Free Lost Voice of the Grand Final by Hazel Edwards Page B

Cluck.’
    Turns out that the Speakeasy was one of those rough, farmyard places. According to the hens, the Rooster went there occasionally for a drink of grain-water homebrew. Hard drink was banned in the farmyard. Only soft drinks, like water, were allowed. Speakeasy had its own homebrew and that attracted footballers, and Rooster.
    On my Z-com, I find ‘Speakeasy’ and decide to snack at home, before I visit.. Eat before you drink is a sensible decision. Not that I was planning to drink homebrew at the Speakeasy. I was working.
    I live in the bird yard. All kinds of birds rent a space. Ducks. Geese. Even a swan who teaches ballet.
    I have my own loft where I keep my gear. There’s a space for my bike and the sidecar. And I can scratch around in the garden too.
    At home, while dinner cooks, I try Chooks Anonymous. You can leave a question. Other people read it, and they leave answers if they’ve got any.
    I key in, ‘Lost voice belonging to Carrot the Parrot. Please contact Astrid the Mind-reading Chook’. I type in my link. I hope someone leaves me a clue before the Grand Final.
    Then I cruise a few sites, until I smell burning.
    Dinner! Grainburgers with farm dressing, and, ... burnt mush.

Chapter 4
Speakeasy
    My Z-com rings. I lift my wing.
    â€˜Hi. This is Astrid.’
    â€˜Are you the chook looking for the Voice of the Coach? ?’ The voice is scratchy, and there’s barking in the background. I don’t like the sound of it.
    â€˜I’m Astrid the part-time sleuth. My client has lost his voice. Have you heard that voice recently?’
    â€˜Yes,’ says the voice. ‘Last night.’
    â€˜How do you know it belongs to Coach Carrot the Parrot?’ I ask.
    â€˜Because he was here, warning us not to serve his footballers,’ says the voice.
    â€˜Where?’ I ask the voice again.
    â€˜At the SPEAKEASY in the lane.’
    â€˜Which lane is that?’ Even a mind-reader can’t always get it right.
    â€˜The one on the side lane, behind Main Street. But I’m leaving in half an hour. If you want to chat, come over now. I’m the one with the guard dog.’ He hung up.
    I scan Carrot’s face onto my Z-com for easy I.D. I ride my bike so I won’t be late. The Z-com clips on the handlebar. My comb-wing swings in the breeze and my headlight works well. My number plate is EGGS-PERT.
    A tiny sign says SPEAKEASY. Hard to find the lane unless you knew it was there. A creaky door. It’s a sort of bar with murky bottles on the shelves behind. And a smell of old mush.
    â€˜Any lost voices around here?’ I joke.
    Silence. Then a voice comes from the gloom behind the bar.
    â€˜This is a Speakeasy. In the Olden Days, drinking was banned. So people used to slip in here for a drink. Homebrew. Farmyard Rot-gut. It’s easy to speak when you’ve had too many drinks.’
    â€˜Did Coach Carrot come in here yesterday? Is he likely to drink much? He’s always telling his players to live healthy lives.’
    â€˜Hard to see anyone in the dark here.’
    I switch on my head-light. Then I can see him in the spot-light AND the open mouth of his guard dog, with sparkly, big teeth. The dog sniffs my tail feathers. I move out of range.
    The bartender checks my ID and I check his. I don’t check his dog’s identity. The other side of the bar is close enough.
    â€˜So what sort of chook are you?’ asks the bartender.
    â€˜I’m an English Sussex. See. I’m white with a black collar.’
    Then I show him the scanned ‘mug shot’ of Carrot.’ Have you heard this man before? He’s the Coach of the Birds who are playing in the Grand Final on Saturday. But he’s lost his voice.’
    â€˜I know that beak,’ says the bar-tender. ‘He was here yesterday afternoon, complaining.’
    I look into his mind. There’s a Carrot face shape. He does know Carrot. ‘Did Carrot lose his