Death is Forever

pulled a dollar bill from his wallet, clipped the bill to the remaining contracts, and flipped the papers back across the ebony desk.
    “All right, partner,” Cole said. “Tell me about this diamond mine you want me to find.”
    Wing’s smile was amused. “The Chen family didn’t hire you merely because you’re a brilliant prospector, although you are. We brought you into this because you have a verbal promise from Abelard Windsor of a fifty-percent interest in Sleeping Dog Mines Ltd. as a full repayment of gambling debts incurred by him during a night of playing Two Up.”
    For an instant Cole was too surprised to say anything.
    Wing allowed his small smile of triumph to spread into a grin. It was the first time he had ever seen Cole off-balance.
    “That was twelve years ago,” Cole said. “Christ, I didn’t even know you then.”
    Wing made a dismissing motion with his hand. “Did Mr. Windsor ever pay off that debt?”
    Cole made a sound too harsh to be called laughter. “There were times Crazy Abe couldn’t remember from one day to the next what happened. He was just too drunk. I was a long way from sober myself. So was everybody else at the station.”
    “Do you have an IOU?”
    “Old Abe wasn’t that crazy,” Cole said dryly. “Besides, it wasn’t serious gambling. We were just killing time in a station shack, waiting out the first storm of the wet.”
    “This was found at the station,” Wing said.
    He drew a frayed, worn piece of paper from the center desk drawer. He handled the paper very carefully, holding it by the corner as though to avoid smudging it…or leaving fingerprints.
    Cole leaned forward and read the faded writing.
    I owe Cole Blackburn half of Sleeping Dog Mines
    Because I lost at 2-up one too many times!
    Abe Windsor’s signature and the date were written across the bottom of the sheet in a fine, formal Victorian hand.
    “The Chen family has taken the liberty of having two handwriting experts certify this document, so you need not fear embarrassment on that score,” Wing said calmly. “Even without the note, it is a legitimate gambling debt. With the note, the debt will be promptly recognized by the Australian government when you press your claim.”
    “But I won’t.” Cole’s voice was soft and final. “Crazy Abe is sly and mean as a snake in the blind, but he’s never screwed me. He fed me, gave me a place to sleep out of the rain, and as much beer as I could swim in.” Cole’s voice changed, becoming more matter-of-fact. “I’ve seen Sleeping Dog One. That hole is never going to produce anything but bort. And if the old man has found a jewel box in one of the other Dogs, he’s welcome to it. I sure as hell won’t try to screw him out of a lifetime strike in the name of a gambling debt I never took seriously.”
    “Crazy Abe doesn’t need his mines anymore. His body was discovered in the bush yesterday.”
    Cole looked away for a moment. When he looked back, his eyes were the color of winter rain. “God grant a quiet rest to that unhappy old bastard. Going walkabout with him was like stepping back in time, a century at least, sometimes more like ten centuries. Despite his Continental education, he was a real primitive.”
    “So I gather from reading his poetry. There is much of it, and all of it is bad.”
    Wing produced a battered tin box from the belly drawer of his desk. Inside lay several documents and a supply of rough paper waiting to be filled with future poetry. He picked up one of the documents and scanned it quickly, frowning.
    Cole smiled crookedly. “He wrote poetry by the yard. Which one is that?”
    “Something called ‘Chunder from Down Under.’ I am told that the late Mr. Windsor regarded this particular piece of doggerel as a kind of rhyming treasure map, a guide that would lead his heir to the diamond deposit.”
    “What?”
    “The key to locating the lost mine is hidden somewhere in this swamp of rhyme and memory,” Wing said, handing the sheets across the desk.
    Silently Cole scanned the closely packed lines, reading at random.
    While ’roos and rutting gins
    Leap on the ground above,
    A handful of old candy tins
    Rattle around below.
    “The ‘candy tins’ is an interesting, er, metaphor, but as a treasure map it leaves a lot to the imagination,” Cole said.
    “There’s more of it,” Wing said, trying and failing to keep the hope from his voice. “But I fear it is all…difficult.”
    “Or simply insane. They