Paddy’s People: Tales of Life, Love, Laughter, and Smelly Horses

By Gerry Burke

Paddy Pest, the ubiquitous Aussie gumshoe, is immersed in a world full of beautiful women, conniving conspirators, and covert agents. Never without his Beretta or fold-up boomerang, Paddy is always prepared—a good thing, since he is about to take a ride on the wild side with his entourage of female associates.
Stormy Weathers, Paddy’s girlfriend and wing person, is known for her flaming red hair, nice legs, and her ability to hold her own in a fight. Pest surrounds himself with girls with guns and they mean business. Ariadne Vasilis has long black hair, a brutal arm-chop, and a fierce loyalty to her country, as does the delightful French gendarme Yvette Baguette. She wouldn’t be seen dead without her Paris fashion labels. From a salacious situation in Salem to a conundrum in Kentucky! There’s murder in Melbourne and mystery in Moscow, and Paddy’s people are playing for keeps.
Paddy’s People is a collection of short stories laced with treachery, mayhem, and mischievous behavior that encompass some of Paddy’s worldwide adventures and acknowledge those men and women who have been inspired by his exploits.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475995923

Gerry Burke

Gerry Burke received a Jesuit inspired education at Xavier College in Melbourne, Australia, where he still lives. Before commencing his long career in advertising, he was employed by an international mining company, which included a three year stint in New Guinea. He also dabbled in the horse-racing industry, as an owner and breeder, with some success. Being a former accountant and advertising creative, no one expected Gerry to become a published author, but he embraced this initiative in order to stave off dementia. He has since penned 6 novels, 6 volumes of short stories, and 2 offerings of commentary and opinion relating to Politics, Entertainment, Sport, and Travel. The PEST pseudonym was subjected to a sea change with the introduction of his popular protagonist Paddy Pest to booklovers everywhere. Most people see the garrulous gumshoe from Down Under as a cross between James Bond and Maxwell Smart, and he has been the centre-point of the author’s humour-laden resume. In recent times, there have been diversions into Science Fiction and absolute fiction, all of which have won enthusiastic acclaim. Mr. Burke’s credentials have been well established with ten of his books featuring as a winner or finalist in a variety of international literary competitions. His last three volumes have received multiple citations. Gerry is single and lives with photographs of his best racehorses. http://gerryburke.net

Book preview

AUTHOR’S PREVIOUS WORKS

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From Beer to Paternity

Down-Under Shorts

Pest Takes a Chance

The Lady on the Train

Pest on the Run

Paddy’s People

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GERRY BURKE

Tales of Life, Love, Laughter, and Smelly Horses

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Paddy’s People

Tales of Life, Love, Laughter, and Smelly Horses

Copyright © 2013 Gerry Burke.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4759-9591-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-9593-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-9592-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013911288

iUniverse rev. date: 12/11/2020

CONTENTS

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Explanatory Note

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Stormy Weathers

Inspector Justin O’Keefe

Ariadne Vasilis

The Bishop

Jane Vanstone

Nadia Nickoff, the Minx from Minsk

Jack Weston

The Carpucci Clan

Jesus

Melina Mercurochrome

Yvette Baguette

Gregoria Killanova

Harry Martin

Rita Green

Finbar and Nuala

About The Author

Other books by Gerry Burke:

Illustrations

EXPLANATORY NOTE

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In each of the stories that you are about to read, the ubiquitous Aussie gumshoe and weasel, Paddy Pest, manages to slip in-between the pages, and cause havoc and confusion, which is what he does best. Fortunately, I have managed to convince the fellow that these stories are not really about him, and that he should take a back seat and let others have their moment in the sun.

Although I have never objected to Paddy writing his own stories, and they have been quite entertaining, he has shown scant respect for the wonderful people who have provided the peripheral drama to his mostly unbelievable tales. In so doing, he has become infatuated with his own success and, to my mind, needs to be taken down a peg or two. I have therefore stepped up to the plate and provided my own dispassionate insights into the lives of these extraordinary individuals.

It is true that some of these wonderful people are murderers, terrorists, predators, perverts and persons with little integrity, but the author must always pander to the requirements of his readers. Some of these narratives are prequels and others are biographical background to Paddy’s previous adventures. It is my optimistic expectation that you will find these stories entertaining, and motivation enough to delve further into the world of Paddy Pest via your favorite on-line retailer. This hopeful expectation is shared by my marketing consultant, my bookmaker, and my horse trainer, all of whom I owe money.

GB

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

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Editing : Kylie Moreland

Pictorial content courtesy of various Thinkstock collections

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My God, that looks like James Bond.

INTRODUCTION

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T here is a bit of an art to writing prequels. The dimension of time is relevant in any historical report or biography, therefore, I have chosen to measure the moment by reference to real events/ real people. You will read of the super-group Queen, Irish patriot Michael Collins, the comedian Jerry Seinfeld plus Kiri Te Kanawa and Richard Gere. I hope there is forgiveness in their hearts for my intrusion.

I expect that many of you might wish to investigate what manner of weasel Mr. Pest actually is before you move onto the page which advertises the price of this volume. I can tell you that the chap is immoral, devious, and wonderfully wicked. Is he a private detective or a secret agent? I don’t think he knows himself, but he has an international reputation and is never short of work. Paddy always carries a Beretta under his arm, a Glock pistol in his ankle holster, and a fold-up boomerang on his person. Once you’ve been a Boy Scout, you are always prepared.

The peripheral people in Paddy’s life are murderers, assassins, pedophiles and the like, but I can categorically state that only one of them is involved in animal husbandry, so the narratives will be universally acceptable. I believe that I have articulated their life journey with equanimity and objective candor. Settle back and enjoy some tall tales. First up is Paddy’s beautiful companion, Stormy Weathers, who will be coming up immediately after the break.

Gerry Burke

STORMY WEATHERS

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M any stories have unfolded concerning the ace crime buster known as Paddy Pest, most of them written by the man himself. Pest, in his Chronicles, often refers to Stormy Weathers as his wing person. In truth, in the early days, Paddy was actually her wingman. Their first job together was the case of The Horrible Hobbit . Certainly, this murder wasn’t up there in the annals of Great Crimes of the 21 st Century, and the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation (Stormy’s employer) normally wouldn’t have been involved in such a case except for the fact that Kiwi people were implicated. Folks in this country have become very nervous of New Zealand retribution ever since we cheated at cricket. This is why our politicians will never be party to any agreement that gives them access to a nuclear device.

Paddy had to be involved because they found the dead hobbit in the trunk of his car. Nobody thought that he was the perpetrator because he was at the track at the time of death and his car was elsewhere. Melbourne’s coroner was a pretty astute kind of guy and he didn’t get many things wrong. Determining the victim’s nationality was easy because he had a Maori tattoo on his left arm and he looked a bit adversarial, even in death. The coroner believed that he couldn’t categorize the chap as a dwarf, as stipulated by The Restricted Growth Association, but did declare that he was smaller than most cadavers that he had seen.

They’ve tagged the victim with a name, Stormy. Have you ever heard of Hari Habuda?

I’ll try the ASIO database, Paddy, but I reckon you would have better contacts if he was a genuine bastard, with bad habits and a sheet at police headquarters.

Thank you, Stormy. I’m glad that you appreciate the inherent qualities of my nearest and dearest. I’ll put out a few feelers.

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Ellen Louise Weathers was born in a small town called Port Fairy, which is located in the far south-west of country Victoria. The area is famous for its creamy dairy products, abalone, whale-watching and unpleasant weather patterns. The cold winds that blow up from the Southern Ocean always seem to create friction with the hot air formed earlier in warmer parts of the country. The state of Victoria has long suffered the embarrassing climatic reputation of four seasons in one day. Port Fairy can boast four seasons in one hour.

Ellen was born early on a Friday morning in June during a violent thunderstorm; the rain didn’t stop until Tuesday afternoon. From that day forward, I don’t believe anybody ever addressed her by her Christian name.

Stormy was a popular baby. She slept well, consumed her formula without complaint and crapped at regular intervals. In primary school the youngster was something of a tomboy and a bit of a prankster. The head teacher, Marvin Stillwater, remembers a girl with pigtails and an attitude. The lads were even a bit scared of her and it wasn’t just because of her practical jokes. She owned an extensive spider collection and sometimes included the little critters as part of her practical jokes. Her favorite song was The Redback on the Toilet Seat.

Stormy’s high school years were less memorable. The girl had braces on her teeth and her long slim body had yet to mature into the foxy lady that she would eventually become. Sure, she did lose her virginity at fifteen years of age, but how can one argue against the overwhelming passion of curiosity and peer pressure? The young man’s name was Harry Hollington and this will be the one and only time I will give him a presence in my story. For the rest of his life, he couldn’t surpass the achievement of deflowering Stormy, although his sister, Heather, did manage some degree of fame. She ended up as a hooker and one of the first women in Australia to play professional rugby.

Having visited Melbourne on a number of occasions with her folks, Stormy fell in love with the place, and often hitch-hiked there and back on weekends. In those days it was quite safe to do that kind of thing.

By the time Stormy permanently moved to the city, she was a most attractive young woman. Her flaming red hair was rather unkempt but gave her the appearance of a virtuous vixen, if that’s not a contradiction in terms. Her skin was free of any unsightly blemishes and her ruddy complexion was not unusual for a country girl who had to endure the four seasons in one hour. Stormy wore minimal make-up and had the most penetrating eyes. Don’t it make my brown eyes blue sang Crystal Gayle; Stormy was not unlike this attractive songstress with the shoulder-length hair.

I don’t think it was Stormy’s hair that got her a job as a door bitch at the Mungo Man Trap in Melbourne. This was a gentleman’s club and, although the girls outside wore a bit more than the girls inside, anyone could see that Stormy was now quite well endowed, and when she frocked-up and stepped into her stiletto heels, she was a stunning piece of eye-candy. Because some of the customers felt it was their right to handle the merchandise, the door bitch decided to take on a martial arts course. It took her only a few months to become an expert in Taekwondo, Karate and crutch-kicking. Even the proprietor became a little wary of her. At this stage, the foxy lady had yet to meet that weasel, Paddy Pest.

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Those feelers that Paddy sent out found their mark and it was discovered that Hari Habuda, the horrible hobbit, was a stand-over man, even though his vertical projection reached no higher than the average person’s waist. Now here’s the rub—the man had been indicted on over a dozen murder charges in Australia and New Zealand and had beaten all of them. Paddy was very impressed.

This guy had good legal representation but this is no advantage if you rub the wrong person the wrong way. His passing may be a blessing to those of us who occasionally require refinancing and are late with our repayments.

OK Paddy, he may have worked for loan sharks and this would not normally be ASIO business, but he was a Kiwi and you are involved somehow. The people in Canberra want me to test your mettle. They have been mildly resistant to your employment, even on a casual basis. Is there anything that you want to tell me?

Stormy, I love it when you get assertive. Is there any chance that you can finish early, tonight? I’ll let you get on top.

As was often the case, Paddy had this knack of turning things around in his favor, but, in contrast to his superficial bravado, he was deeply concerned by his apparent involvement in this mysterious death. Why did they dump the body in his car: the body of a man that he didn’t know?

The garrulous gumshoe had indicated to Stormy that he had no knowledge of the Kiwi with the height deficiency, but now his thoughts were centered on a small presence that he often saw in the shadows, when he socialized with Stiggy Movida. Stiggy was a long-term compatriot who often financed the Pest’s gambling shortfalls. Until recently, Paddy had no idea of the name of this apparatchik but he was definitely a low-life. He carried a gun and his role in Stiggy’s organization was quite apparent: but why a New Zealander? Didn’t we have good hit-men in this country? Mr. Pest’s nationalist fervor was extremely commendable.

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Hari the Hobbit!

Stiggy Movida was a tall man who didn’t suffer fools easily. Nevertheless, he and Paddy were buddies. There was always a free drink waiting when the private detective came to visit. In this case, Stiggy was operating out of temporary premises, due to a firebomb that had decimated his office above one of his clubs. This was par for the course in the business that he was in.

Some rum for the gumshoe? quizzed the loan shark supremo, as he personally mixed up a shaker of Caribbean medicine.

Paddy nodded enthusiastically as he sized up his long-time acquaintance. Both of them had graduated from the school of hard-knocks and there was some measure of respect for each other’s achievements. That fact that these achievements were acquired on different sides of the law was of little consequence. In their youth, Stiggy and his young friend had been constant attendees at most high-profile race meetings at Flemington and Caulfield and although Paddy still invested on-course, Stiggy usually gambled from the comfort of his home or club. It was safer that way, if there were people out there who wanted to kill you.

Although Movida’s demeanor was as confident as ever, Paddy could see that the recent fire attack had rattled him a bit and there were scars, both physical and mental. The man’s eyebrows had been singed significantly and there was a burn mark on the side of his left cheek. If there were any other harmful souvenirs from the incident, they were camouflaged beneath his eloquent designer suit with the fire-red handkerchief poking out of the top pocket. There was a matching silk tie, of course, and a linen shirt that was hand-made and worth two month’s wages to the Italian peasant who had put it together. Stiggy Movida was something of a fashion plate but he was also good with the cutlery. When he knifed one of his street rivals in a bar brawl, the Rozzers put him away for two years. That was some time ago. Since then, he has upgraded his accommodation and made sure that there were others to do his dirty work.

Tell me Stiggy. Are you aware that one of your guys, Hari Habuda, is recently deceased? He may have sought refuge in the trunk of my car or else the cheapskate killers were too lazy to bury him. Such a little guy! They only needed a small hole.

Dead, you say. I thought he was visiting his family in New Zealand. Hari was very deceptive and cunning. Well, he was a Kiwi, wasn’t he? The man was one of my best enforcers. I can’t believe it. Why was your car involved, Paddy? What have you got to do with this?

Movida had now found comfort in his leather recliner, but he wasn’t comfortable with the strength of his drink and poured in more rum. He furrowed his brow and waited for Paddy to continue.

So many questions and I don’t have the answers. I’m betting that another family was involved in this, probably Italian. How are your relations with the mafia, these days? I seem to recall that you once called Mario Mancini a washed-up wop and a wimp in front of his wife, Wilma. People don’t like to lose face in front of their bride and these guys have long memories. Reprisals can sometimes be a while coming.

Naw, I don’t think so. I’m good with the mob, at the moment. However, someone has it in for me and the fire and Hari’s death are sure to be related. How would you like a little retainer to solve my problem, Paddy? I’ll even pay full whack if you get a good result. All I need is a name. I’ll do the rest.

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Gerry Mungo, proprietor of the Mungo Man Trap, was not a nice man and he didn’t treat his employees well. He expected sexual favors from the lap-dancers and demanded that they put in long hours. Nobody felt inclined to offer him their loyalty, which is why the bar staff became pilferers and police moles. Every time the wallopers arrived and discovered some illicit activity going on, it cost Gerry big time. He decided to sack the bar manager and replace him with the horny door-bitch, Stormy Weathers. It was a smart move.

Stormy was pretty efficient and she soon tidied up the shortfall in the cash takings. Mungo was impressed and gave her a bonus commensurate with the club’s improved productivity. His romantic overtures were less productive.

On a wet and windy Melbourne evening, few people venture out and often the celebrated nightspots are sometimes lightly patronized. Idle hands sometimes go where they shouldn’t, and the fact that these hands belonged to the boss made no difference to Stormy. Mungo should have been counting his money but there was no money to count, and he was hard on the whisky. It was just after midnight that he made his move.

Yes, it was dark but isn’t that what a gentleman’s club is all about? The disco music had morphed into a dirge, and the pole dancers were manicuring their nails on the rotunda. There was stale cigarette smoke in the air-conditioning, and the club’s two patrons were drunk and unimpressed by the entertainment. Stormy was toweling down her part of the bar when the heavy hand of management arrived on her rump. She hardly recognized the slurred speech of her employer.

Stormy, I think it is time we took our relationship to another level.

I think it was a level-five elbow jerk that caught Mungo in the solar plexus. Stormy followed-up with a back-heel jab into his wedding furniture, and then back-flipped him over the bar and onto the hard surface of the floor. Although there is a token carpet layer in this area, it is threadbare, with little insulation from the concrete slab below. Gerry Mungo regained consciousness some twenty minutes later, and found the deeply concerned bar manager by his side.

Here you go, boss: a Paracetomol spritzer. Compliments of the house!

When Gerry Mungo went to prison for living off the earnings, his lawyer approached Stormy and asked her if she would be interested in running the club while he was on holidays. It was only a two year stretch so she thought Why not?

If you want me to run this club, I can tell you that there will be no illegal activity. I want a share of the profits and I want complete access to all the books.

That sounds fair to me, Miss Weathers. I’ll let my client know your demands and get back to you.

Of course, Mr. Mungo had no desire to open his accounting records to anyone but he had little choice. Stormy was the only person who could keep his club afloat and, at least, she was honest. This was a rarity in his line of business. He acceded to all her demands.

The clientele changed a bit during Stormy’s tenure at the Mungo Man Trap. The drug and vice squad, who had been regular visitors over many years, became less aggressive and appreciated the new regime and its law-abiding policy. Certainly, the girls were still active in their own way but nobody can turn a blind eye to this kind of thing like the police. The word was passed around the various precincts and many of the boys in blue became customers. This had a similar effect to the ’burger policy of McDonalds, although Stormy was giving out nothing for free. The really bad men of Melbourne gave the place a wide berth which suited the manageress admirably.

The princess from Port Fairy didn’t have much time for a private life although she was bonking her karate instructor. Trevor had given her very personal tuition which is why she graduated sooner than most. The man had some kind of clandestine background and was a secretive soul, albeit a likeable one. Stormy could see that he wasn’t making a lot of money out of the karate school but he was a good teacher and so she put some extra work his way. If the hostess girls from the club were proficient in hand-to-hand combat, the lecherous Lotharios would be easier to handle. The personal details and contact numbers of these black-belt cuties remained in her address book long after Stormy left the Mungo Man Trap.

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Somebody told Stormy that she had nice legs, so she entered the Miss Long Legs competition, which was one of the highlights of the Moomba (let’s get together and have fun) Parade, which is held in Melbourne every March. During the contest she befriended a gal from Canberra, who was interested in her history, and, unbeknown to Stormy, was recruiting for ASIO, Australia’s major spy agency. By then, Gerry Mungo had been released from prison and regained control of his nightclub.

Stormy was happy to move on and look for new challenges, so she was ripe for recruitment by Jane, who managed to place behind Stormy in the competition. The first prize was a trip for two to Lake Mulwala and Stormy chose to take Jane with her. Trevor was not pleased and immediately terminated their relationship in a fit of pique. He also kicked through the wall of his studio: and karate-chopped the landlord’s cat. The remonstration from his landlord was admirably fierce but, because he was scared of Trevor, the man settled for a cash payment.

After Lake Mulwala, there was Canberra, the nation’s capital and headquarters of ASIO. Jane Vanstone was not a high-ranking official but she was permitted her own group of operatives and had been given Victoria as her domain. Stormy completed a three-week training course and then reported to Jane at Command Center.

This is all a bit new to me, Stormy. I’m ex-army and a bit wet behind the ears, but they’ve given me a brief to set-up a more permanent intelligence base in Melbourne and there’s a fair budget that goes with it. I’m going to ask you to investigate the possibilities and then report back to me. Do you think you can do it?

I know I can, Jane. Just give me two weeks. Does the budget extend to setting-up costs and a permanent staff? I have a few girls in mind who have martial arts skills.

Wow, an all-girl team; that sounds excellent. Get onto it right away. I’ll square things away with management.

And so it was that Sam’s Fly by Night Club rose from the ashes of a derelict warehouse in an industrial area just outside the central business district of Melbourne. Stormy had had her eyes on this converted warehouse for quite some time and was even considering putting a proposition to Gerry Mungo. The building had previously housed a nightclub and the liquor license was still valid, although the building was in disrepair. However, being a partner of Mungo would have been fraught with danger and his book-keeping was definitely suspect. In this instance, ASIO were prepared to fit-out the place to her specifications and they were only interested in breaking-even financially. Jane Vanstone would be Stormy’s new boss but all matters concerning the nightclub would be decided locally, including the hiring of staff. Many of Stormy’s pals from the Mungo Man Trap were now doing other things but four of them came aboard. They were sent to Canberra for training and Jane vetted them all.

Because Stormy would often be required to leave the premises on ASIO business, she hired a manager, but no-one was under any illusion as to who was the boss. The early days were quite testing but the establishment attracted a number of die-hard customers, many from the airline industry. Tullamarine and Avalon airports were not far away and Sam’s Fly by Night Club became a magnet for off-duty flight crews and the like. ASIO had no interest in the low-life crims that frequented other night clubs but they did get Stormy to solicit staff from foreign embassies. By soliciting, I mean marketing. If a few margaritas and a gorgeous woman could loosen the lips of people who had access to state secrets, the Canberra investment would be well on its way to paying for itself.

Then there were the perennial piranhas, washed-out divorcees and rejects from society who preyed on the waitresses and consumed too much alcohol: on a regular basis. One of these was a relatively successful private eye called Paddy. His real name was Patrick Pesticide but when one of the girls became sick of his advances, she renamed him Paddy Pest. The name stuck. Stormy was one of the few people who appreciated his depreciative wit and candor and they engaged in quite a bit of banter when things were a bit quiet, which was quite often. Pest had acquired a bit of a reputation as a ladies man but it is commonly accepted that he generated this part of his profile himself. He certainly wasn’t quick to capitalize on his relationship with Stormy. It took him two months to ask her out on a date.

People who work nights don’t date like other folks. Paddy escorted Stormy on a boat cruise across Port Phillip Bay to Williamstown, a delightful little tourist magnet that likes to masquerade as a fishing village. They enjoyed seafood for lunch in one of the pier restaurants and then walked through the boat harbor and along the promenade. Stormy was seeing a different kind of pest to the one that continually harassed her girls. He was polite, observant, helpful and generally quite charming. She did think that he was a bit old for her and wondered whether, at some time, there had been a Mrs. Pest. The bar staff at Sam’s are told not to enquire about a customer’s marital status and Stormy felt that this was a question that could be raised at a later date. They got through the day with nothing else being raised and each reappeared at their favorite nightclub later that night.

It’s funny, isn’t it? As you grow to like a person more and more, they seem to look younger and younger. Such was the case with Stormy and her assessment of the licentious leprechaun, who was now an almost permanent fixture in her corner of the bar. If Paddy was a department store, you would want to visit the top floor because the hair department was quite luxuriant and well-groomed. However, the lower floors were a bit of a worry, especially the travel department. There were bags under his eyes and he was carrying quite a bit of luggage around his midriff. Stormy felt that only a good woman could mold him into shape; having reactivated a platonic relationship with Trevor, her karate instructor, she sent the gumshoe to boot camp for some restructuring.

If Paddy objected, he didn’t say a thing. He embarked on the six-week boot camp with constrained enthusiasm, even though Trevor turned out to be a sadist of the worst kind. Time off the booze did make the exercise a little easier. Paddy returned to Sam’s looking like a new man. Stormy had a smug look on her face and the other girls were amazed. Trevor had taught the old guy a few good karate moves, and Mr. Pest was now looking trim, taut and terrific. It was time to bring him into the ASIO fold.

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Paddy Pest was not averse to receiving retainers from two different people for the same job. He would not tell Stormy of Movida’s offer but he would keep nothing else from her. After all, he would need a capable colleague to infiltrate the club scene in Melbourne and this is one area where Stormy was completely at home. That night, after a particularly frenetic bout of lovemaking, he broached the subject with her.

Stormy, we need someone to gain access to the nightclub scene and find some loose lips that might give us a lead in this case. If the cops can’t come up with anything, they’ll start to lean on me. After all, the body was found in my car and some of these Johnny Hoppers would love to pin this on yours truly: me, an innocent man.

You’re far from innocent, Mr. Pest, but now that you’ve been recruited, I don’t want to lose you. I could get a temporary job at Tony Green’s Hellfire Club and I could also have a word with Gerry Mungo. He would be happy to put Debbie back on lap-dancing duty.

Debbie Dikster had been one of Stormy’s pals in the early days at the Mungo Man Trap and when the ASIO gig came up, she was the first girl to be recruited. The blonde bombshell was now a professional schmoozer at Sam’s, and was one of the most accomplished in terms of martial arts skills. One would have thought her big bazookas would always get in the way.

I don’t know how Stormy knew Tony Green but he was happy to have her in a managerial role, even if it was temporary. When you put on a slashing piece of crumpet, the word gets around: the punters flocked to the Hellfire Club like never before. Stormy had the confidence and repartee to mix with the best and worst of them. On reflection, there was no best. They were killers, confidence men, drug dealers and footballers with too much time on their hands. Tony Green had always managed to keep above the law but it was a wonder he was never arrested for robbery. His prices were outrageous.

Stormy decided not to rush her enquiries and used the first week to ingratiate herself with the customers. She kept her ears open, however, just in case the names Paddy Pest or Hari Habuda were bandied about in conversation. She did notice that the club was frequented by a number of New Zealanders. It may have been the club name that enticed them to the premises—Kiwis are generally attracted to anything that might offer a bit of rough and the satanic theme of the establishment provided promises of punishment and chastisement. One could speculate that there might be some kind of guilt complex there, in relation to their perceived social interaction with some of their four-legged friends, but I would not like to be the one to promote that theory. Suffice to say, there were rooms in the establishment that offered S&M services. Stormy kept well away from these pain parlors.

In the second week of her assignment, Stormy met a well-known shyster who ran a small-time casino in the city. He had just come from the opera, which surprised the hospitable hostess because he wasn’t Italian and he came across as a bit of a Robbie Williams type of guy. Nevertheless, there was his ticket stub on the bar: Kiri Te Kanawa, Seat 47, Row Z. The New Zealand diva was doing Madam Butterfly at the Arts Center and it looked like this low-life from Lara was in need of a stiff drink.

Tell me, Bugsy, who are your favorite opera stars, other than Kiri?

Well, er, ah, I suppose I like Lady Ga Ga. Yep, I reckon she’s the best. Whaddabout you, Stormy, do you dig that kinda music?

I can take it in small doses. Anyway, I’m glad that you enjoyed it.

Believe me, lass, it was grand… he said, as he sauntered off with a drink in hand for his pal and fellow low-life. Stormy just heard the back end of his parting remark.

It was grand all right: one hundred grand.

The next night another meathead arrived post-opera and Stormy sidled up to him in order to adjust his white silk scarf. She managed to retrieve his ticket stub from his side pocket and was able to confirm that his ticket was also Seat 47, Row Z. This bozo had a Kiwi friend with him. Introductions were made.

Miss Stormy, I’d like you to meet Ike Udderberg from Waikikamukau. Ike is the road manager for Kiri Te Kanawa. This is his first visit to the Hellfire Club.

Well Mr. Udderberg, feel free to exorcise all your sins here this evening. This is the hottest place in town.

With a snap of her fingers, Stormy summoned two of the roving house harlots to help Mr. Udderberg with his initiation into the Hellfire Club, before slipping off to the cloak room to ring the ASIO control center.

"I want everything you’ve got on a New