How do you prosecute the Lord God for murder?
How do you explain to those who slept through the Apocalypse, what the survivors went through?
That Friday had started out like any other day. Having dressed in my best suit, I was seated on the sofa, hands clasped, asking the Lord for assistance, when I heard the front door open. Even before he spoke I knew it was my partner, by the strong acidic smell of cigar smoke.
“Amen!” I concluded, finally opening my eyes, to look at the tall, slightly greying figure of detective inspector Clary Lawrence.
Clearly trying hard not to snicker, Clary said, “Did your Lord give you any helpful hinds on how to survive going into the Lion’s den?”
“He’s your Lord too,” I reminded Clary a lapsed Catholic.
“All right, did Our Lord give us any hints on how to survive going face-to-face with Laughlin and Harkness?” said Clary stressing, “Our”.
“Yes,” I said, getting up and starting toward the door, “don’t lose your faith.”
Clary gawked bug-eyed for a moment, then began braying in laughter as we headed toward the pale blue Fairlane outside.
* * *
“Well, here we are,” said Clary as we stopped a few doors from the tallest building in Melbourne – Hancock Towers. Where the who’s who of Australia’s underworld were gathering for a mobster’s get-together. “The Tower of Babel.”
Seeing the collection of pushers, hit men, TV executives, racing identities, high-class prostitutes and so on, I corrected, “The Tower of Babel was intended to reach up to Heaven. Hancock Towers seems to be heading in the other direction.”
* * *
“Constable,” said the King of Australia’s underworld elite in the twenty-first century, Jonas Harkness, a tall, painfully thin man who reeked of nicotine as though he ate cigarettes like sweets.
“Inspector,” corrected Clary, while I did my best to watch the underworld elite despite the fashionably dim lighting and the best efforts of the disco-ball to dazzle me with bursts of every imaginable colour in turn.
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