Proper Gander
Owl whisperer and secret agent
Farewell My Lovely [Bandwagon] – a Jack Watts Detective Story
I walked slowly through the narrow alleys, through the stench of cheap bars and sleazy diners, through the laughs of the insane and the screams of the lost. I wore my azure blue suit with crimson trim, tie and handkerchief, black brogues and navy blue wool socks with cartoon demons on them. I was neat, clean, shaved and sober and I didn’t care who knew it. I was calling on 55 million dollars.
It was five minutes past the hour when I rang the doorbell of the Maguire mansion. The sign over the entrance read “DESTINATION”. The heavy door was opened soundlessly by the manservant, a big man with a muscle mass that suggested a job description beyond just shining the chrome plates of Maguire’s caddy and mixing a highball. His black and white dinner suit fitted him like a rubber fits a watermelon. His nametag read Nathan Buckley.
Buckley, Maguire’s chief lackey, stared at me expressionlessly with eyes the colour of a drink of water. He had the kind of face that looked as if it had been hit by everything but the bucket of a dragline. It was scarred, flattened, thickened, checkered and welted. It was a face that had nothing to fear. Everything had been done to it that anybody could think of. He was a hard man on the surface, this Buckley, though I sensed under his skin a man as hollow and empty as the spaces between Demons victories. I gave him my card – J WATTS; Private Detective.
We travelled up in the elevator together to the penthouse suite, and stepped out into a lushly decorated room with expansive views on 3 sides of the city. As Buckley took my coat from me, a flicker of movement alerted me to a tall man passing outside the north facing window. I knew it was Max Gawn because we were on the 22nd floor. Buckley grunted and nodded towards a seated man with greying hair and a thickset body running to fat behind his expensive suit. His double chins wobbled, radiating a quiet power. I had never met this man, but I knew who he was. Everyone around these parts knows Big Eddie Maguire.
Behind Maguire was an ornate corner bar, tended by a bearded spiv wearing a gold neck-chain. I knew him too. Alex Fasolo. Fasolo saw me look towards him, and we sneered at each other across the bar for a moment. He sneered better than I did.
“So, Mr Watts…” Big Eddie folded his arms and stared at me … “Drink”?
I nodded once. Eddie turned to Fasolo. “Alex, for 250 thousand dollars, what are the ingredients of a Whiskey Sour? Is it a) whisky, vermouth and angostura bitters; b) whisky and Drambuie; c) bourbon, lemon juice, sugar syrup and one maraschino cherry; or d) bourbon, sugar syrup and fresh mint? Your time starts now.”
Fasolo turned his spiv sneer on Big Eddie for a few moments, and then silently turned to take two tall glasses from a shelf. I watched as he seated himself on a barstool, placed the glasses on his lap and carefully draped a towel over them – handing me my drink about a minute later. I drew deeply on the unfamiliar, warmish mix.
Eddie turned to face me again. “So you think you’re a private detective, Watts? Huh, I could have guessed … you’re nothing more than a peeper - a nobody shamus”.
There was nothing in that for me, so I let it slide.
“You may come very highly drafted, shamus, but I’m not too sure about you. Here in Collingwood we have plenty of dicks.” Eddie glanced towards the bar. “Alex here, he’s a dick.” Fasolo sneered again as Maguire continued …“Travis Cloake? He’s been a dick since you were in short pants. Jamie Elliot? Know of him? Jamie is one of the biggest dicks in town.”
Big Eddie turned and clicked sausage-like fingers, and from the shadows at the far end of the room emerged a tall man with close-set eyes, prominent ears and a tattoo that stretched the length of his left arm. From 30 feet away he looked like a lot of class. From 10 feet away he looked like something made up to be seen from 30 feet away. I knew the man – there was a time, once, when I thought I knew him very well. Jeremy Howe. We regarded each other steadily for a moment. Howe was the first to look away.
“That’s right, Watts – Jeremy belongs to me now.” Eddies voice was a satisfied purr. “I’m very pleased with his progress – Jeremy knows more about being a dick then all the other dicks put together.”
I yawned and stretched. “Seems to me, Maguire, that you have all the dicks you can eat. So why exactly did you ask me here? You know I can’t solve murders in Collingwood. All of the DNA matches, and there are no dental records.”
I drew again on my drink, this time noticing small particles swirling in the liquid before settling on the bottom of the glass. I turned to Fasolo, holding up the glass. “What is this s**t supposed to be, spiv?” The bartender sneered. “It’s sedimentary my dear Watts”.
Big Eddie’s teeth were bared in what passes for a smile in Collingwood. “I’m the boss around here, Watts. I’m in charge. Me. And any free-ranging dick who plans to continue being a dick works for me, understand?” He leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “It’s time for you to come to me, my lovely Jack Watts. You are the final missing piece in my dick puzzle. Also, I’m partial to blondes, and you- my pretty friend - are a blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window”.
“Nix, Maguire. No dice”.
I drained my drink and stood – looking around for Buckley who still had my jacket. Eddie started at the movement before hissing to his lackey “Buckley – hurry up and cuff him!” Buckley remained motionless. “I think he looks nicer in short sleeves, boss”.
“Shuddup, Nathan you dipstick!” Maguire’s face took on a dangerously blood-pressured hue. “Don’t move Watts. You’re not going anywhere once you find out what I have of yours. Jeremy! Tell him!”
Howe boggled and blustered, his weak and puzzled face collapsing as he all but wept in his shame. “I’m sorry, Jack. I’m really sorry. He m-m-m-made me do it! He made me bring him the MFC bandwagon!”
So now I knew. Collingwood had stolen the bandwagon. I couldn’t take it all in – but figured it might be a swell time to leave. I reached for my gun but came up empty – remembering it was still in my jacket. Buckley realised what I was searching for and paced menacingly towards me. My eyes darted around the room for exactly long enough to confirm there was no cover for a dick to hide.
A near deafening shattering sounded, and the air was rent by Maguire’s unholy screams. Something smashed through the window like a first gamer through Buckley’s defensive structure. A hand I could have sat in came out of the dimness and took hold of my shoulder and squashed it to a pulp. Then the hand moved me to the window, casually lifting me through and down to the pavement of the street below. Stumbling before regaining balance, I looked up at the bearded visage of Max Gawn. The big man stared at me solemnly and went on wreaking my shoulder.
“Okay, Maxy, Okay!” I yelled up at him. “You can put me down now. I’m all grown up. I can walk by myself and everything. Just don’t carry me!”
We hailed a cab and gave the address of Striker’s headquarters. I eased myself back into the leather upholstery, closed my eyes and pressed my fingers to pounding temples. “What’s wrong, Jack?” I heard Max ask.
So I told him what I had found out. That the MFC bandwagon had been stolen by Eddie Maguire, and we weren't getting it back anytime soon. Max reached out and patted my head reassuringly. When I regained consciousness a few minutes later, I could hear Maxy speaking quietly.
“…so it really doesn’t matter, Jack. Collingwood may have the bandwagon but its Collingwood, not us, that needs bandwagons, they don’t have anything else. Think of the lost souls of that damned city – twenty-four hours a day somebody is running, somebody else is trying to catch him. In Collingwood in the night of a thousand crimes, people are dying, being maimed, cut by flying glass, crushed against steering wheels or under heavy tires. People are being beaten, robbed, strangled, raped, and murdered. People are hungry, sick, bored, desperate with loneliness or remorse or fear, angry, cruel, feverish, shaken by sobs. Collingwood. A city no worse than others, perhaps, but it is a city lost and beaten and full of emptiness.”
A peaceful calm descended as I reflected on Maxy's words. He spoke again. “We don’t need bandwagons, Jack. What we have is more important – 22 honest MFC men with hearts that beat true, or at least as honest as you can expect a man to be in a world where it is going out of style.”
The driver pulled up outside headquarters. I paid the man and followed Max up the narrow staircase to the office – Striker’s door was open and he sat behind his desk in dimness relieved only by the flicker of neon signs outside; in air heavy with the scent of his Cuban cigar. He waited until we were seated.
“Well, boys?”
I heard a clock somewhere strike two, and it was Max Gawn who spoke first:
“Melbourne – by the skin of our dick”.
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