How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery by Robin Storey

Author:Robin Storey [Storey, Robin]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
Publisher: Robin Storey
Published: 2013-04-13T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 19

Reuben phoned Joe at six forty-five. ‘I’m sorry to let you down again, but this gastric bug’s come back.’

He steeled himself for Joe’s outburst. It didn’t happen – just a noisy sigh like an elephant farting. ‘Boy, you’re not worth wasting my breath on. Just be here at seven am, sharp, tomorrow.’

Reuben didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that he hadn’t been fired. It would be just like Joe not to fire him because he knew that was what Reuben was secretly hoping for. Not that he was going out of his way to be fired, but if he was, he wouldn’t be beating down the door begging for his job back.

New Wave Productions was also in Spring Hill, a couple of blocks from Pizzazz, on the ground floor of a towering concrete and glass building. The receptionist’s generous smile matched her breasts. For once, both were real.

‘Mr Littlejohn?’ She studied the list. ‘Here you are, right at the bottom.’

She pointed down the hallway. ‘First door on your left.’

Reuben opened the door and reeled back in surprise. It was five to nine, but already the room was crowded. The chairs lined up against the walls were occupied, and the rest of the hopefuls were standing, some alone with their arms folded, others in pairs or groups. In the centre of the room was a long table on which stood two jugs of water, two towers of plastic cups and a huge platter of cream biscuits. Two youths, tanned and clear-eyed, biceps bulging out of their t-shirts, sat on the edge of the table; chatting, laughing and radiating self-confidence.

‘Come and join the party,’ said a man standing by himself near the biscuits. He picked up a Monte Carlo, shoved it in his mouth, and held out his hand.

‘Tom, but everyone calls me Thommo.’ Biscuit crumbs sprayed out from his mouth.

Reuben, dodging the crumbs, shook his hand and introduced himself.

‘Your surname’s not James, by any chance?’ Thommo asked.

Reuben returned his grin as if he hadn’t been asked that question a thousand times before. There’d been many occasions when he’d wished it was James – anything but Littlejohn.

Thommo took another biscuit, a chocolate cream. He was of solid build, with a thatch of dark hair that flopped over his eyes. His facial features were too coarse for conventional good looks but in his jeans, boots and checked shirt, he exuded an air of beefy ruggedness.

‘I haven’t had any breakfast,’ he confided,’ and by the look of it, these will be lunch too.’

Reuben looked around the room. Apparently the quintessential Aussie male was buff and tanned, t-shirt sculpted on to his chest and jeans so tight you could tell his religion. Thommo was one of the few who’d come from a different mould. Reuben had opted for his best black jeans and a polo t-shirt. He wished now that he hadn’t – it made him look like a Young Liberal member about to play golf. He sucked in his stomach.

‘Looks like there’s a lot of competition.

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