we examine her bold declarations: JACK MARX SCREWS OVER PROSTITUTES FOR DRUGS; JACK MARX OWES ME $300; and, one that manages to raise the eyebrows off all, JACK MARX SUCKS COOKS! She's there, at the bottom of the stairs. For all she's concerned, the police are invisible as she proceeds to inform me of exactly how she's going to turn my life to shit over the coming weekend. She remembers everything— who I work for, who I care about, where my parents live—and she will use it all. As she hollers at me from point-blank range, I face the cops, arms outstretched, mouth agape, like some corny vaudevillian straightman imploring the audience to listen to his partner's song. Everything's sure to be going my way until Bronwyn is asked whether she has a criminal record. Defiantly, she reveals she has not, and if they want further proof of this they need only contact her good friend, Sergeant Whomever, of the Kings Cross police. I don't hear the good Sergeant's name—I'm too absorbed in the reactions of the police. They glare at each other and I'm sure I see two cartoon 'bleat' droplets spouting from their heads—two Tweetie Birds who've just been told Sylvester's coming to town. Apparently beaten by the mere utterance of the good Sergeant's name, they turn to me and suggest that I wait until Monday to file a restraining order with the courts. I ask what the Dickens they expect me to do about Bronwyn in the meantime, and the answer is such a bum trumpet that it's not even worth remembering. Bronwyn's eyes follow the police as they leave. As soon as the wagon
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