Free Dead Dog in the Still of the Night by Archimede Fusillo Page B

there. It’s his way of scaring me off because I’m trying to fleece him”? Doubt it, Tone. You just need to ring Ad, tell him that a warning has been put out, and if the whole thing fizzes to nothing ...’ He shrugged. ‘Who is Ad going to blame? He’s a coward, Tone. If he wasn’t, he would of dealt with the situation out front, like a man.’
    He’s like the old man, Tone, Primo wanted to add, but didn’t.
    ‘Prims?’ Tone said. ‘Prims, I’m your best mate, and I’m in if you say we run with it. I just want to be sure we don’t do this for nothing. I’m putting it out there that this is full of much weirdness, you know.’
    Primo held his hand out to Tone who took it quickly.
    ‘You have got the right address, yeah?’ Tone asked.
    ‘Ad gave it to me to pass on,’ Primo replied and patted the back pocket of his jeans. He stared fixedly at Tone. For some reason he didn’t feel the elation he had expected at getting Tone to help. His satisfaction was tempered with an unsettling sense of foreboding.
    ‘Careful,’ Tone chastised him and pulled open the hearse’s tailgate as Primo looked yet again at the address. ‘I’m going to have to hose this all out,’ Tone complained.
    The dog’s carcass slapped hard on the road’s surface when Primo yanked it from the back of the hearse.
    ‘It’s that one.’ With a nod from Tone, Primo picked up his end of the bundle. They skulked forward into the shadows of the front yard.
    This was the seedier part of Fitzroy, tired and forlorn, not the hip end of Brunswick Street with its myriad cafes and retro clothes shops that hung second-hand woollen vests and porkpie hats from twisted coat hangers outside their front doors. This part of Fitzroy oozed makeshift respectability, more veneer than reality. There was no hefty aroma of roasted Arabica beans here, just a hint of sordid waste tucked out of sight.
    The front yard of the house was overgrown with thistles and onion weed. The brick-paved driveway – or what had once passed for a driveway – was buckled and led untidily toward a wooden gate hanging from one hinge, stopping it from toppling over completely. There was a veranda of sorts, but it too was barely hanging on, the struts and supports leaning outward into the yard like buck teeth.
    A welcome mat sat by the front door.
    ‘We’ll leave Rover there,’ Primo said flatly. He’d hoped for something more. Something that said the woman was just another middle-management bimbo with pretensions about being important.
    They moved swiftly, hidden by the overgrown vegetation and the shadows of the early night.
    Tone put his end down, crouched, and whispered, ‘Do we leave it in the tarp?’
    Primo didn’t respond, so Tone began to unfurl his end.
    ‘Of course not,’ Tone said to himself. ‘What would be the point of that, eh?’
    Primo stared down the length of the veranda. Two scarred kiddie bikes stood propped against an upended mini trampoline. Toy cars and an armless doll lay amongst them, and a tipped over bucket spewed little green plastic soldiers.
    Tone tugged at the tarp and the dead animal rolled out onto the veranda with a gentle thud.
    ‘Ad never said nothing about her having kids,’ Primo spat. ‘What if the kids find it?’
    ‘You don’t know they’re hers,’ Tone replied, manoeuvering the carcass with the tips of his shoes so that it was right on the welcome mat. ‘Could be her younger brothers and sisters. Could be some nephews. What difference does it make anyway? You had us bury the stinking thing in the flower bed of an old people’s Home, so don’t go all soft on me about kids finding the dog.’
    ‘Little kids could find the dog, Tone,’ Primo said slowly. He bent down to push the dead dog back onto the tarp, but already Tone had it rolled up and was backing off the veranda.
    ‘Tone!’ Primo snapped.
    Primo looked at the dog, its snout matted with grime, tongue lolling out, eyes ablaze with death, and vomit rose in his