The Whole Business with Kiffo and the Pitbull by Barry Jonsberg Page A
Authors: Barry Jonsberg
Tags: JUV000000
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had to take a chance and run to the point where we could get a good view in every direction. As luck would have it, we spotted the poochâs backside as it turned yet another corner.
Finally, we came to a large intersection. This time, though, we could hear voices. Kiffo and I crouched down and very carefully looked around the corner. About ten metres down the road, the Pitbull was talking to a man. They were standing under a streetlight and we had a clear view of them. The man was small, thin-lipped and bloodless. Like a ferret. He reminded me of the little guy you used to see in gangster movies. You know, the one who was always next to Robert De Niro, the one who was completely off his head and liable to shoot someone in the groin if he didnât like the look of them. The runt of the litter, but mean as anything.
They were having an animated conversation, two sets of arms flapping all over the place, though we couldnât make out the actual words. It was a residential street, but they were outside a large hall, a likely meeting place for Scouts or other paramilitary organisations. You know the sort of thing. The man was jangling a bunch of keys. After a few more moments of semaphore practice, he unlocked the door of the hall and they disappeared inside. A few seconds later, a light came on. I glanced at Kiffo, raised my eyebrows and he gave me a quick nod. Having come this far, there was no way we were prepared to give up now.
Kiffo and I padded around the side of the building, looking for a convenient window, the kind that in movies are invariably positioned to afford maximum spying potential. It soon became obvious that the builder of this place had wilfully ignored this architectural necessity. The only window likely to offer any view was impractically positioned about two and a half metres above the ground. A possibility if you were a member of the Australian basketball team, but not a great deal of use to us. Fortunately, a quick exploration of the grounds revealed a number of milk crates and we piled these up in a rough pyramid underneath the window. It didnât look particularly safe but unless we stumbled across a cherry picker in the undergrowth it was going to have to do. Kiffo and I climbed gingerly up the crates, stopping every few moments to sway gently as the whole arrangement shifted under our weight. Finally we were able to grab hold of the windowsill and peer into the room.
Iâm not the most house-proud person in the world, but that window was a disgrace. The accumulated filth of two millennia seemed ingrained into its surface. Nonetheless, we could just about see the runt and the Pitbull sitting at a table. Or rather, we could see the Pitbull pretty clearly, old Slasher sitting at her side, but only the disembodied arms of the runt. There was a document case on the table in front of them.
I had to admit that it all looked like very funny business. Why would you need to meet someone at that time of night? What could possibly be so important that the telephone wouldnât do? Why would a small spider choose just this moment to go for a pre-dawn amble across my cheek? Weighty questions, indeed. And then, just as the tickling on my cheek was reaching unbearable proportions, the runt reached across the table and undid the document case. He pulled out a small bag and dropped it in front of the Pitbull. I felt Kiffoâs hand tighten on my arm. The Pitbull reached out and for one fleeting moment I caught a glimpse of white powder before she took the bag and shoved it in her coat pocket. Yet more questions raced through my mind. Could the contents of the bag really be drugs? Could we really be witnessing what is known in all the best movies as a âdropâ? Could this really be a sneeze building at the back of my nose?
At least I got the answer to the last question. It was. And it was one of those unstoppable ones, the kind that if you try to contain it with your hand or something,
Finally, we came to a large intersection. This time, though, we could hear voices. Kiffo and I crouched down and very carefully looked around the corner. About ten metres down the road, the Pitbull was talking to a man. They were standing under a streetlight and we had a clear view of them. The man was small, thin-lipped and bloodless. Like a ferret. He reminded me of the little guy you used to see in gangster movies. You know, the one who was always next to Robert De Niro, the one who was completely off his head and liable to shoot someone in the groin if he didnât like the look of them. The runt of the litter, but mean as anything.
They were having an animated conversation, two sets of arms flapping all over the place, though we couldnât make out the actual words. It was a residential street, but they were outside a large hall, a likely meeting place for Scouts or other paramilitary organisations. You know the sort of thing. The man was jangling a bunch of keys. After a few more moments of semaphore practice, he unlocked the door of the hall and they disappeared inside. A few seconds later, a light came on. I glanced at Kiffo, raised my eyebrows and he gave me a quick nod. Having come this far, there was no way we were prepared to give up now.
Kiffo and I padded around the side of the building, looking for a convenient window, the kind that in movies are invariably positioned to afford maximum spying potential. It soon became obvious that the builder of this place had wilfully ignored this architectural necessity. The only window likely to offer any view was impractically positioned about two and a half metres above the ground. A possibility if you were a member of the Australian basketball team, but not a great deal of use to us. Fortunately, a quick exploration of the grounds revealed a number of milk crates and we piled these up in a rough pyramid underneath the window. It didnât look particularly safe but unless we stumbled across a cherry picker in the undergrowth it was going to have to do. Kiffo and I climbed gingerly up the crates, stopping every few moments to sway gently as the whole arrangement shifted under our weight. Finally we were able to grab hold of the windowsill and peer into the room.
Iâm not the most house-proud person in the world, but that window was a disgrace. The accumulated filth of two millennia seemed ingrained into its surface. Nonetheless, we could just about see the runt and the Pitbull sitting at a table. Or rather, we could see the Pitbull pretty clearly, old Slasher sitting at her side, but only the disembodied arms of the runt. There was a document case on the table in front of them.
I had to admit that it all looked like very funny business. Why would you need to meet someone at that time of night? What could possibly be so important that the telephone wouldnât do? Why would a small spider choose just this moment to go for a pre-dawn amble across my cheek? Weighty questions, indeed. And then, just as the tickling on my cheek was reaching unbearable proportions, the runt reached across the table and undid the document case. He pulled out a small bag and dropped it in front of the Pitbull. I felt Kiffoâs hand tighten on my arm. The Pitbull reached out and for one fleeting moment I caught a glimpse of white powder before she took the bag and shoved it in her coat pocket. Yet more questions raced through my mind. Could the contents of the bag really be drugs? Could we really be witnessing what is known in all the best movies as a âdropâ? Could this really be a sneeze building at the back of my nose?
At least I got the answer to the last question. It was. And it was one of those unstoppable ones, the kind that if you try to contain it with your hand or something,
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