Dead Men Don't Order Flake Read Online Free PDF Page B

After breakfast, I steeled myself and phoned Gary. He took the theft of Natalie’s bag pretty well, told me that it confirmed his suspicion that her death was no accident. It was nine-thirty in the morning and Gary’s voice was already slurred.
    I slipped on a jacket and blu-tacked my Back in 10 sign on the shop door. Walked briskly along Best Street, hugging my coat across my chest to keep warm.
    A flock of galahs, noisy pink, shrieked from the native pines lining the road. Fifty steps later, I was at Vern’s general store, rusty corrugated iron flapping above walls flaking yellow paint. Vern stocks the full range, from neapolitan ice-cream to tractor parts. His grey-muzzled kelpie cross, Boofa, trotted out and sniffed the phone booth. That phone booth is Vern’s strategic advantage.Along with the petrol bowser, mobile library stop and post office licence. Vern doesn’t need to play Monopoly, he’s got Rusty Bore.
    Vern was out in his driveway, squatting down, examining something on his recumbent bike. He was wearing a red cycling jacket and black lycra shorts that were too small on him. A knife-sharp wind was blowing, but it takes more than a bit of nippy air to worry Vern.
    He got himself that bike a couple of months ago. Easier to manage, given his missing arm, but those recumbent bikes, I reckon they’re just a target for some people. That cheerful little flag waving at the back—it’d be useless against a manic truckie. Some might even view it as an invitation.
    He heard my footsteps and looked over. ‘Cass. Gotta get yourself a bike. Ripper flat roads around the district.’ He stood up, put his arm on his hip, and started doing some groin stretches. ‘I reckon we’d make a terrific little cycling team. And a fine figure of a woman like youse got nothing to fear from a pair of lycra shorts.’
    It’s not the shorts I fear so much as what’s inside them.
    He peered at me, suddenly. ‘What you done to your eye? You all right?’
    ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ I stood there a moment, feeling awkward.
    ‘Haven’t seen you in a while, in actual fact,’ he said. ‘You been difficult to pin down lately.’
    Things are currently a bit complex with Vern. After the fire that destroyed my shop and house, he put me up at his place for months; on his couch. He cleaned up his old caravan so I could still serve takeaway while my rebuild went on, at glacial speed. He took a cut of mytakings, naturally: Vern’s not an idiot. We ate together. We watched TV together. And Vern was keen to do a lot of other things together.
    Unfortunately, one evening after some pinot grigio (I’m not good with wine: might as well face up to it) I made the mistake of feeling a bit too grateful for everything Vern had done. We got slightly physical. Not completely all-out physical, but still.
    Anyway. Strictly a one-off, but Vern was keen to upgrade. The next evening he suited up and asked me, with a gigantic bunch of flowers and a bloody ring , if I’d consider making it a permanent arrangement.
    Well…no. (I might have shrieked that.) And it’s possible I imagined it (I truly hope I did) but I thought I saw tears in his eyes.
    So I tend to feel pretty bad any time I see Vern. I never wanted to hurt him and, look, maybe he isn’t actually hurt, it can be hard to tell. Still, I find life’s a lot more comfortable if I avoid him. Trouble is, avoidance isn’t easy to achieve in a two-shop town.
    I took a deep breath. ‘Vern. Could do with your help. Got your notebook handy?’
    Vern’s a deeply observant bloke. He keeps a notebook on all the happenings in Rusty Bore, although it’s a fairly slim kind of journal.
    ‘Private property, that.’ He narrowed his eyes.
    ‘Calm down. I’m not the tax office. I’m just looking for a rego. The brown Fairlane that came into town yesterday.’
    ‘I get the feeling I’m being used for me information.’ He made a minor adjustment to his groin.
    ‘Vern, your notebook could likely play a