Black Teeth by Zane Lovitt Read Free Book Online Page B

police force, not to embarrass you or…anything.’
    ‘Why didn’t they contact me themselves and ask if they could give out my number?’
    ‘I’m not sure, Mister Tyan. But I have a long-standing relationship with the VPA and with Marjorie, and they know that any information passed on to me is kept private and secure.’
    At the squeak of the glass door behind me I raise the collar of my jacket, like that will somehow keep this conversation private and secure.
    ‘So you’re a journalist.’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘Is it something we can do over the phone?’
    ‘I was hoping we could meet. Perhaps I could buy you a drink.’
    The smell of cigarettes becomes a stench. I glance back. Seven or eight people are crowded into this small grey space, breathing and wheezing in silence. I’m the strange-o facing the wall and talking to it. At first my head spins with humiliation and I’m about to make for the street, but Tyan’s voice comes back suddenly brightened, as if some new personality has snatched the phone from Old Man Crotchety and it wants to make amends.
    ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Let’s meet tonight.’
    The rasp is gone. The voice is lighter, more friendly. I grind my brow into the glass to hear properly.
    ‘Tonight is perfect.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘Wherever you want. Somewhere easy for you.’
    ‘Do you know the Good Times in Mitcham?’
    ‘I’ll find it.’
    ‘It’s on Cemetery Road. Opposite the Caltex.’
    ‘I’ll find it. No problem.’
    ‘Yeah. Seven o’clock at Good Times.’
    ‘Great. Let me give you my number, just in case.’
    I say it slowly and Tyan at least pretends to write it down, co-operative, even eager. I attribute this to the thrill of being courted by the media.
    ‘What’s your name again?’
    ‘Alan Harper.’
    ‘Okay. Bye, Alan.’
    ‘See you.’
    Tyan hangs up. I listen to the silence. It must seem like I’m still on the phone. But I’m sniffing at the smoke, warmed by it. The smell of the future.

9
    The Good Times on Cemetery Road is so what I expected that I’m literally giggling as I make entrance. A bright green banner in what else but Comic Sans promotes bingo nights and chicken parmigianas, neither of which can be enjoyed anywhere but in this cupboard-cum-bistro overlooking the vista of the staff toilets. The rest is a windowless hellscape of pokies and ebola, norp-tier as fuck, whirls and bleeps sounding out whenever the betacuck autotune pop goes briefly, mercifully silent. A handful of worn gamblers dole out their life-savings one coin at a time, dead-eyed but for a fading belief in this turn, in this push of the button, while the dining area is desolate: not so much as a staff member slitting their wrists on the lino behind the bar. Then a swarm of pimples finds it within himself to materialise in front of me and he relays that tonight’s special is pizza. I order a beer and carry it to a chair and wipe off some yellow paste which itself might be pizza and I sit at a table littered with plastic advertisements for beers, jackpots and tomorrow night’s special, which is pizza.
    Glen Tyan would have known reporters when he was a police officer, ones that worked a beat, sniffed out stories in back alleys and hotel rooms and the toilets of strip clubs—he’ll never believe that I’m one of those. But I can play a touchy-feely dorkoid with a degree in creative non-fiction who talks about the fourth estate and enjoys wine and cheese in the park. I’ve chosen a pale ale for this reason and it’s why my checked shirt is tucked into my jeans and the cuffs are buttoned twice each. It’s easier to be someone else when you put on their clothes.
    I camp the front door, ignorant of the second door to the carpark at the rear. That’s where Tyan comes from, half an hour late and I’m too busy trying to figure out if I’m happy or sad that I’ve been stood up, don’t see him until he’s right on me, crotch in my face, and even then he has to speak before I jerk