Free Dead Men Don't Order Flake by Sue Williams

three Scotch Fingers, carefully halved and dunked, Ernie seemed slightly mollified.
    ‘So this question,’ he said. ‘Historical, is it?’
    No, no . Last thing I needed was for Ernie to get focused on the past. The number of times he’s given me one of his lectures about the Mallee’s long and tedious history, which probably isn’t actually tedious, it’s just the way Ernie tells it. Back when I was a little tacker , he’ll say, and then give me one of his smelly-breath cackles.
    ‘More of a technology type of question.’
    ‘Well, if it’s about Dennis flaming Stanley, I’m not in the mood.’
    ‘No, it’s to do with a girl called Natalie Kellett. And your knowledge could be vital to a…sort of…investigation.’
    He shot me a look. ‘Investigation? That girl’s tragic death was just another accident on Jensen Corner, wasn’t it? Death trap, that corner, I’ve always said that.’
    ‘Uh huh.’ You can have enough pointless lamenting over that bend in the road. It’ll be there long after I’m gone.
    ‘Mind you,’ he went on, ‘wouldn’t be too hard to force someone off the road just there. A nefarious type could make it look like an accident, easy.’
    A small silence while I considered that. Ernie used to compete in the Mallee Rally, way back. He was known across three states for his ultra-tricky driving moves.
    ‘S’pose you’re helping Dean? That kid needs serious help.’
    ‘Look, it’s not a criminal investigation, nothing like that. And there’s no need for anyone to stir up Dean. Anyway, it’s about this phone.’
    I reached into my handbag to pull out the book basher’s phone. A business card fluttered out.
    Ernie reached down and picked it up; peered at it. ‘What you doing with Bamfield’s card?’
    ‘Bloke left it with me. Anyway, this phone…’ I held it out.
    ‘Reginald Larry Bamfield. You know he built that swanky place near Muddy Soak? Rhapsody Downs. Some name for a business based on a flaming gravel pit. Always full of it, that fella.’
    ‘Forget the Bamfields, Ernie. Can you get into this phone?’
    He sailed on regardless. ‘Dodgy bastard too. Bought that couple of rocky-as-shit paddocks from Graham Stone for a song. Told Stone this whole sob story how it was for his cousin’s starving sheep.’
    I sighed.
    ‘Larry Bamfield had no damn cousin. He knew there was a fortune in crushed rock lyin’ underneath those paddocks. Dug ’em up within the week.
    ‘Built a bloody impressive house, though. Looks like a huge ocean liner, even got the curving windows. They knew how to build things properly in those days.’
    He cackled. I moved back from the gust of breath.
    ‘Still a social hub, you know. Black tie dos most Saturday nights, women in coloured silk swishin’ up the steps…Huge party cave in that joint, connected to the house by this tunnel. Top spot on a hot day, that cave, when I was a little tacker—nice and cool in there,underground. Larry flaming Bamfield dug out that tunnel, all on his own. So he said.’
    Maybe it’d be best if just tried getting into the phone myself while Ernie carried on with his history lesson. I started swiping finger patterns.
    ‘Helluva lot of wild things went on in that party cave. Bloody wild.’ He paused. ‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to fiddle with your phone while you’re having a conversation?’
    ‘Can you save the Bamfields for another day, please? I promised Gary Kellett.’
    He glared. ‘What I’m trying to tell you, if you’d give me the chance, is that this could be a good little job for you. I lost me watch in that cave, when I was a little bloke.’
    I groaned.
    ‘Never found it neither. Spent hours looking. And Dad belted me—still got the scars. Reckon those Bamfields nicked it; sold it on me. Bastards.’ He whacked his hand on the arm of his chair.
    ‘OK. Now we’ve got through all that, any chance of your help with this phone?’
    Another watery-eyed glare. ‘You’re not