The Gilded Madonna by Garrick Jones (ebook reader for comics TXT) 📕

grassy clearing. “Sit here beside me on the lawn,” he said.

He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and then slipped his sunglasses onto the top of his head while he lit two, offering one to me.

“Vince?”

He laughed and then lay back on one elbow. “I know he told you he had a new lover to augment his rather dreary sex life with Philip Mason.”

“You do?”

“Uh huh, and I also know he laughed when you said something about his new bloke ‘filling a hole’.”

“No it was him said that, not me!”

“Well, his ‘new bloke’ is your mate and my employee, Augusto Cerrone.”

“Well blow me down …”

“I’d be grateful if you keep that to yourself. Let them tell you. They’ve both been as nervous as anything about telling you. I think Augusto might have said something while you were here, had not we heard of this New Year’s auction in Melbourne and I’d had to send him down south.”

“Howard,” I said, rolling onto my tummy and staring off into the trees on the other side of the clearing—I could have sworn I’d glimpsed the rounded shape of a koala and her cub in one of the branches.

“Yes, Clyde?”

“Huey, Dewey, and Louie?”

He rolled onto his back and roared his head off. “Don’t let them hear you call them that, whatever you do, and no … work only. No hanky-panky.”

“A lot of men would pay a lot of money for an experience like that.”

“Why, are you two interested?”

“No, nothing like that. Harry’s my first truly monogamous relationship, and I love him far too much to play around. It’s not that we don’t talk about other attractive men, but speaking for myself, why ruin something I’ve wanted my entire life?”

Howard reached over and gently squeezed my earlobe.

“How’s Mark Dioli?” he asked.

“As shaken up as you probably are, Howard. He was a mess when I left him.”

“And Greyson?”

I sat up and clutched my knees, leaning my head on them.

“I didn’t say this, Howard, but I could arrange an hour for you with him in a private cell in Long Bay.”

Howard stared at me for what seemed an age, without blinking, and then slowly shook his head. “I’d probably kill him,” he said.

“I’d clean up for you. Don’t worry, no one would ever find out.”

“I’m sure you would, Clyde, I’m sure you would.”

“As for Terrence Dioli, I’d like to see him flogged within an inch of his life, sodomised by a platoon of angry men and then shot through the guts and left to die slowly, strung up in a cell full of hungry rats.”

For a brief moment, I wondered if I’d let the anger speak and had crossed a line.

“Far too good for him,” he replied and then with a broad grin, added, “Now, about the platoon of angry men … that’s something I’d find hard to turn down for myself.”

We both laughed. More black humour. We men did it to hide the depths of our emotions, whether angry, sad, distraught, or even in love. Inappropriate sex talk was the panacea that healed all ills as far as blokes were concerned.

“Howard, I might need your help.”

“Sure, Clyde. What is it?”

I told him the story of my confused cases, the abduction of the Bishop children, the Silent Cop killer case, and how they seemed to be linked to me.

“Why do you need to share, and what do you think I can do to help, Clyde?”

“Look, please don’t take this the wrong way, but as you have parties down here that include men from all sorts of backgrounds, I was wondering if you think any of them might be interested in looking at the sketch of the suspect. I know most of your pals are business men, or athletes, but do you know of any who don’t mind trawling for partners in parks at night? Or do you have any acquaintances who might know those sorts of men? We need to get the photo circulated to see if anyone can recognise him, or at least have seen him about. You know my circumstances. I’m an ex-cop. I’ve never been into that sort of thing, and I don’t know many who are. I know it’s a long shot, but I’m pretty desperate, Howard.”

“Let me think about it, Clyde. It’s never been my sort of thing either—that random picking up of strangers. I never did it during the war either, like so many of my friends did. Of course you know we do have one acquaintance in common who likes to frequent places that you and I might not find particularly savoury.”

“Someone we both know, you say?” I was puzzled who that could be.

“He’s often a centrepiece at my parties—the parties I’m unlikely to invite you and Harry to attend.”

“Ah! I think I know who you mean. Does he by any chance work in men’s fragrances in David Jones?”

“Yes. But I didn’t tell you, all right? I make no judgements on what any man does to find pleasure, as long as it’s not coercive in any way. He’s a big grown-up boy who knows what he’s doing. But, there might be a problem.”

“What’s that?”

“The area. You told me all the murders are within the Waverley municipality. Simon Appleby lives on the North Shore.”

“The witness I told you about lives in Milson’s Point and travels to the Eastern Suburbs to be far from home, and therefore have less chance of running into anyone he knows. Look, I think Simon is a long shot to be honest, but I’ll put him on my list in case we run out of other leads, or can’t find locals to help us out.”

“You won’t find him now anyway, Clyde. He’s taken time off work to look after his grandmother out west until mid-February.”

“Any way of phoning him?” I asked.

Howard shook his head. I understood. Such a conversation would have to be face to face. Who knew what happened on country telephone exchanges or who could be listening in.

“It’s a tough one, Clyde,” Howard