The Business Of Death, Death Works Trilogy Read Free Page A

blue. Not unless he’s after something.
    “Are you all right?” he demands. “No bullet wounds jettisoning blood or anything?”
    “Yeah. And, no, I’m fine.”
    Tim’s a policy advisor for a minor but ambitious state minister. He’s plugged in and knows everything. “Good, called you almost as soon as I found out. You working tomorrow?” he asks.
    “No, why?”
    “You’re going to need a drink. I’ll pick you up at your place in an hour.” Tim isn’t that great at the preamble. Part of his job: he’s used to getting what he wants. And he has the organizational skills to back it up. Tim would have made a great Pomp, maybe even better than Morrigan, except he decided very early on that the family trade wasn’t for him. Black Sheep nearly always do. Most don’t even bother getting into pomping at all. They deny the family trade and become regular punters. Tim’s decision had caused quite a scandal.
    But, he hadn’t escaped pomping completely; part of his remit is Pomp/government relations, something he likes to complain about at every opportunity: along the lines of every time I get out, they pull me back in. Still, he’s brilliant at the job. Mortmax and the Queensland government haven’t had as close and smooth a relationship in decades. Between him and Morrigan’s innovations, Mortmax Australia is in the middle of a golden age.
    “I don’t know,” I say.
    Tim sighs. “Oh, no you don’t. There’s no getting out of this, mate. Sally’s looking after the kids, and I’m not going to tell you what I had to do to swing that. It’s her bridge night, for Christ’s sake. Steve, how many other thirty-year-olds do you know who play bridge?”
    I look at my watch.
    “Hey, it’s only three.”
    “Beer o’clock.” I’ve never heard a more persuasive voice.
    “Tim, um, I reckon that’s stretching it a bit.”
    There’s a long silence down the other end of the phone. “Steve, you can’t tell me you’re busy. I know you’ve got no more pomps scheduled today.”
    Sometimes his finger is a little too on the pulse. “I’ve had a rough day.”
    Tim snorts. “Steve, now that’s hilarious. A rough day for you is a nine o’clock start and no coffee.”
    “Thanks for the sympathy.” My job is all hours, though I must admit my shifts have been pretty sweet of late. And no coffee
does
make for a rough day. In fact, coffee separated by more than two-hourly intervals makes for a rough day.
    “Yeah, OK, so it’s been rough. I get that. All the more reason…”
    “Pub it is, then,” I say without any real enthusiasm.
    I’ve a sudden, aching need for coffee, coal black and scalding, but I know I’m going to have to settle for a Coke. That is, if I want to get home and change in time.
    “You’re welcome,” Tim says. “My shout.”
    “Oh, you’ll be shouting, all right.”
    “See you in an hour.”
    So I’m in the Paddo Tavern, still starving hungry, even after eating a deep-fried Chiko Roll: a sere and jaundiced specimen that had been mummifying in a nearby cafe’s bain-marie for a week too long.
    I had gone home, changed into jeans and a Stooges T-shirt—the two cleanest things on the floor of my bedroom. The jacket and pants didn’t touch the ground, though, they go in the cupboard until I can get them dry-cleaned. Pomps know all about presentation—well, on the job, anyway. After all, we spend most of our working day at funerals and in morgues.
    I might have eaten something at home but other than a couple of Mars Bars, milk, and dog food for Molly there’s nothing. The fridge is in need of a good grocery shop; has been for about three years. Besides, I’m only just dressed and deodorized when Tim honks the horn out the front. Perhaps I shouldn’t have spent ten minutes working on my hair.
    Getting to the pub early was not such a good idea. Sure, we avoided peak-hour traffic, but my head was spinning by the first beer. Chiko Rolls can only sop up so much alcohol—about a