Sparrow shrugged. ‘Tried to be a tradie once, a chippie. Couldn’t get past the hazing. What about you, why’d you choose to become one of the bad guys?’

Manolis rubbed his jaw in thought. ‘Dunno,’ he finally said. ‘I just never imagined doing anything else. You remember when you were a kid and the adults asked what you wanted to be when you grew up and all the boys said policemen or firemen or astronauts? I guess I never grew out of that phase.’

Sparrow smiled warmly, perhaps remembering his own childhood.

‘I like that story,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Much better than saying you were trying to avoid being shot with a nail gun.’

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

IT WAS A short ride to the pub, past the post office, memorial hall, two overgrown tennis courts without nets, and a dozen more limp Australian flags. Parking outside the pub, Manolis saw a long queue of people standing under the shade of the street’s only tree.

‘What are they doing?’ he asked.

‘Watch,’ said Sparrow.

Manolis saw a clapped-out hatchback appear at the end of the street and drive towards them at low speed. It picked up the first man in the queue and drove him fifty metres up the road to the drive-thru bottle shop. It waited until he made his purchase, then returned him to the starting point and picked up the second in line, repeating the process. The first man staggered off into the scrub, slab of beer under his arm, song in his heart.

‘That’s the rules, the drive-thru only serves cars,’ Sparrow said, smiling. ‘We coppers can’t do anything about it. And not that we’d want to, it’d only cause more trouble. Whitefella who owns the hatchback charges a fee. Smart, eh. Name’s Trev, he’s run off his feet every second Thursday when the dole payments come in, one client after another, nonstop all bloody day. Trev’s a bloody millionaire. C’mon, it’s your shout.’

‘Aren’t you on duty?’

Sparrow snorted a laugh of disbelief. Still chuckling, he entered the top pub.

Inside, the air conditioner was doing battle with the smell of sweaty men, cigarette smoke and free-flowing beer. Sergeant Fyfe was propping up the bar. He had a fresh pint in his hand and was holding court with two fellow barflies and the publican, all dressed in footy shorts and singlets, bare feet. Manolis felt decidedly overdressed.

‘Well fuck me without a kiss,’ Fyfe said. ‘You must be the city mouse.’ His voice was wet and sluggish with booze.

‘Hello,’ said Manolis, offering his hand. ‘Detective Sergeant George Manolis.’