administrative flunky.

The street was his true love.  He could still remember his first homicide case – the Mitak case – and the thrill of the chase.  Of course, it was one of the more sensational crimes of the past few decades.  Threatening, for a time, to expand into a full blown civil war between Croatian and Serbian gangs on the streets of Melbourne.  Five murders in all before they were able to extinguish the flames.


Brian straightened in his seat, clutching the steering wheel to pull himself forward.  The front door of the Yarra Hotel had swung open, and three patrons stepped out.  Two females stood on the kerb facing each other as one dug desperately in her purse, but Brian’s attention was elsewhere.  The third, a male, turned away from the females and began walking briskly along Johnston Street.

Brian was the first to speak.

          – Is that him?

The young man wearing jeans and a black leather jacket, collar raised against the chill, had turned to his right and was quickly heading away from the Jetta.  A passing Silver Top Taxi momentarily blocked their view, but even from fifty metres, they were sure they had their man.

Brian rubbed his hands together, blew into them to generate some warmth, and slipped the gear shift into drive.

The older man slowly arose from his trance, stretched his neck first to the left then the right and sat forward in his seat.  Now fully engaged and ready for the hunt to begin.

Brian eased the Jetta from the parking spot and merged into traffic just as the young man in the black leather jacket crossed Johnston Street 120 metres ahead.

“Steve” rubbed both palms back and forth over his thighs.

          – Looks like he’s heading back to his car.   Easy now, give him some space.

 From the corner of his eye, Brian watched “Steve” come to life, like a bloodhound roused into duty, tracking the scent of his prey.


Slattery turned away from the city vista to face his computer screen.  He hunted and pecked his way through three password prompts before he was able to stare at the inbox of his internal Email system.  The depressing sight of 238 new messages greeted him.  He stared for a moment, sighed, then swivelled 180 degrees in his chair.  He selected a CD from the stack on his credenza – Van Morrison’s Moondance – and popped it into his disc player.  Anything to delay the inevitable.  He paused to let Van Morrison begin his tale of a County Fair before he spun back around to face the other music.  An idea flashed through his mind to set up a new task force to uncover the devious bastards that, apparently, got paid per Email.  A vision of bureaucrats pacing to and fro at busy intersections throughout the city wearing signs that read “I’m a serial Emailer” brightened his morning.

But what was he to expect?  Over 17,000 officers and civilian personnel made up the Victoria Police department.  Three hundred plus Stations throughout the State with an annual budget of over $2.5 billion.  And, for the present, it all flowed up to his desk.  He wondered, wasn’t shit supposed to flow in the other direction?  Thankfully the general public didn’t have access to his internal Email address.  After multiple screenings, and with the vast majority delegated off to other departments, only those requiring his attention were tagged with a priority designation and re-directed to his inbox.  Around seventy of these – mercifully none bearing the moniker “high priority” – now stared back at him.  Which is precisely where, he mused, they would remain for another day or two.

Among the remainder, he could tell from the sender’s address that the majority were from internal departments.  The ones with requisition requests attached he quickly forwarded to his assistant so she could sort the chaff from the wheat.  Like a salmon swimming upstream, he was slowly making progress, but even still, more than one hundred remained.

Slattery performed another sort to highlight State government addresses.  He sighed deeply, the sixty-eight Emails from State parliamentarians could wait until after lunch.  It wasn’t healthy to read those on an empty stomach.  He reflected on how many; speeding – parking – drug possession – shoplifting – driving while intoxicated – public intoxication – you name it, cases would he be asked to “take care of” for someone’s little prince or princess this week?


With some warmth restored to his hands, the older man pulled the Walther PPX 9mm from his pocket, screwed on the Octane 45 silencer he’d drawn from his other pocket and pulled back on the slide.  His employers had supplied him with the weapon earlier in the week after they’d agreed upon a price for his services.  Although the “agreed” was superfluous.  Sean Costello – though he’d decided the driver didn’t need that piece of information – wasn’t concerned with the money.  Since Sean was knee-high to his Granddad, this line of work was destined to be his calling.  If his employers snapped their fingers, Sean – the ever-faithful – quickly came running.

As the Jetta inched forward along Johnston Street, Sean rested the matte black weapon on his thigh and gently caressed the safety catch with his index finger.

The young man in the leather jacket, hands thrust deep into his pockets, turned the corner, left, into Rich Street.  Sean had no idea what the young man had done to piss off his employer, but it mattered little.  It was enough to know an order had been issued.  And being the ever-obedient good soldier; Sean would carry out that order.

          – Let me out at the corner and be ready. I’ll take him as he unlocks his door.

 Brian slowed to a crawl as he turned the corner and the older man – Steve Buscemi, yeah, that was the name of the actor.  It had finally popped into his mind – was out of the vehicle and stalking his target.

The young man in the black leather jacket stopped beside the front bumper of a Commodore station wagon parked beneath a towering elm and withdrew a set of keys from his pocket.  Holding up the key ring to what little light was available, he searched for the correct key.  From the corner of his eye he scarcely noted movement in the shadows behind him.


Slattery was very careful to whom he gave his internal Email address, so the address stuck out amongst the remaining Emails like the proverbial sore thumb. 

The name rang a bell.  Where had he heard it before?  Slattery opened the Email looking for another clue to jog his memory.

            Chief Slattery,

            I’m hoping you will remember me.  We met recently at La Trobe University when you spoke before the graduating class of Finance majors.  I introduced myself after your presentation and mentioned that we shared a mutual friend/relative.  Years ago, you were good friends with my great-Uncle, Bert Walters.

Bert Walters.

For Slattery, the memories came flooding back.  As a young Detective, he’d resided at a small one-bedroom flat in Northcote where Bert was his neighbour and, over time, became a close friend.  Bert had also been close with one of the victims in the Mitak case.  Slattery reflected, what a strange coincidence.  He fondly remembered Bert as being quite the character.

Bert had passed away in ’94 or ’95 – if his memory served correctly – and Slattery had met Bert’s brother, Les, at the funeral.  Les and his wife had only just moved back to Melbourne after spending eight years in Brisbane.  He and Les continued to meet occasionally for a beer, but having little in common other than the deceased Bert, eventually lost contact.  On the day of Bert’s funeral, he vaguely recalled being introduced to Les’ son and daughter-in-law.  She had a young two-year-old attached to her hip by the name of Craig.

This past December he had spoken to one of the graduating classes at La Trobe.  Afterward, he remembered a tall, shy, kid approach and introduce himself.  When he discovered it was Les’ grandson, Bert’s great-nephew, he was only too happy to sit down and have a chat.  Over scones and a latte, he heard how Craig’s grandfather, Les, had passed away in 2000.  Les’ son – Craig’s father – died in a car crash that same year.  And that more recently his mother had been hospitalised with a terminal illness.  The poor kid had had it rough, he mused, so he left him his business card and an assurance that if he could ever help to get in contact.


Sean Costello had closed to within twenty metres of the target when he released the safety.  The pathway remained deserted.  Street lights overhead, diffused by a thick canopy of trees, barely penetrated the deep shadows.

As the young man paused to select the correct key, Sean quickly moved in and from less than five metres squeezed the trigger.  Two nine-millimetre slugs found their mark at the base of the young man’s skull; his lifeless body crumpled to the ground with barely a sound.  Blood and skull fragments sprayed the side of the Commodore and the trunk of an elm tree.  A small trail of blood seeped from beneath the man’s head and filled the cracks between the bluestones lining the gutter.

Sean had not even needed to break stride.


 Slattery continued reading.

I hate to impose, but I don’t know where else to turn.  I thought of going directly to the local police station, but I was afraid of not being taken seriously.

I’ve uncovered a conspiracy that goes to the highest levels of power in the State, and I’ve attached some documents to this Email to show you that I am not crazy.  I trust you will take this matter seriously.  The attachments will reveal all.

P.S.      I know that I am in imminent danger.  I’m being followed and need protection.  They’ve already killed one man.  If you’re unable to contact me over the coming days, then I will have suffered the same fate.

Slattery re-read the Email before clicking on the first attachment.  He briefly scanned the document before opening the next.  His eyes glued to the screen, all peripheral vision extinguished, finding it hard to believe what he was reading.  Despite the air-conditioning in his office, he felt a cold sweat prickling his scalp.


Brian heard the faint report of two pistol shots from three car lengths away, the sound similar to a nail gun on a distant building site.  He pumped the accelerator and sped forward.  The older man with the wild eyes stepped out into the street from between two parked cars.  He slowed just enough for the man – who looked uncannily like Steve Buscemi – to climb in the passenger side.  Before the passenger door had closed, Brian had turned left into Turner Street and was picking up speed.

As they sped past the gutted shell of the Victoria Park football ground, Brian marvelled at the simplicity of the job.  He also remembered that the football season had started and wondered who Collingwood, Victoria Park’s long-time tenants, played this weekend.


Slattery’s hand trembled as he clicked the mouse to open the next document.  The final lines of the Email still ringing in his head.

. . . If you’re unable to contact me over the coming days, then I will have suffered the same fate.

The shaking showed no signs of abating as he reached for the phone.  Slattery called the contact number for Craig Walters listed in the Email.  An automated voice told him the number was out of service.  He disconnected the line and tried again; the same result.

A ceiling tile in the middle of his office sat slightly askew.  Slattery began to process the ramifications of the Email as his eyes bored into the offset tile.  The final strains of Into the Mystic faded from the speakers as the embryonic beginnings of a plan began to form.

He paused a moment to take a deep breath.  It had the desired effect of quelling the tremor in his voice but did nothing to restore his sense of calm.  He lifted the handset a third time.

          – Margaret, please hold all my calls. And please get me Commissioner Colvin with the Federal Police on the phone.  After that, I’ll need to speak with the Premier.  Thank you.

          – Yes, Sir. And, Sir, were you aware of the murder in Abbotsford last night?

Two Texans Talk – Bathrooms

Our two intrepid friends discuss Texas’ hotly debated bathroom ordinance.

Mar 8, 2016


          Sit down and drink ya’ beer.  And why are ‘ya dancing around like that?  You look like a squirrel ran up ‘ya pant leg. 

          I’ve gotta go to the bathroom, but I was just watchin’ the news, and it confused me about which one I should use.

          What’s so confusin’?  You’re a man ain’t ‘ya?

          Sure, but they were interviewing this guy on the news.  And he was sayin’ his rights will be violated if the gov’ment passes this new law making him use the ladies.

          Was he one of them transgenders?

          Nah, he sounded American.

          I mean, was he a woman who’s now a man?

          Don’t know.  Is that a thing now, is it?

          Sure, some folks don’t like what they were born, so they change.

          Like in that movie with Robin Williams?  Mrs. Something-or-other.

          Sort of, but the law is to protect the kiddies.

          From Robin Williams?  I don’t think he’s a threat; God rest his soul.

          No.  From the child molesters.  Aint no tellin’ what could happen in there.

          You know, the other night my wife had the same idea.  We’d had one of them spicy Indian dishes, and it did a number on me.  Wanted to put a protective concrete dome over the bathroom, she did, like they installed at Chernobyl.  Said it was to protect our kids. 

          You can’t be too careful.

          Are these transistors known for that sort of thing?  I mean molesting little ones, not dodgy number two’s.

          Nary a one that I know of, but I’m glad our State politicians are thinkin’ ahead.

          So, let me see if I’ve got this right.  A girl decides to change teams and starts livin’ as a guy.  Gets an equipment change – so to speak – and dresses every day as a man.

          Yep.  And vice versa.

          But our politicians want her – him – to go to the ladies, even though she’s – he’s – now dressing every day in men’s clothing.

          You got it. 

          And that’s to protect the kids?

          You’ve got a wonderful grasp on this situation.

          If you say so.  . . . Hey, speaking of the little ones, did you see there was a shooting outside an elementary school today?  None of the kiddies was hurt, thank God.

          Yeah, lucky that.  But, what can you do . . .?