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hit the Tote after work and became reacquainted with his bed companion.
    ‘It’s cause for a celebration, mate.’ Bob smiled as he polished off the contents of the glass. He poured himself a refill then waved the bottle over Peter’s glass. Peter covered the glass with his hand.
    ‘But the Owner?’ he mumbled. ‘Aren’t we in the shit at the moment?’ ‘Not really. Business has been a little slow lately,’ Bob explained. ‘The paper just needs revamping.’
    ‘So we’re not shutting down?’
    ‘Where did you get that idea from?’ Bob laughed. ‘ The Truth will never close its doors while I’m the editor.’
    ‘That’s good.’ Peter relaxed into his chair and took another drink. ‘I couldn’t envisage working for another paper. Also, nowhere else would have me.’
    ‘You’re a big part of the revamp.’
    ‘Come again?’ Peter leaned forward.
    ‘Columnist Peter Clancy, Crime Investigator: A Finger on the Pulse of the Crime Capital of Australia. How’s that sound? It could be called The Pulse .’
    ‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’ Peter sputtered just as he was pouring the remnants of the Jameson’s from the glass down his throat. It splashed onto his shirt. He made no attempt to clean it up.
    ‘The public wants more substance in their papers. They’re getting sick of looking at page three girls and reading about local celebrities who can’t control their sexual desires.’
    ‘I thought we were doing all right with tits and genitals. It’s been our winning formula for years.’ He grabbed the bottle off the desk and poured himself another drink.
    ‘Our circulation has been dropping over the years, as you know,’ Bob rejoined. ‘These days, people want to know why’s there so much crime in Melbourne: the Hoddle Street massacre, the Russell Street bombing, Walsh Street. They’re scared. People think that the great cityof Melbourne has been taken over by crims and psychopaths. They want a voice with reason. Someone with his feet on the ground, not some toff from The Age who knows the police minister and nothing else. They need someone who can make sense of it all. Someone who will keep them informed and get them through this. I’m giving them Peter Clancy. The Pulse.’ He raised his hands and clapped.
    ‘I’m not a body counter,’ Peter retorted. ‘I did Madgies Court when I was a cub reporter in Brisbane. I hated it. Listening to the scum of the earth and pontificating magistrates who thought they were High Court judges just wasn’t my cup of tea. I don’t want to hang around courts and police stations.’ He hesitated. ‘By the look on your face I don’t have a choice, do I?’
    ‘Of course you don’t.’
    ‘Apart from that, how will I get the info? Will someone send it to me? I know for sure who’s fucking who but not who’s killing who. I’m not sure about crime.’
    ‘You were my first choice.’ Bob took a last puff on his cigarette before stubbing it out and then lighting another. ‘Especially after what happened to you up at Clarkes Flat.’
    ‘What’s in it for me?’ Peter asked. He was losing momentum. ‘I might do it on certain conditions.’
    ‘How’s five thousand words weekly and a five per cent pay increase sound?’
    ‘Two thousand words and a ten per cent increase sounds better. I could buy a new car.’ Peter smiled.
    ‘Done. Everyone’s a winner.’ Bob shuffled papers. ‘You have those great sources of yours that you can utilise. The puppies, as you call them.’
    ‘A few of them are in the cemetery, but I still have a handful of good ones.’ He could feel himself lying. In reality, he only had a handful of unreliable sources and after tomorrow’s edition he would definitely be able to take Concheetah off that list. Peter finished off the whiskey and resisted the urge to pour himself another. Maybe a splash more .
    ‘You know informers in the police force?’ Bob asked.
    ‘Yeah. Sure. An inspector at St Kilda,’ Peter lied. The reality