The Hero of Hucklebuck Drive: Death and Depravity in the World's Most Livable City!

By Gerry Burke

Heroes come in all shapes and sizes, and Paddy Pest is equally comfortable being described as a garrulous gumshoe, a shameful shamus or a lecherous lounge lizard. When the Melbourne community is rocked by the news of abduction and murder, Paddy can smell the prospect of a retainer in the wind. With the aid of his stunningly sublime companion Stormy Weathers, the discount detective follows the clues and is amazed where they take him.

Drug lord Kelpie Sparrow and his henchman, Skull Murphy, are involved but what of the Italian connection? Does the lovely therapist Annabella Luciano and her parish priest, the Maserati driving Fr. Lothario, have something to hide? To make sense of it all, Paddy has to head back to his former neighborhood and renew acquaintances with old friends.

Death and depravity in the worlds most livable city. Melbourne needs a hero like never before.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491761311

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

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Copyright © 2015 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.

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

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-6130-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-6129-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-6131-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015903237

iUniverse rev. date: 03/27/2015

CONTENTS

Book 1

Chapter 1     The Garrulous Gumshoe - Patrick Pesticide

Chapter 2     The Police Case - Detective Justin O’Keefe

Chapter 3     The Suitcase - Patrick Pesticide

Chapter 4     Out and About - Stormy Weathers

Chapter 5     The Old Neighborhood - Patrick Pesticide

Chapter 6     The Grief Process - Justin O’Keefe

Chapter 7     The Corner House – Arnold Snitz

Chapter 8     The Happy Hour - Stormy Weathers

Chapter 9     An Innocent Man - Basil Murphy

Chapter 10    Over the Wall - Patrick Pesticide

Chapter 11   Lawyers, Guns and Honey – Basil Murphy

Chapter 12   Missing in Action - Justin O’Keefe

Chapter 13   Client Massage - Patrick Pesticide

Chapter 14   The Apple Isle - Basil Murphy

Chapter 15   Flying by the Seat of My Pants - Patrick Pesticide

Book 2

Chapter 16   The Silent Achiever - P.C. Jennifer

Chapter 17   The Third Boy - Patrick Pesticide

Chapter 18   The Germans - Justin O’Keefe

Chapter 19   PEST Goes to Church - Patrick Pesticide

Chapter 20   Dangerous Times - Justin O’Keefe

Chapter 21   Old Friends - Patrick Pesticide

Chapter 22   Another Dark Day - Justin O’Keefe

Chapter 23   The Search Engine - P.C. Jennifer

Chapter 24   Asylum Seekers - Stormy Weathers

Chapter 25   The Shrink - Patrick Pesticide

Chapter 26   The Whistleblower - Stormy Weathers

Chapter 27   Down by the Riverside - Patrick Pesticide

Chapter 28   When a man fights a woman - Stormy Weathers

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Editing: Kylie Moreland

Pictorial content courtesy of various Thinkstock libraries

Some of the narratives in this story have been written from beyond the grave. I would like to thank the good Lord for waiving normal procedures in the pursuit of accurate reportage. Commentary provided by the word processor known as Jennifer is a binary interpretation of contemporary computer-speak. Her hissy fits have been deleted.

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The author would like to thank the patrons at Sam’s Fly-by-Night Club for their indulgence and understanding during the pole dancers’ strike.

PROLOGUE

I t’s not hard to understand why people call me Paddy. I was born in Ireland and migrated to this country at a young age, to live with relatives. The death of my mammy and the incarceration of the other Mr. Pesticide, my father, are tales already told and I don’t want to go over ground which is distressing for me.

Eran and Celia Matthews, my kinfolk, didn’t always reside in Hucklebuck Drive. In fact, such an address didn’t even exist until the sixties, when the local council took advantage of a vacant escarpment with an attractive outlook towards the river. With not enough room for houses on both sides of the street, this new cul-de-sac in posh Toorak would become even more desirable. The new mayor had managed to get himself elected by a disillusioned community, impressed by his considerable achievements as a successful music promoter. He named the prospective avenue after a new dance craze that had swept the globe like a harmonious hurricane — the Hucklebuck. The chief exponent and facilitator of this frenzied bop until you drop number was a portly American from Philadelphia, who went by the name of Chubby Checker. I doubt this was his real name. Arnold Snitz had the rock musician under contract, and when the big man subsequently visited our city, he turned the first sod on the promoter’s new property. Then the bulldozers moved in.

Well Mr. Mayor, here is your prime corner block, all cleared and ready to go. Get up this ladder and see what the views are going to be like from the second floor. If you give us the green light, we’ll start work immediately and then move on to the other blocks in the street.

Trevor Frith was the managing partner of an enterprising construction company called Frith and Froth, and he always conducted himself in a very businesslike way. Otherwise, why wouldn’t he refer to the mayor by his Christian name? After all, he was his brother-in-law. Perhaps it was because of the adverse publicity associated with the tender process. Frith and Froth were considerably more expensive and they still won the contract.

So, a quick wink from the mayor and the project was under way. There were half a dozen further blocks to be cleared and the allotments had all been pre-sold. No wonder both men were grinning like the cat that got the cream.

We’ve sold all the lots, and the buyers can build what they want. The mayor was obviously very pleased with himself. Within the regs, of course. Send me the bill at the Town Hall.

Thanks, Arnold.

A pleasure, Trevor.

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Melbourne has been the world’s most livable city for four years in a row. Geographically, the place is very much down-under but the city fathers are all over this award because it encourages tourism and gives the local community pride in their prefecture.

The Paddywhackers in Melbourne are generally working class people and you don’t see many of them living in Toorak. My uncle Eran started out by selling St. Christopher medals at the St. Patrick’s Day March. He was also big in scapulars and cigarette cards with the Virgin Mary on them. This was a different time and you had to accept that religion was the opium of the masses in this devout community of societies and sodalities. For Eran, it was a natural transition into the world of advertising, where you could get rich on the back of anybody who was gullible or easily led. The power couple from Tipperary eventually stepped-up a number of postcodes and finally had enough capital to put a deposit on a block in Hucklebuck Drive. Of course, I tagged along when they moved-in and they transferred my indentures to my new seat of learning, Xavier College.

Like many Catholic institutions, Xavier College was built on the top of a hill, probably the highest elevation in suburbia. If you can look down on people and still maintain an image of humility and compassion, you are half way there in the hearts and minds of your flock. This was a time of severe sectarian jealousy and the Freemasons and the Protestants looked up at the Micks and plotted to tear them down. Not that we were any better. My substitute father confided to me that our immediate neighbor was a loyal and true member of the Masonic Lodge and I was not to have anything to do with him. This was not a big deal for me as I found companionship down the road at number seven.

Eran and Celia went the other way. They had formed some kind of social relationship with the lord mayor and his lovely wife, Hazel. There were frequent barbecues at the palatial mansion on the corner of the street and the only drawback, as far as Celia was concerned, was the choice of background music. They were continually subjected to the nasal whine that emanated from the mayor’s collection of Gene Pitney records.

No. 7 Hucklebuck Drive was the home of Tom and Geraldine Duckworth, who lived there with their two kids, Donald and Daisy. Donny was my age and we had a lot in common. Fishing by the banks of the Yarra River was our most cherished pastime and we spent many an hour chewing the fat over important schoolboy issues. It was a number of years before somebody told us there were no fish in the Yarra. Daisy was younger than both of us and was further diminished by the fact that she was a girl. Nevertheless, I liked her; to be quite frank, probably more than her brother did. He was always irritated by her presence.

The last house at the end of the drive was occupied by the Vitler family, who were German. The children, Anita and Benita, were twins with attitude and a fine example of Aryan anthropology. They both had a neatly clipped page-boy haircut, blue magnetic eyes and a master’s degree in feminine logic. At that time, they were fourteen years of age.

That was it. Most of the kids in the street belonged to Catholic families. I suppose the other ladies were taking oral contraceptives, which were introduced in 1960 to the relief of many. The Pope wasn’t one of the enthusiasts and he was also hell-bent on maintaining the penance that demanded a meat-free regime for Roman Catholics on Fridays.

The five kids from Hucklebuck Drive used to meet at the fish and chip shop every Friday night. Sometimes we would be accompanied by parents but usually we were the designated couriers for the much-anticipated feast. The flake (shark) was always covered in batter and the sound of sizzle when it descended into the fryer was the alert that sent us scurrying into the nearby corner store. A one pound note went a long way in those days with change left over for a chocolate milkshake or a passionfruit sundae. Somehow we all squeezed into a booth and must have seemed very conspiratorial. Each of us had read Enid Blyton’s Famous Five novels and fancied ourselves as amateur detectives. This particular literature was certainly the impetus I needed in order to pursue such a career, later in life.

Mr. Tsatsaronis was always generous with his serving of chips and, although they could sometimes be a little soggy, when those hot cut spuds came tumbling onto the grease paper, it was a sight to behold. Before all the steam could escape, Mr T or his young son, Leo, would envelope the whole package in three pages of tabloid newsprint and plonk the bundle on the counter.

Three flake, chips, four potato cakes and six scallops.

That’ll be me, Leo. How much do I owe you?

Sixteen shillings and sixpence. I threw in two extra ’tata cakes on the house, Paddy. We Fitzroy supporters have to stick together.

Because we all liked to walk home as one, I had to wait until the others were served and I always hid the package under my vest to keep it hot. I often fantasized that this warm sensation was Benita’s breasts firmly implanted against my heart but, in reality, I was making a mountain out of a molehill and there were other priorities. One had to come to grips with the German sense of humor or lack thereof, which was a worrying sign for a fellow who was intent on becoming a chick magnet. If there’s no reaction to your repartee, you have nothing.

As it turned out, I did end up with nothing. Anita and Benita mutated into stunning pieces of crumpet, and both were shipped-off to finishing school in the mountains, where Benita met one of the local mountain men and found herself in the family way. The information that came out of the Vitler household was heavily censored, so I wasn’t privy to all the facts. Nevertheless, I thought it was rather ironic that, some years later, I spied her on television doing a commercial for a nursing bra. This wasn’t the end of our communal life in Hucklebuck Drive because, every November, the street residents got together for Guy Fawkes Night. A giant bonfire would be built on a small piece of land that belonged to the Vitlers and everybody was invited. It was always a grand night and everybody used the occasion to dispose of their trash.

During the political years, especially the time of the Cold War, opinions and doctrines were promoted with zealous enthusiasm. There were no communists in Toorak and we often found an effigy to throw on the fire; I can recall a very nice representation of Nikita Khrushchev. We stuck a pike up his ass and skewered three German sausages on the other end. Mrs. Vitler would always spring for some bread rolls and mustard and we ended up with a hot dog that had probably been sanctioned by the Third Reich.

I was gone by the time that Eran and Celia decided to move on. They weren’t overly impressed when I joined the Victoria Police, and then I spent some time in England. I was away when I heard the news that Daisy Duckworth had disappeared and it never occurred to me to look up Donny on my return. The years went by and my second tenure with the boys in blue was less than successful. Corruption was rife and promotion always seemed a bridge too far, so I pulled the plug and applied for a private license.

Because of the nature of my profession, it is generally expected my digs should be less than salubrious and that is why I now reside in St. Kilda, with pimps, prostitutes, peddlers and people who are renowned for their low moral fiber. The business is often brisk but payment for my services is less so. Thus I have acquired that tired sobriquet of the discount detective. To supplement my income I often tell stories and I am already a published author.

Unfortunately, the story I am about to tell you will not sit well with the city burghers, who may not be prepared to admit to the death and depravity to be found in the underbelly of the world’s most livable city. To avoid total condemnation, I have shared the narrative with some of the participants in this grisly tale. I do hope you enjoy grisly tales.

Patrick Pesticide (aka Paddy Pest)

BOOK 1

chapter 1

The Garrulous Gumshoe - Patrick Pesticide

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"W hat do you think of these disappearances in Toorak, Paddy? All pizza delivery boys. The newspapers are talking about a serial killer."

I was firmly ensconced on my favorite bar stool at Sam’s Fly-by-Night Club, and the sweet voice belonged to the light of my life, Stormy Weathers. Nobody has the right to be as beautiful as my little chickadee but she carries it off with aplomb. The plunging neckline is a prerequisite for the manager of a gentlemen’s club, and few people would know she is employed by Australia’s foremost intelligence agency (ASIO), as are the other girls on the payroll. When we are together, I always insist she button up. After all, I am a respected member of the local community.

It’s a mystery to me, Stormy, and it will remain so until someone comes forward with a retainer. You know I don’t like to indulge in conjecture on a complimentary basis.

Be that as it may, your pal Justin O’Keefe is heading the investigation and we both know he usually needs a lot of help.

It was a bit of a stretch to call Justin a pal because we had a love/hate relationship that had existed for many years. Although he was now a prominent dinosaur in the Homicide Squad, the truth of the matter is that he was the only snitch at headquarters I had left. The relationship had become quite fragile since he learned I was sleeping with his ex-wife, but I did appreciate the fact that he didn’t think it necessary to acquaint Stormy with this information.

I hear what you say and I’ll consider it. However, I don’t know what makes you think the demonic dick from Homicide would be remotely interested in any help from yours truly. Anyway, he knows I hate pizza.

With that, I gave my girl a peck on the cheek and retired for the night. Sleep is an important element in the life of a private eye and, for this reason, Miss Weathers and I do not co-habit. I also utilize my lodgings as an office, which upsets the orderly nature of her structured life. I have many endearing qualities but tidiness is not one of them.

In truth, I had been thinking about the missing pizza boys and I wondered what it was all about. As I slipped silently under my delicate down duvet and prepared myself for some well-deserved horizontal restoration, I could only wonder how Detective Justin O’Keefe was directing the investigation. I suspected he would have Colonel Sanders as the prime suspect; or McDonalds. Justin loves a conspiracy and the Italians were making inroads into the many lucrative take out franchises that were popping up around Melbourne. I nodded off to sleep thinking of food and headless chickens. My dream also involved a hamburger eating me.

I awoke the next morning with an upset stomach. It was a soft Melbourne day with precipitation about; a strong northerly was also blowing and the weather bureau was predicting a sunny end to the afternoon. The only thing missing was snow. The ringing of the door-bell caught me by surprise but I slipped into my silk robe (the one with the Chinese dragon on the back) and slicked-back my hair. If my visitor turned out to be a Seventh Day Adventist, there would be blood on the ground.

Her name was Mrs. Smith and she looked like the booby prize in a vanity raffle. I guessed the lady was all of forty and then some. Her bedraggled appearance was in some way due to the rain but she had sad eyes and there appeared to be red marks on both of her cheeks. Her hair was damp and discolored and her good bits were discreetly covered by a tight-fitting overcoat. The woman was clutching a mustard-colored umbrella that was dripping like an Irish faucet, so I invited her in. I was dead keen to learn whether her husband might be John Smith. This was a name that people in law enforcement heard quite often.

You are Mr. Pest aren’t you, the famous detective? I was told you were the best person to find my Henry. He’s gone missing.

The initial disappointment in learning that her partner was not a John passed quickly, but I was inquisitive as to who would have recommended me. I suppose I should tell you that the transformation of my moniker from Pesticide to Pest was achieved over a few nights in the early days at Sam’s. The girls claimed I was always harassing them and they decided I was Paddy the Pest. I have since re-branded the sign on my office door. Four letters are always cheaper than nine and, after all, I am a discount detective.

I am more than happy to try and help you find your husband, especially if he was the one who gave you those ugly bruises on your cheeks.

What bruises? That’s my rouge. We can’t all afford French cosmetics and my husband, John, is not missing. Henry is my son.

Although I was certainly chastened by this rebuke, I had a warm feeling about Mrs. Smith, and this was exacerbated when she removed her overcoat to reveal a well-rounded, taut figure that belied her years. She was some kind of gal for an old boiler.

OK then, tell me all about it. How long has he been missing? How old is he? Could he be involved with a femme fatale?

He is fourteen years of age, likes video games, skateboarding, and his mom’s cooking.

In that case he probably hasn’t run away, Mrs. Smith. Can I call you Daphne?

Please do, Paddy. I am very hopeful you will be able to get to the bottom of this. Detective O’Keefe said you were a good man and if the truth is out there, he thought you would be able to find it.

My initial thought was that O’Keefe had been watching too many episodes of The X-Files but there had been one thing nagging on my mind since I had met the very agitated Mrs. Smith, and I had to know the worst.

Just one thing, Daphne. I presume Henry is at school but does he do any part-time work?

Why yes, he’s a pizza delivery boy.

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Tell me Stormy. What was the name of the new-age therapist you sent me to last year? Ella, Vera or something like that. I seem to recall she was Scandinavian.

Annabella Luciano from Stromboli, Italy. Beautiful complexion, olive skin, long black hair, dark brooding eyes, big knockers — and you can’t remember her? I seem to recall she put you on a vegetarian diet that lasted less than twenty-four hours.

Well, you know how it is. Members of the intelligence community have to keep their strength up and meat is full of iron.

Well, Mr. Iron Man, let me say you are full of it. You would also be the only Irishman I know who made it into the intelligence community. I heard you took the lady to lunch. That sounds memorable to me.

Now listen, sweetheart. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. She said she did her best work out of the office and, quite frankly, I don’t think she is as attractive as you are making out. She had child-bearing hips, garlic breath and the makings of a small mustache above her upper lip. If she is Italian, that explains it. She looked like Mussolini’s mother.

You seem to forget I know Anna Luciano. I am also aware that before she came to Australia, Mussolini’s mother was Miss Stromboli and a finalist in the Miss Universe contest. Anyway, why do you want to know about her?

The above conversation took place at a popular café in Toorak Village and this is one of the reasons I try and avoid breakfast catch ups with the ASIO fireball. She is so alert in the morning, and I have been caught out on many occasions. Bringing up the name of Annabella Luciano was a gamble that backfired, but I had never bothered to learn her surname and now I needed to know. Ms. Luciano’s place of work kept appearing on Henry Smith’s delivery schedule, and you would have to think a regular pizza pie was not recommended fare for a dietician and a former Miss Universe contestant.

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Stormy Weathers

chapter 2

The Police Case - Detective Justin O’Keefe

E very police force employs a few dinosaurs in their ranks and they often end up in the Homicide Squad. I don’t need to be agile or nimble because experience and guile are ample substitutes for the energy of youth. Apart from respect, I do enjoy the trappings of seniority, which includes an office on the sunny side of the building and an extra biscuit with my morning tea, courtesy of a protective female probationer. Of course, I would have preferred a promotion but that went to John Guy, didn’t it? A bloody Pom!

I want you to know I’ve got nothing against the Brits. After all, in Australia, we are all tarred with that brush. The first consignment of sheep-stealers and other felonious criminals came to this country as convicts. The lucky buggers got in for nothing. After the Second World War, we charged them ten pounds to immigrate and were glad to have them. But, fair suck of the sav, we actually paid for this Guy to come here and now he’s Deputy Commissioner.

You may well wonder what all this has to do with the case of the missing pizza boys, of which I am the lead detective. It has been a baffling mystery and I am no closer to finding any answers. At the moment, we have three lads missing — Bruno Di Grazia, Jimmy Unwala and Henry Smith. One usually likes to marry the demographics or find a common thread but nothing was happening and I had been called before our supercilious DC. I noticed he had upgraded his office furniture since I was last there. The soft leather settee looked very comfortable.

Don’t bother sitting, O’Keefe. You won’t be here long. I want to know what’s going on with this pizza boy investigation. You’ve got a white board full of pedophiles and an expense account that is out of control. The whole of divisional headquarters doesn’t have to eat the stuff to get a feel for the crime.

The leads are drying-up, boss. We might need to bring in some outside help.

Not that weasel, Pest. Tell me this is not a serious consideration. The fellow is a nut case.

"Well,