The Shit-Poo Epos
Episode 3
Walking into ‘Heave-Ho’s’ Sam briefly drags the middle -and index-finger of his left hand under his nose and takes a deep whiff. He can still smell her. So sweet. What a night he just had. Things are going his way.
He finds Tim sitting in a booth in the back of the dingy aptly named bar. He is flanked by two women. Tim and Sam never agreed on what constitutes an attractive woman, but tonight he has outdone himself. Why anyone needs two whores is beyond him, but why he needs a toothless one and a bald one he can’t fathom.
As soon as Tim sees him he yells ‘Sam!’ and motions him over. ‘Hi Tim,’ Sam grins, ‘I hope I’m not ruining your company…’ ‘You couldn’t Sam. Pick the one you like the most.’ ‘I couldn’t Tim,’ he says and winks, ‘I just ate. You keep ‘m all to yourself.’ The bald one softly mutters, ‘hey fuck you, asshole,’ but Sam turns to her as if he hasn’t heard to comment and throws the lady a $5-bill and says: ‘Would you ladies be so kind as to buy us a couple of double bourbons? Get yourself something too.’ They swipe the bill and go up to the bar. ‘Don’t forget our bourbons,’ he yells after them. he hasn’t had a drink since this morning and his liver is thirsty.
‘Sooooo,’ says Tim in a weird elongated fashion, ‘what brings you here?’ Tim hasn’t changed much since he saw him last. He is still the rodent he was 2 years ago when they shared a cell up north for a week on a count of vagrancy each. They got thrown in the shitty little jail of a nowhere-town, just because neither of them could pay for a bus-ticket out of there and the sheriff wouldn’t just dump them at the town-limits. Hard country out there. They’d spent the week talking. There was not much else to do. Leaning back in his chair Sam gives Tim a once-over. His belly is a bit bigger. Pasty white it hangs over his belt, almost but not completely hidden by the table. Interesting. He is so thin all over, but then that belly. If he’d been a woman Sam’d thought he’d been about four months into a pregnancy. Since he is not, he figures he drinks too much beer. Sam likes a beer every now and then, but his main staple is hard liquor, which doesn’t bloat so much. Next to Tim he feels like he is fit. It is a nice feeling for a change. Next to the rest of humanity he knows he is a degenerate.
‘Earth to Sam,’ Tim says as he waves his hand in front of his face. ‘I’m back,’ Sam says as he looks around our table to see if the girls have brought back that drink yet. It looks like they’ve scrammed and took the $5 for themselves. ‘Where are your girls with my drink Tim? I need my drink.’ ‘Don’t worry Sam, they’ll be back. Now, again, what brings you here?’ ‘You remember you told me you used to be a mechanic?’ ‘I still am brother.’ ‘Can you tell tyres apart, I mean the tread of different tyres?’ ‘Let me have a look.’ Sam fishes his little note-pad from his coat pocket. ‘Any idea what kind of tyres these are?’ Tim looks at the drawing a minute, his brow scrunched in thought. He passes it back to Sam, ‘no idea.’ He smiles conspiratory: ‘But I know someone who does.’ The two ‘ladies of the night’ finally arrive with the doubles. Sam immediately necks his. ‘Let’s go then.’ Tim drinks his in two sloppy gulps. He retches, but manages to re-compose himself. Promising the ladies that he’ll be back, they need not worry, who is their daddy, he walks backwards outside into the bright morning sunlight where Sam has just lit up a Lucky.
The alley is filthy, heaps of garbage high against the walls. On each side tenement buildings rise seven, eight storeys high, to their walls cling fire-escapes, metal stairs rusting uselessly. Sam looks at them to not have to look at the shit he is stepping in. ‘Where are we going Tim? Is this some sorta short-cut or something, because I am ruining my rotten shoes. Something is squishing between my toes.’ ‘Don’t worry buddy,’ Tim slurs, ‘we are almost there.’ They pass a stack of rotting boxes, in them something that could have been tomatoes once, or animal organs. The smell of severe putrefaction hovers immovable in the air like a blanket of green goo. The bourbon starts to burn in Sam’s stomach. His stomach is touchy at best and this alley definitely does not help his general wellness. He is about to clip Tim in the back of the head out of sheer frustration when Tim turns around and points next to an overflowing container. ‘Here we are.’ Sam steps around the container to see what Tim is pointing at. It turns out to be a whom.
A tiny man is sitting on a discarded car-tyre, his feet folded under his legs tailor-style. Like Tim, a small belly protrudes forward on his very slight figure, the belly unimpeded by the halter-top the littl’un is wearing. Army surplus pants low-slung on his ass. A careful plaster of grey hair tops the exposed skull, liver spots dotting his bald patch. The man could be old. Or young. Sam has no idea. ‘Sam, this is the Tyremaster. - Tyremaster, meet Sam,’ Tim makes a slight bow, ‘he comes to you with a question.’ Sam looks at Tim, then back at the Tyremaster who is staring at Sam with deep-set untrusting eyes, his lower lip drawn high over the upper lip, teeth not present anymore. He squints once, slowly, pressing his bushy eyebrows down almost touching the cheekbones. ‘He wants to see the picture Sam.’ Sam fumbles in his pocket, finds the picture, gives it to the Tyremaster, slightly bows and mumbles ‘here you go.’ A grimy claw takes the drawing, stares at it for a moment, glances at Sam, then back at the picture. ‘What type of car-tyre is that?’ Sam asks. The Tyremaster laughs, snorts, hocks up a fierce loogie and spits it at Sam’s feet where it bubbles uselessly. He stares amused at Sam. Then at Tim. He gives the picture back to Sam, then brings his hand to his mouth and blows a raspberry on the back of his hand. Sam lifts an eyebrow and looks at Tim. ‘And,’ Sam asks. ‘Well,’ Tim explains, ‘you are on the wrong track he says. These are motorcycle tyres. Of the postal worker kind.’ ‘Postal worker?’ ‘Yep.’ ‘How did you understand that is what he just said?’ ‘You didn’t?’ Sam rubs his neck vigourously, trying to wake, trying to see if he is dreaming. Devil-bourbon. He stares at the gnomish hobo on the filthy ground. After a while he lifts a hand in greeting, ‘thanks, uhm... Tyremaster.’ A toothless grin is shot his way. On his heels Sam turns and walks away, out of the alley as fast as he can. Tim looks at him a smile on his lips. ‘Is he even human?’ Baffled Sam looks at Tim. ‘The Tyremaster? No idea.’ Sam reaches in his pocket and pulls out the small wad of twenties he had pressed in his hands by William late last night, for expenses. He peels one off and hands it to Tim and mutters: ‘Tyremaster? Really?’ He turns and walks off. ‘Always nice to see you mate,’ Tim yells at his back. Sam waves without looking back. Weirdness.
‘Ok, so this is how we’ll do it.’ Sam is standing in the lounge, William and the Dame are listening to him. ‘William here will be holding the cash in ‘the Pig and Whistle’. I will sit at the bar keeping an eye on him. He will tell them no money without the dog. They will take you there and I will follow you to their hideout and save you and the dog and the money.’ He smiles at William and the Dame. ‘What if they just take the money from me?’ William doesn’t look too happy. ‘They would have trouble hurting you William. A big fella like you?’ ‘I won’t have William endangered Mr Bound.’ ‘He’ll be fine Dame Gnaufert. What could hurt a big man like that?’ ‘What if they shoot him?’ ‘They won’t ma’am, trust me.’ Silence. After a while she stammers an OK and Sam claps his hands, wrings them, ‘all-right, let’s get going then.’ He makes to walk out of the lounge, ‘Oh, one more question Dame, are there a couple of motorcycles we could borrow for the night?’ She ponders the question, ‘my father had some motorcycles in his collection I think, you’ll have to talk to Albert, he takes care of the vehicles.’
The garage can hardly be called a garage. It looks more like a museum. Rows of cars in a showroom-like setup. The smell of gasoline, oil, and wax. It smells pleasant. There are roadsters and limousines. Albert turns out to be the same guy who sent Sam around the back. Recognising his ‘old friend’ Albert grimaces. He curtly shows William and Sam to the corner. There two motorcycles stand lonely. A red one and a black one. The red one is sleek, polished. The black one is rustier, monster-like, it looks like an angry black blowfly. ‘They both drive, although this one is in better condition obviously,’ he points at the red one. ‘You can take that one William. This gentleman can take the other one.’ He grins at Sam, payback for a lost wax-job. Sam grins back. He walks around the machine, strokes its tank. It is an old Waratah. ‘There aren’t many of these around.’ ‘Don’t fuck it,’ Albert bites and shoves a cracked helmet in Sam’s hands. Sam’s grin does not fade as he rolls the machine out of the garage onto the gravel of the driveway.
Sam is slowly sipping a rye on the rocks on a stool at the bar. His face is still cool from the bike-ride. He could get used to that machine. Maybe if he swings this right he could have the bike included in his payment. But he first will have to solve the case. Concentrate. William is sitting just a few metres away from him at a table. He is drinking a raspberry cordial. The bag with money sits between his feet, clamped in place by nervous ankles. The air in the bar is thick with smoke even this early in the night. In the corner a couple of bikies are playing a game of pool. The floor is covered with sawdust, the bar with spilled beer. Sam can see both the entrance and the fire-escape. He is looking at all this but not looking. No-one could link him to William. He softly squeezes his glass. He feels confident. He got laid and soon he will get paid. ‘I,’ he thinks while holding his right hand over his glass, ‘have got the upper hand.’ He smiles and tips his hat back. A rogue of gentleman, that is what he is.
He looks at his watch. A quarter past nine. They are late. He sighs. What happened to punctuality? He manages to not have people notice that he notices William getting up and walking to the bathroom clutching the bag of money. Inconspicuously he too gets up and follows the butler to the toilet.
Toilet is too nice a word. Latrine, that is what it is. A stench is exuded by the caked yellow piss-crust in the urinal. It hovers thickly in the air. In comparison the Tyremaster’s alley had bucket-loads of ambience. He releases a heavy stream of high-yellow piss into the urinal as he yell-whispers over his shoulder, ‘hey William, what gives?’ ‘I am nervous. My bowels are churning something bad.’ Sam shakes, shakes, zips. ‘Okay, but don’t be long.’ He escapes from the latrine and sits back down at the bar.
Nine twenty. Nine twenty-five. Nine thirty. Where is William? When he steps back into the latrine he already knows the answer. William is gone. A tiny window open above the toilet.
The Waratah’s tyres are slashed. With drooping shoulders Sam walks back into the bar. He drinks another rye, and another. Then he gets up and throws a quarter in the pay-phone and calls the Dame.
What Will Happen Next Friday? Stay tuned...
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