THE STRANGER ON THE BUS

 

                                          Episode 2

                           An Inscrutable Connection

 

   If there's one thing about living in suburbia you never get used to, it's finding out just how lost you really are.

   You can catch the same bus every morning, walk the same streets every day, and never get to see the one face twice. Nobody knows your name, nobody's got the time to stop, and if one day you suddenly wake up to find yourself dead, well, that's just too bad. Then just when you think your shell has gotten so thick you can safely retreat inside, along comes something that smashes all your illusions to pieces, and there you're left, standing naked in the middle of the jungle once more.

   This morning I'd taken Death's steel-capped boot square between the teeth, and it had left a bad taste in my mouth. Unfortunately, downtown North Sydney wasn't the place to go looking for mouthwash.

   So I wiped the tar stains off my fingers, hacked as much of the nicotine out of my lungs as I could, picked up my Stanley-Stamford and joined the wordless grey schoolboy procession up Blue Street. Next stop: S.C.E.G.S. Library. I had precisely four days to become dux in the one subject where you can't afford to flunk the exam...

    As usual, the place was a hive of activity, and most of all, noise, which hit you like a brick in the face the moment you walked through the door. This had to be the loudest "quiet library" on the North Shore. I walked across to the service desk, and started trying to attract somebody's attention. Five minutes later I found myself doing the same thing. Monday morning was fast ticking away, so I finally decided to introduce myself.

   "Okay, which one of you jerks gives service around here?"

   "Wedding, funeral or dry-cleaning?" answered some four-eyed wimp with a head like a ballpoint and the tan of an anaemic salamander. Mind you, some of my best friends are librarians, but this insect wasn't one of them.

   "To borrow a book, snowflake," I replied. "What do you think?"

   "Borrow a book, eh?"

   "Yeah."

   "What's your name?"

   "Shaw."

   "Are you sure?" Snicker-snicker.

   It's no wonder I can't stand that place. Every jerk's a comedian.

   "Look Kermit," I snarled, grabbing the little worm by the neck, "Unless you're in the market for some training in running to Mummy on busted legs, I would strongly suggest that you borrow me a book. Get the message, Paddle Pop?"

   Paddle Pop seemed to get the message pretty well.

   "W-what book would that be- sir?"

   I pulled that Liquid Paper face of his up over the polished black wood of the library desk. What I had to say wasn't for general broadcast.

   "A book about- stuff," I breathed.

   "Pardon?"

   "You know what I mean, Goggles," I hissed. "Stuff."  

   "I don't get it," the kid whined. Then somewhere amidst the languid workings of that underpowered four-cylinder mind of his, the penny dropped.

   "Oh!" he yelled with the excitement of a slow-witted dog that's just remembered where it buried its bone. "You mean dru-"

   At that moment his mouth suddenly found itself framed behind the flat of a clenched fist.

   "I know what I mean, pal."

   I dropped him back onto his stool.

   "Now just keep it quiet and tell me where to find the book."

   "I'm not sure," the kid answered. "MISSUS HART! WHERE DO WE KEEP THE BOOKS ABOUT DRU-?"

   ...I don't know- some days life just can't help crawling around behind you and kicking you in the kidneys. And this was really shaping up to be one of those days. So I promptly made skid-marks out of the library, before anyone got the chance to get a look at the reject who wanted the book about dru-.

   It's no wonder I can't stand that place. And I hate wimps. Especially wimps who think they're funny. I'm not a particularly funny guy.

 

                   *        *        *        *        *        *        *        *        *        * 

   Things were getting serious. Already half an hour into the case, and I was still going nowhere. It was time to draw on a couple of connections.

   When I asked the question, my Olympic Stripe Home Lesson Book said yes: Geography- Period 3- Charlie Ling Esquire.

   Now there was an inscrutable customer if ever I'd come across one. If Charlie didn't know about it, it wasn't going on.

   Interesting fellow, that Charlie Ling. Talking little, smiling even less, he already had the better part of the school convinced he didn't understand a word of English. You'd have to count yourself lucky if you so much as caught a glimpse of the guy within two hundred yards of an open space. And even if you did, he was inevitably poring over the pages of some ten-inch thick book through those two-inch thick glasses. As far as the school was concerned, Charlie Ling couldn't have been more detached were he living in Singapore. Or wherever it was he actually came from.

   At least, that's what he liked you to think. In reality, "Ding-a-ling" didn't miss a trick. And I knew, and Charlie knew, that if there existed one person in this whole sorry mess of a city who could bring me the answer to that murderous riddle I'd found lying across the seat of a stinking early morning bus, it was Charlie. I only prayed that this was a riddle with an answer, and a pretty damn timely one at that.

   By the time I finally caught up with him, Ling had even less to say than usual. In fact, he had exactly five words for me to sweat on.

   "Capitano's. Seven. We talk then."

   This, then, constituted my solitary underworld connection: an Asian exchange student in an Australian city, with a passion for Italian food.

   At least one thing was assured.

   Nick Shaw could never be accused of keeping plain company...