Mike Dixon

„Lesson three, Clarence.‟
„Ah! Oui, cherie!‟ Clarence picked up his jacket and they
walked outside, followed by the incredulous stares of the
boys. He took her arm.
„What will you teach me in lesson three, my darling?‟
„Technique, Clarence. You have the physique for a more
varied approach. I want to see you put it into practice.‟
„See?‟ he asked. „Don‟t you mean feel?‟
Janet smiled.
„You‟re learning, Clarence.‟
The alarm clock rang and Clarence was awakened from a
deep and contented sleep. He reached for his jacket and removed
a packet of cigarettes. Janet watched from the corner
of one eye. Her immediate thought was to warn him of the
dangers of smoking – particularly in bed. Instead, she snug-
gled up and placed a hand on his shoulder.
„Cherie!‟ She affected her French, secret agent voice. „Ave
you ever come across an ugly bastard called Arnie?‟
„What manner of ugly bastard, my darling?‟
„He‟s an ugly hit man – a nasty psychopath. I‟ve got a
photo of him staking out the dive club.‟
Clarence held out his hand.
„Let me zee the ugly bastard, darling.‟
She produced a photograph of a long-haired man, looking
over Tim‟s shoulder in the pub at Narooma.
„Ee is veering a vig.‟
Clarence held the print at arm‟s length and tilted it from
side to side.
„Perhaps you could ask around at work,‟ Janet suggested.
„Try some of the younger guys.‟
„No, my darling.‟
143