Read Online Gone Fishing by Susan Duncan - Free Book Online Page B

about. He tries the knob, expecting to find it locked. It turns under his touch. He steps inside.
    A dark-suited goon – Sam can’t tell whether or not he’s from the amorphous group that turned up at the Square – perches on a corner of a naked 1970s standard veneer desk with two drawers on either side and not even a telephone to dignify it. Looks more and more like the place has been hurriedly rented to provide a temporary but legal address to print on the posters. The goon’s ankles are casually crossed; dark glasses cover most of his face despite the gloom. He’s drinking a can of imported beer. The whole set-up is like a bad joke. Black suits. Sunglasses. Cartoon character stuff. Too weird to take seriously.
    â€˜Gidday,’ Sam says, prepared to be civil.
    The goon grins. ‘Got some advice for you, mate. Real good advice . You don’t want to take us on. Believe me, you take us on, and I’m warning you, you’ll get kicked to death.’
    â€˜Now hang on, mate  . . .’
    The goon rises. He flicks at an imaginary piece of dust on his sleeve, removes the dark glasses. His eyes are shiny bright – half crazy or just plain stupid: it’s too hard to know. He drains his beer and flattens the can in his hand. Crosses to open the door and chucks it into the deserted hallway. He sneers at Sam, then turns on his heel and disappears into the bowels of whatever lurks darkly and silently behind the reception area. Sam feels like he’s stepped into a totally surreal parallel universe.
    So stunned by the crazy eyes and the casual act of vandalism he fails to react before he hears a key turn, a bolt slam home. Finally finds his voice.
    â€˜If there’s one thing I can’t cop, you bastard, it’s bullies,’ he yells, blood rushing to his head, his face reddening fast. He strides to the door, yanks hard. It holds firm. ‘You picked on the wrong bloke, mate. Believe me. ’ He pounds on the timber. Kicks the door in frustration. What kind of a pea brain brushes the fluff off his clothes but doesn’t hesitate to chuck an empty can into a clean corridor? They’re all bloody nutters without a single grey cell between them, he thinks. It’s a full-on, blue ribbon tin-pot organisation. Are they serious about Garrawi? What the hell is really going on here?
    Fuelled by anger, he yanks open the desk drawers one by one. Hits gold in the last one in the form of a glossy pamphlet with a long-haired bloke dressed in white robes – a ringer for the Jesus in his Sunday School book – holding his hands out for . . . what? Alms? That’d be right, he thinks. It’s always about cold hard cash. He shoves the pamphlet in his pocket. In the hallway, he picks up the can, chucks it back onto the reception desk. ‘Shit in your own nest, mate,’ he shouts into an empty space.
    Back on the street, he stops short, looking up and down with a frown on his face. Where the bloody hell did he park the ute? North or south? How do people spend all day in these soulless concrete canyons, where the only breeze comes from the dirty exhausts of crawling traffic? South, he decides, setting off in a hurry, anxious to put the city behind him and aware he’s achieved absolutely nothing. Lighting spot fires isn’t as easy as it sounds.
    He arrives back at the Square by late lunchtime and marches into The Briny in search of sustenance. Ettie can’t keep the shock out of her eyes. ‘Someone die?’ she asks, not joking.
    â€˜On a mission, love. Had an appointment in the city,’ Sam says casually, although they both know it’s almost historic for him to quit Cook’s Basin for any place more distant than the local supermarket. ‘And I’ll have the beef pie, easy on the grassy stuff. Don’t hold back on the spuds. A napkin in case I spill a drop on my pristine clothes that I’m very pleased to see that