for something to eat at a café next to a pub. A velvety flat white in front of him, and an order of bacon on Turkish to come, he sits in the café garden and hopes his face doesn't look as smug as he feels.
Koop has just taken the first sip when he becomes aware he's being watched.
He glances up and sees two men aged around thirty sitting at the bar which divides the pub from the café. Rangy and dishevelled, the pair wear the
de rigueur
hemp clothing and white-boy dreadlocks common to this area of the shire. Koop thinks there must be a way station on the Pacific Highway where the clothes are handed out to metropolitan refugees on arrival. Somewhere between Ballina and Byron maybe.
They turn their faces away but there's something familiar about one of them. Koop struggles for a moment before getting it: he's a neighbour of sorts who Koop has seen behind the wheel of a smoky ute rattling past his property now and again. The two bend their shaggy heads together over their half-empty beers, and one of them mutters something which causes the other man to snigger.
Koop feels the blood quicken in his veins, sure he's the subject of their laughter, but he contents himself with drinking his coffee. Dickheads all over. Forget it.
And then he catches Zoe's name and feels something dormant inside him begin to uncoil. This could go south, he thinks, and tries to ignore the evolutionary instincts triggering his anger. Good coppers don't get angry, they just get even. He's not going to react. He's been called everything before.
But family. That's a different matter.
Koop looks up again and this time there's no mistaking that Zoe is being discussed. The two men, growing in cockiness with each swallow of their beer, are openly snickering.
Koop sighs, takes another sip of his coffee, sets it down carefully and walks across. He's been in this situation a million times and knows exactly how it will play out. He is – was – a professional.
'I know you?' he says conversationally to the guy he thinks might live nearby, making sure his face is just that bit closer than is usually comfortable, an old copper's trick. The man leans away a fraction, as Koop knew he would. 'Because you look familiar. And I thought I heard you mention my wife's name?'
The guy glances at his mate and smirks, gains a jolt of confidence. 'Don't think so, mate. You must be goin' deaf, or something. Happens to fellers your age, I heard.'
His mate splutters and the two high five. 'Fucken classic, Thommo,' says the mate.
Koop smiles, outwardly patient. 'And your mention of my wife? I heard you say something about Zoe.'
Thommo, on a roll now, nudges his mate before replying. 'Couldn't have been the same woman, mate,' he says, eyeing Koop, weighing him up, seeing him as too old, too thin. Here it comes, Koop thinks. He's decided I haven't got the juice. 'The only Zoe I know about, I heard she was a Jap-licking pussy-muncher. That couldn't be your missus, could it?'
Koop knows enough to stop his first instinct which is to grab Thommo by the back of his stupid dreadlocks and break his sun-blistered nose across the bar. Instead he walks away and sits down. Only amateurs react. Thommo's toast. He just doesn't know it yet.
Thommo and his oppo are creased up. Koop's retreat has signalled open season and attracted the attention of the barman who shrugs apologetically. Koop makes a 'what-can-you-do' gesture before leaving, the sounds of the two drinkers ringing in his ears. Whipped.
'Didn't think so,' says Thommo as he passes. 'Bye bye, you fucken pussy.'
Koop doesn't reply. He wants Thommo to think it'sover. Wants the barman to think it's over. In case what's going to happen ends badly.
Outside, the car park deserted, Koop gets into his truck and backs it into a shaded patch behind the pub dumpster and waits, checking the delivery manifest to pass the time.
He doesn't have to wait long. Fifteen minutes later, Thommo stumbles into the car park and fumbles for his
Koop has just taken the first sip when he becomes aware he's being watched.
He glances up and sees two men aged around thirty sitting at the bar which divides the pub from the café. Rangy and dishevelled, the pair wear the
de rigueur
hemp clothing and white-boy dreadlocks common to this area of the shire. Koop thinks there must be a way station on the Pacific Highway where the clothes are handed out to metropolitan refugees on arrival. Somewhere between Ballina and Byron maybe.
They turn their faces away but there's something familiar about one of them. Koop struggles for a moment before getting it: he's a neighbour of sorts who Koop has seen behind the wheel of a smoky ute rattling past his property now and again. The two bend their shaggy heads together over their half-empty beers, and one of them mutters something which causes the other man to snigger.
Koop feels the blood quicken in his veins, sure he's the subject of their laughter, but he contents himself with drinking his coffee. Dickheads all over. Forget it.
And then he catches Zoe's name and feels something dormant inside him begin to uncoil. This could go south, he thinks, and tries to ignore the evolutionary instincts triggering his anger. Good coppers don't get angry, they just get even. He's not going to react. He's been called everything before.
But family. That's a different matter.
Koop looks up again and this time there's no mistaking that Zoe is being discussed. The two men, growing in cockiness with each swallow of their beer, are openly snickering.
Koop sighs, takes another sip of his coffee, sets it down carefully and walks across. He's been in this situation a million times and knows exactly how it will play out. He is – was – a professional.
'I know you?' he says conversationally to the guy he thinks might live nearby, making sure his face is just that bit closer than is usually comfortable, an old copper's trick. The man leans away a fraction, as Koop knew he would. 'Because you look familiar. And I thought I heard you mention my wife's name?'
The guy glances at his mate and smirks, gains a jolt of confidence. 'Don't think so, mate. You must be goin' deaf, or something. Happens to fellers your age, I heard.'
His mate splutters and the two high five. 'Fucken classic, Thommo,' says the mate.
Koop smiles, outwardly patient. 'And your mention of my wife? I heard you say something about Zoe.'
Thommo, on a roll now, nudges his mate before replying. 'Couldn't have been the same woman, mate,' he says, eyeing Koop, weighing him up, seeing him as too old, too thin. Here it comes, Koop thinks. He's decided I haven't got the juice. 'The only Zoe I know about, I heard she was a Jap-licking pussy-muncher. That couldn't be your missus, could it?'
Koop knows enough to stop his first instinct which is to grab Thommo by the back of his stupid dreadlocks and break his sun-blistered nose across the bar. Instead he walks away and sits down. Only amateurs react. Thommo's toast. He just doesn't know it yet.
Thommo and his oppo are creased up. Koop's retreat has signalled open season and attracted the attention of the barman who shrugs apologetically. Koop makes a 'what-can-you-do' gesture before leaving, the sounds of the two drinkers ringing in his ears. Whipped.
'Didn't think so,' says Thommo as he passes. 'Bye bye, you fucken pussy.'
Koop doesn't reply. He wants Thommo to think it'sover. Wants the barman to think it's over. In case what's going to happen ends badly.
Outside, the car park deserted, Koop gets into his truck and backs it into a shaded patch behind the pub dumpster and waits, checking the delivery manifest to pass the time.
He doesn't have to wait long. Fifteen minutes later, Thommo stumbles into the car park and fumbles for his
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