by Zane Lovitt
He presses play.
This girl’s Asian, nineteen or twenty.
‘Errrrh. Uuuuuh. Oooh. Errrmph.’
Comedy and his wife and Darryl all watch, impassive.
‘So,’ says Comedy. ‘You’re here about Joel Kelso?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You didn’t come here to sell me something?’
‘Nope.’
He looks at me, disbelieving. ‘Joel sent you, did he?’
‘Nope.’
‘But you work for Joel.’
‘Nope.’
‘Nope.’ He repeats, makes a glum face. ‘You’re not giving me a lot to work with, fella.’
‘Well, I’d like to talk to you in private, if that’s okay.’
‘Mate…’ he says, elongating the word like I just took the last chop. ‘This is my wife, Lindy. And that there’s Darryl. They’re my family. Well, Darryl’s not. He’s…we’re not related. But I trust him, yeah? There’s nothing you can’t say in front of him. No secrets here, mate.’
‘I understand. But this really is just for you.’
Comedy sighs.
I say, ‘Joel gets discharged from Royal Melbourne today.’
In the silence while Comedy stares at me, the Asian girl continues: ‘Uuuuuh. Uuuuh. Uuuh. Ooooooh…’
‘She’s good.’ Lindy points to the television. Her fingers are decorated with enough costume jewellery to look like a girl’s knuckle-duster. ‘Oriental might be the way to go.’
Comedy frowns at her.
‘My dear, would you be so kind as to step out for just a moment? Darryl can show you the new merch.’
She rolls her eyes. Comedy shrugs, grins, flicks a hand at me so she knows who to blame.
‘Off you toddle. You too, Darryl.’ He’s gone from telling me how he trusts them to showing me how he orders them around.
Darryl’s eyes stay on the TV as he walks to the door. Even after he’s gone through it and back into the outer office, after Lindy has glided past me in a thin sarong that hangs off her like a magician’s handkerchief, Darryl’s still watching the girl. When you spend all your time around pornography, an ordinary woman wearing clothes must be fascinating. It’s me who closes the door.
Comedy stops the videotape and walks around the big desk to his big chair. The television’s blue signal bounces off his face as he reclines. ‘Sit down. How is poor old Joel?’
I do sit, on a rickety metal armchair this side of his desk. The office isn’t large but it’s pleasantly decorated, like an office in a furniture catalogue. Attached to the wall there’s a ceramic phallus that appears to be autographed, but that’s all there is to indicate what gets sold on the shop floor.
‘He’s all right. The rib is healing. So is the collarbone. Slowly, but apparently that’s normal for collarbones. For a while there was urine leaking out of his bladder and the doctors were worried his other organs would get infected. That’s why they kept him in for so long. I suppose they’ll keep an eye on that one.’
‘How shithouse for him. Joel told you all this, did he?’
‘I’ve never met Joel. Joel didn’t send me here and I don’t work for him. But I’ve spoken to his doctors. And to other people.’
Comedy licks his lips. ‘So…what the fuck is it you want, fella?’
‘I just want to find out what happened to him. No one seems to know much, so I’m asking questions. All we can say for sure is that a person wearing a balaclava bashed him with a cricket bat behind a Vietnamese restaurant on Lygon Street. He’d been eating alone and he’d gone out for a cigarette, and that’s about the last thing he remembers.’
Comedy doesn’t react. I reel off the rest: ‘The attack took less than a minute, he wasn’t robbed, the laneway was dark, there were no witnesses, his assailant was alone, didn’t identify himself. These are the only details I’ve got.’
‘And how is it that I…’ He interrupts himself, scowls at me. ‘What was your name again?’
‘John.’
‘I was not there, John. So how the fuck should I know what happened?’
‘I’m just asking around.’
‘What for? Who are you?’
‘My name’s John. I’m a private inquiry agent. I’ve been looking into what happened to Joel. And although you say you weren’t there…That’s not what I’ve heard.’
Comedy reclines further, pokes his tongue around in his cheek to disguise his grin.
‘What have you heard?’
‘I heard something different.’
‘How different?’
‘Pretty different.’
He waits for me to say it.
‘I heard you were the man who did the deed.’
He can’t stifle the grin any longer and smiles broadly at me.
I ask, ‘Is that true, Mister Johnson?’
‘Please,’ he says. ‘Call me Comedy. Everybody calls me Comedy.’
‘Have you heard these rumours?’
‘Did you come here for a confession, John?’
‘No.’
‘But you work privately, yeah? Who’s your client?’
‘As of right now, I’m not retained. But there is a party that may seek to retain me in the future, and if they do, understanding what happened to Joel Kelso is going to be a big part of that job. I don’t want to say any more than that.’
Comedy’s face says la-di-da. ‘Okay, Mister Mysterious. But I won’t cop to nothing. We can have a conversation, but…’
I show him my palms. ‘Just a couple of questions.’
‘Shoot.’
Anyone else would have thrown me out for accusing them of something so awful, but Comedy tips back and rests his hands on his belly, a professor granting audience to an eager student. I lean forward.
‘What happened between you and Joel in the business world? I heard there was a falling out…’
He licks his lips. ‘Me and Joel made a deal for some merch, then he dumped me and sold the gear to SlapTickle. They made money, I didn’t.’
‘The competition is serious? Between you and SlapTickle?’
‘We are close competitors, yes.’
‘Does it ever get…underhanded?’
‘Course not. It’s a healthy business rivalry. SlapTickle and the Raunch Ranch inspire each other to new and bolder heights for our industry.’
It’s a company line, an answer he’s given before to someone who asked the same question, which someone was bound to have done given how much the two businesses hate each other.
‘So Joel could have made a deal with you, instead he went with them.’
‘Which he was free to do.’
‘What was the product?’
‘Twenty thousand battery-operated condoms,’ he says, without having to think.
I point to his office door. ‘You sell them. I saw them out there on the shelf…’
‘Them out there have a total battery life of seven minutes, because the batteries are so small, yeah? I might as well sell them as napkin rings. Joel’s ones lasted forty-five minutes. That makes them in demand. Him and me were negotiating an agreement, but he made the deal with SlapTickle instead.’
‘Why’d he do that?’
‘Fucked if I know. Probably got a better price.’
‘Do you think the condoms had anything to do with the…’ I flap my hand in the air, searching for the word. ‘…the tragic incident that put Joel in hospital?’
Comedy takes a breath, adjusts himself in his chair and leans in.
‘Let me just stop you right there,’ he says, though I’ve already stopped. ‘I was a stand-up comedian once, few years back, did the circuits. That’s how I got the name. I understand a thing or two about what you call irony.’
I nod blankly.
He says, ‘My uncle Merrick spent his whole life working as a bookbinder. Worked fourteen-hour days and dreamed of retiring at forty. That was the fucking holy grail as far as he was concerned. Then it turned out the glue they used to hold the
pages together back then, it had these chemicals in it and cancer took him at thirty-nine. Thirty-nine years old. That’s fucking tragic. That is what you call tragic irony.’
With one hand Comedy holds the tips of his fingers together, to demonstrate the delicacy of his point.
‘Now you, fella, are not the only one who hears things. I know for a fact there’s a catheter been gouged up Joel Kelso’s cock for these last few weeks, all the way into his bladder. It’s a bloody painful state that. If he got a stiffy then his dick would snap right off. All the battery-operated condoms in the world are no good to him right now. That, my little mate, is not tragic. That is the comic kind of irony.’ He fixes me with a practised gaze. ‘Also known as poetic justice.’
After holding my eyes for another potent beat, he sweeps up his remote control.
‘Joel knew bloody better than to go against me. That’s all I have to say on the subject.’
With finality, Comedy swivels in his chair, presses play. The blue TV comes alive again, that same girl as before, whimpering and imploring. Comedy drops the remote control on his desk for emphasis.
‘Mmmm…Mmmm-hmmmm…that’s it…You’re sooooo good…’
He watches, defiant, but he isn’t hearing a word this unemployed actress is saying. He scoffs like a teenager and says, his back to me, ‘Is that why you asked them two to leave the room? You didn’t want them to hear a rumour of what I done to Joel Kelso?’
A new girl appears onscreen. He’s facing her so I have to raise my voice again, compete for his attention.
‘Joel’s got a broken rib, a broken collarbone and a ruptured bladder. They’re painful injuries, but they’ll heal. Whoever did that to him has a precise touch. They knew how to make it hurt but also how to make it temporary.’
The back of Comedy’s head doesn’t move.
‘The thing is, when people talk about Comedy Johnson, they don’t say, “He’s got a precise touch.” They say other things. They talk about how you never were a stand-up comic, and you got the name Comedy because as a gangster you’re a joke.’
‘Oooh…You’re naughty…Oh…Oh yeah…That’s right…Ooooh…’
‘They talk about your failed insurance scam and your failed SIM-card scam. They talk about the defamation suit SlapTickle brought against you, which you settled out of court. No one knows how much you paid, but you wound up closing your other store. And they talk about your wife, her appetite for codeine.’
‘Just a little more…Just a little more…’
‘What they don’t talk about is how you had nothing to do with what happened to Joel. The two of you had a falling out, so after he landed in hospital a rumour got started. Comedy Johnson waiting in the shadows with a cricket bat. Which didn’t bother you, you were more than happy to take the credit. Make people wonder. Make them respect you. But you couldn’t have done something like this. You don’t know how. And even if you knew how, you don’t have the guts.’
Comedy scratches the back of his head, then turns to face me, blinking slowly.
I say, ‘That’s why I asked them to leave the room.’
Carefully, he picks up the remote and mutes the television. Without the sound, the girl looks like she’s about to be sick. Comedy stares at the remote, flips it in his hand.
Then he says, ‘Get the fuck out of my office.’
‘Don’t kick me out yet. I can help you.’
He snorts again, his face showing how all of him is pushing against what I’ve said. ‘Why would I want help from a shit-stirrer like you?’
‘Because right now it’s working great. People can believe what they want, right? Since when is it your job to set them straight? Comedy Johnson beat somebody up and suddenly everyone’s a little scared of him. He’s jumping the queue at his favourite nightclub and girls half his age are whispering his name. Everyone thinks twice about crossing you. Everyone wants to do right by you.’ I pause, raise a finger. ‘Except Joel. He’s heard the rumours too.’
‘Piss off…You think I’m scared of Joel Kelso?’
‘Do you know what he’s been doing in hospital all this time?’
‘I couldn’t give a shit—’
‘He’s been getting high, mostly. Sometimes the hospital’s drugs, sometimes his own. When his friends come to visit, he tells them he doesn’t want revenge on Comedy Johnson. What he wants is peace. He says he’s learned his lesson.’
‘Sounds like the only person making a big deal out of this is you, John.’
I talk faster. ‘He hasn’t spoken to the police, and by that I mean he won’t even confirm his own name. His girlfriend’s been telling her friends, workmates, perfect strangers how incapacitated Joel is, how he can’t even walk, how he sleeps sixteen hours a day and needs help just to sit up on the couch.’
‘You trying to make me feel guilty?’
‘I’m trying to help you, if you’ll just listen. Joel’s young and he’s headstrong and there’s no way he’ll be put in his place by someone named Comedy, let alone you. He’s got a conviction for running a taxi off the road on Victoria Parade, did you know that? The driver cut him off, so Joel shouldered him into an apartment building. He seems quiet and kind of shy, but that’s just on the surface. He once beat up a homeless man, just around the corner from here, almost killed him. No one even knows why.’
‘Bullshit—’
‘And if he is planning to come back at you, he’s going about it the right way. Saying he wants peace, telling people he can hardly stand up. Spending his days drugged and unconscious. It’s Revenge 101. Eliminate the motive and circulate an alibi. “I’m a cripple, I’m too fucked up to get back at Comedy, even if I wanted to.” My guess is, and it’s the reason I’m here, he’s healthier than everyone thinks. He’s capable of much more than just sitting up on the couch and there’s been only one thing on his mind since he came to in that hospital bed.’
Comedy turns the remote control over and over in his hands and his nostrils are wide open. It takes two tries to clear his throat before he speaks.
‘I’ve never seen him hurt anyone. I never seen him even fight.’
‘He’s a dark horse.’
‘I think he’s a pussycat.’
‘You’ve misjudged someone. Imagine my surprise.’
Comedy leans back in his chair, clasps his hands over his head. What was a whirlwind of bullshit has become a cyclone, spinning behind his eyes. All that hot air forms itself into a sneer.
‘You came out here to warn me, did you? Thought you’d do me a favour? Out of the kindness of your heart?’
‘I came here to make a suggestion.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Hire me to find the guy who assaulted Joel.’
‘Hire you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You’re kidding, aren’t you?’
‘Joel gets discharged today. I don’t think he’s going to waste any time.’
‘You said you weren’t here to sell me anything.’
‘I lied about that.’
He laughs, coarsely. ‘If you knew how many hawkers I get coming in the door…’
‘You’ve never been offered anything like this.’
‘Like what? What would you do for me, exactly?’
‘I’d go from here to Joel’s house, tell him Comedy Johnson has retained me to find out who was responsible for the attack. I’d say that Comedy has heard rumours of his own involvement and he hopes that retaining me will help to extinguish them.’
‘Brilliant…’
‘Then Joel will accuse me of scamming you. Then he’ll laugh me out the door.’
‘I can’t imagine why…’
‘But it might keep him in a box until I find out who really is responsible.’
‘And please,’ he says, smiling broadly, ‘Who is it who might be responsible? If not me.’
‘Someone too smart to go around taking the credit. Maybe someone who knew you would. Wanted you to.’
There’s a moc
k scowl and a mock nod that embellish the mock concentration he’s having so much fun with. I almost want him to kick me out of his office so I don’t have to look at him anymore.
I say, ‘If your friends at SlapTickle no longer enjoy the bold new heights you inspire, and if they’ve paid someone to take care of you, then it starts to make sense. They get a professional. Someone like Ted Boyle.’
‘Uh-huh,’ he smirks.
‘Boyle figures that if you disappear, the cops are onto it and all roads lead back to SlapTickle. But Boyle’s an opportunist. If he knew about the trouble between you and Joel, and if he knew what Joel was capable of, and if he knew that Joel would rather have his eyes gouged out than talk to the police, everything falls into place. Boyle attacks Joel, lets you take the credit, sits back while Joel does his job for him. Granted, this theory requires Ted Boyle to be a sort of genius. But he’s the smartest thug I know.’
‘Your suggestion is that I pay you to catch the guy, whoever it is?’
‘As a goodwill gesture to Joel.’
‘And then maybe Joel doesn’t k-k-k-kill me.’
His pretend stutter is very funny to him. Again he talks as he laughs. ‘You must have a big heart, fella. To help out like this.’
‘I’m about to get evicted. I need the money. You can afford me.’
‘Got it all figured out, yeah?’
‘Not quite.’
‘Really? What else is there? Cash or cheque?’
‘I haven’t figured out how to get you to come clean, to admit it wasn’t you who put Joel in hospital. Until you do…we’re going nowhere.’
‘Well…’ says Comedy, with a face that says, here comes the punchline. ‘At least we agree on something.’
He hits a button on his telephone and calls into it, ‘Darryl, come in here, will you?’
Then he unmutes the TV. It’s another girl, barely eighteen, with a massive red bow in her hair to look, I suppose, more innocent. It appears that we’ve missed the climax of her performance and now she’s cooing, post-coital.
‘This is your last chance,’ I say. ‘You’ve got to give Joel something to show it wasn’t you.’
Comedy doesn’t take his eyes off the girl. ‘There’s two ways for this conversation to end. The easy way and the hard way. The hard way’s about to come in that door.’
