Foley & Rose Mysteries Collection - Books 1-4

Chapter 4-1

Patrick O’Reily was a freelance journalist who perhaps should have been on the payroll of the newspaper Rose had just been reading; given it was the publication where most of his stories wound up. Affectionately known as Paddy to those in the circles where he moved, O’Reily was a unique individual. Many said he could smell a story long before it became one, and Sam knew him well enough to know it was a pretty good assessment of the Irishman’s ability. Where Paddy saw an inkling of a story, he pursued it with bulldog tenacity, and a determination and aggression leaving lesser scribes bewildered and empty-handed in his wake.

Sam liked Paddy, liked him a lot. A long time ago, in the days Paddy liked to reflect upon as “the good old days”, he was known as a Police Roundsman. Nowadays they labelled him an Investigative Journalist, a politically correct, new age title, Paddy supposed, though he found very little in politics these days that would amount to correctness under any definition. Where Paddy was concerned, politicians of all denominations were a bunch of stuffed shirts and skirts, thinking up useless s**t in an attempt to justify their obscene salary packages. Then, to exacerbate the problem, they lied about the same useless s**t in an attempt to have the public adore them.

“the good old days”He had yet to embrace computer technology, considering computers an invention of the devil, promoted by politicians. He preferred pounding out his stories on an old Adler manual typewriter.

Sam remembered how O’Reily’s diminutive presence was a daily occurrence around the corridors of Police Headquarters, rarely raising more than a cursory glance from anyone in the building. It was still that way, Sam believed. Paddy O’Reily had become part of the furnishings, and was sure to be catalogued on a station inventory somewhere.

Sam returned to his chair and indicated for Paddy to sit opposite him. Paddy removed his battered hat, dropped it haphazardly on the desk, and ran his hand over his balding pate. As he made himself comfortable, Sam took the opportunity to observe him closely.

O’Reily had one of those faces that made estimating his age difficult. His looks were deceiving, but Sam guessed he was on the northern side of sixty, and accepted that he could easily be wrong by as much as ten years. Paddy reminded him of a smiling garden gnome, or perhaps a real, live, Irish leprechaun. He stood no taller than five seven or eight, and had he chosen any profession other than journalism, he might well have become a pretty fair jockey. Years of working outdoors chasing stories in fair weather and foul left his features wizened and leathery. Very little hair adorned his head these days, and that which remained had matured to a strangely flattering salt and pepper shade. He carried with him, perhaps a burden, a reputation of shrewdness and toughness, and looking at him now, Sam doubted the passage of time had dulled any of that reputation. Sam found Paddy’s air of urgency and straightforwardness refreshing. And, the ever-present smile, seeming such an inherent part of his being, might well have been painted on at birth. That, and the ever- present, mysterious twinkle in his eye, were his two most endearing character qualities. Sam tried to recall the last time he saw Paddy, certain it was in a bar somewhere. In any event, he knew it had been too long.

“Well, old friend,” he said finally. “It’s been a long time. How have you been keeping?”

Paddy shifted in his chair, crossed his legs, and chuckled quietly, the roguish, villainous glint in his eyes enhancing his craggy features.

“Sam, me lad,” he smiled, “I’ve been keeping well, true enough. How about your good self then? How goes the gumshoe business?” He had lost very little of the accent from his homeland, despite his years in his adopted country. The broad Irish brogue was as strong as Sam remembered. His voice sounded like marbles in a cement mixer, a legacy of too many years of smoking cigarettes and consuming whiskey at a rate that would surely have killed a lesser man. Paddy held a philosophy of life he was never reluctant to pass on to anyone who cared to listen. “All things in moderation – except substance abuse,” he would declare with unbridled sincerity.

“Business is good,” Rose replied. “And what’s more, I’m answerable to no one these days but myself. I should have made the move years ago. But,” he paused, “let’s get back to you. I get the feeling this is not a social visit. I haven’t seen you for ages, and here you are, out of the blue, sitting in my office asking about my health and the state of my business affairs. Don’t get me wrong, it’s great to see you, but what the hell are you doing here?” He shrugged and indicated the surrounding office. “I’m afraid my line of work these days won’t offer you any block-busting news stories.”

“Ah, Sam lad,” Paddy smiled. “You’re wrong. You’re wrong to be sure. When you’ve been treading the streets as long as I have in search of worthy tidbits to satisfy the curiosity of the masses, not to mention the gluttonous appetites of hard-to-please editors, you quickly learn there are worthwhile stories to be found everywhere. It just takes an experienced eye to spot them.”

“Don’t forget the nose of a bloodhound,” Sam interrupted. “You could smell a story under six feet of concrete. Now, tell me, what brings you to my place of employment, humble that it is?”

“Well,” Paddy answered, “before I enlighten you with the purpose of my visit, you and I ought to have a drop of mother’s milk, don’t you think?” From somewhere inside his jacket, a small hip flask appeared.

“Still travelling with all the necessary survival equipment I see,” Sam joked. He rose from his chair and retrieved two chipped, well-worn mugs from a small table in one corner of the room where there stood an electric jug and the makings for coffee.

“Of course,” Paddy responded, “one can never be too well prepared. ‘Tis a dangerous road I walk, and one can never tell just how far from relief one might be when struck down with a savage thirst.”

Sam laughed and returned to his seat, placing the mugs on the desk in front of Paddy. He watched as the newsman poured a generous measure into each.

“Sorry I can’t offer you my best crystal,” he said. “I keep that for visiting heads of state and royalty.”

“Fook the heads of state,” Paddy said with earnest. “And I’m the closest you’ve ever been, or ever will be, to drinking fine Irish whiskey in the company of royalty, Sam me lad. Here’s looking at your ugly dial.” He raised his mug in salute.

“And yours,” Sam said.

Both men leaned forward, touched their coffee mugs together, and sipped their drinks. It was good; warm and strong tasting, yet smooth and mellow at the same time. The taste was uniquely Irish. There was a difference between Irish whiskey and Scotch whiskey; some would say a subtle difference. Unless, of course, you happened to be of Irish or Scottish descent, in which case there was simply no comparison. Sam liked beer and red wine, and drank more of both than he should; his gradually thickening waistline was testament to that, but he loved whiskey. In particular, he loved good whiskey, and this was very good whiskey. Both men sat in silence enjoying the moment.

“This is nice,” Sam said finally. “And a fitting end to the working day, if I do say so.”

“Aye, it is to be sure, it is to be sure,” Paddy agreed.

Sam cupped his drink in both hands, leaned back in his chair and gazed at his old friend. Paddy was staring into his drink, slowly swirling the liquid around in the mug.

“Okay,” Sam began, “now that we have dispensed with the formalities and all the peripheral bullshit, what the f**k are you doing here?”

arePaddy lifted his eyes to meet Sam’s, then shifted his attention to the newspaper lying discarded on the desk. He put down his drink, picked up the paper and gave it, then Sam, a cursory look.

“What about this business with the judges then?” he asked, a little too casually.

Sam shrugged. “It’s a shitty business. But, murder is like that.”

“Have you got any thoughts on the matter?” Paddy queried, tossing the paper aside and picking up his drink.

“I’ve thought about it,” Sam offered, “who hasn’t? The media’s been full of it for weeks. As for speculation in regards to motive or offender, that’s not my job anymore. That’s for Foley and his band of merry men to lose sleep over.”

Paddy offered the whiskey flask across the desk, and Sam held out his mug.

“You should have stayed with the Force, Sam,” Paddy said.

“Is that a personal opinion, or are you here on behalf of the Commissioner, to offer me my old job back?”

“You should have stayed,” Paddy repeated, ignoring Sam’s attempt at light-heartedness.

Sam shifted in his seat. “Well, I thank you for your vote of confidence, but twenty years running around in circles with my head up my arse chasing scum-bags from one end of the Territory to the other, ‘yes Siring’ to some of the greatest wankers that ever pulled on a police uniform was, in hindsight, probably fifteen too many.”

‘yes Siring’“Ah, come now,” Paddy smiled. “Have you forgotten I have been a fly on many a wall in the hallowed halls of Police Headquarters for every year of your career, and then some. And, while I agree the force, sadly, has more than its share of Twinkie fiddlers, I never once… not once, was aware of you cow-towing to any of those very same Twinkie fiddlers.”

“Perhaps that’s why I’m doing what I’m doing now, and why I like you, Paddy,” Sam smiled at him across the desk. “You’re such a condescending arsehole, an impeccable judge of character I hasten to add, but a condescending arsehole nonetheless.” He raised his mug in a toast, and sipped at the contents. The whiskey was beginning to have an effect. He felt relaxed, and was enjoying the good-natured banter between himself and Paddy.

“We’re alike, you and me, lad,” Paddy said as his nose disappeared into his mug. “That’s something you have more than likely never thought about, but it’s true to be sure.”

“Why don’t we get back to the purpose of your visit?” Sam suggested dismissively, “before we both get too pissed to appreciate the mutual appreciation.”

“It’s these bloody murders, sure it is” Paddy said with earnest.

“The judge murders?” Sam asked, indicating the discarded newspaper. “You’re here because of the judge murders?”

“And Carl Richter,” Paddy added.

“You came to me for information?” Sam asked incredulously. “I’m not in the job anymore. You need to talk to Russell Foley; he’s heading up the investigation.”

Paddy talked across the lip of his mug. “I’m not here for information, Sam lad.”

“I don’t understand. Is there something you know about them? Something you’ve learned?”

Paddy leaned forward in his chair. “In a manner of speaking,” he confirmed. “I’m a mere messenger.”