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Only A Cop Would Walk Down A Dark Street Whistling

Page 2

Chris Grierson

Take a good look at him, Franc waved Three-Pot's way. He looked to me like your average bar-bound old-timer. 'Cause he always orders three first off, Franc continued, tapping his head for effect. Because of the bridge. THE bridge. The one that collapsed all those years ago. Even Franc had seen the news report. A whole section had fallen away with the workers on top. It was as though the very ground had fallen out from underneath them and dropped a hundred metres before they realised, looking up from their work too late. Anyway, two of Three-Pot's drinking buddies were on that section of the bridge. And he always buys them the first round. Look closely, Franc waved back Three-Pot's way, and sure enough there was a pot either side. And if you touch them, jesus, Franc warned, Three-Pot's moody, he'll go right off, right off, and he doesn't look much but he can swing.

I didn't want to upset Franc by telling him that wasn't such a great story, that it needed a little more work. I guess he thought he could pay that fifteen-dollar-an-hour secretary seventeen to flesh it out a little. And Franc's enthusiasm was just rearing and I wasn't going anywhere.

And Sweet Jane, what about her? I thought that one was obvious and began making the actions of rolling a joint mid-air, which just made Franc laugh loud enough for the rest of the bar to look up from their drinks. If only, Franc continued to laugh, if only. Irony. Do you know what that means? Irony. I nodded while Frank gestured me forward. Whispering that she is the sourest bitch the world had ever known. I looked Sweet Jane's way and couldn't see it. She was young and pretty and liked a drink. Obviously Franc had tried something on her and come off second best, and who could blame her for that, which forced me to my watch. An hour and a half down. When will I learn?

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