Midnight Deli - chapter 3 Home page | Floaters | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3B
On the way to work, Danny was walking from the station, past the Midnight Deli, to the Kremlin. It wasn't the shortest way to come, but he sometimes took this route, if he was early. Occasionally he'd a catch a glimpse of Sylvia through the window, but at this time she was usually somewhere in the back.
The Age's round-jawed tinsnips were weighing down the pocket in his jacket. He'd borrowed them to cut a hole in the hearse roof, to install the spinning ventilator. That was weeks ago. Since then, Henry had been bugging him to return the tinsnips, and he'd finally got around to it. As he walked, he absent-mindedly clicked the tinsnips a little, his hand in his pocket.
Stavros' noisy blue van passed him, as it sometimes did around this time. Occasionally Stavros had recognized him in the street, but not tonight. I'm inconspicuous he thought, in the dark, in this black jacket. Don't think that guy over the road has noticed me either. On the opposite side of the narrow street, a short man in a lurid orange shirt was walking parallel to Danny.
Ahead of him, the van stopped outside the deli, and Stavros climbed out, straight away opening the back doors and carrying a box into the deli. Probably all the meat for the night. The engine was still running, coughing now and again.
That van's a heap of shit, Danny thought. He's been having trouble starting it - that must be why he's left it running.
The man in the orange shirt had crossed the street now, ahead of Danny. As the man passed behind the van he closed the back doors, climbed into the driver's seat, and drove off.
What the hell's going on? Danny wondered. Is he stealing it, or what? The timing was so perfect, it looked almost planned. Stavros was still in the deli.
Finally Danny decided the van really was being stolen. He began to run after it, feeling stupid. Why am I doing this? he wondered. Even that clapped-out thing can go faster than I can run.
But his luck was in, because the traffic lights at the top of the street were red, and they were slow. When they were red, they had a rest - and stayed red. If you were in the know, you avoided waiting there, and you ducked up the lane on the left. The guy in the orange shirt obviously wasn't in the know.
What am I going to do now? he wondered. Stop it single-handed? He kept his right hand in his pocket, holding the tinsnips to keep them from ripping his jacket. He slowed down as he reached the corner, trying to blend into the shadows. Two cars were waiting in front of the van; its motor was making funny gurgling noises now.
Suddenly Danny had an idea. Bending over, he sneaked up from behind the van to the left front wheel. With the tinsnips, he cut through the projecting valve stem, just as the lights turned green. The thief took off with a jerk and a whooshing sound - as all the air roared out of the tire. Danny had to step back in a hurry.
He hasn't even noticed, thought Danny, disappointed. He'll just keep going and ruin the rim. There goes my lunch! Bastard!
The driver was turning left, to head up King Street, but something strange was happening. A new building was under construction on the corner, and scaffolding covered the road where cars would normally have parked. The blue van skidded on a metal plate, turned almost 180 degrees instead of the 90 the driver had intended, and came to rest with a loud bang against a steel beam that supported some scaffolding.
As the scaffolding rocked, and Danny stood on the corner wondering if it was going to come crashing down, the man in the orange shirt jumped out and ran, in the other direction, back down King Street. Horns were tooting now, and other traffic was held up. A traffic jam had appeared out of nowhere.
A few men climbed out of their cars, and Danny helped them push the van out of the way so that the traffic could pass.
"Where the hell did the driver get to?" one of the pushers asked.
"Think he ran off to get help," said another, before Danny could speak.
Danny dashed back to the deli. Stavros was outside with Yiannis, Sylvia's ancient father, gesticulating madly in all directions.
"It's up on King Street," said Danny, surprising them as he appeared out of the dark. "I think somebody tried to pinch it, so I chased him."
Stavros wheeled around, startled. He hadn't understood.
"Mr Wills. All our foods tonight!" Stavros wailed. "All our meats are gone. This is tragic."
"It's OK, mate," said Danny, patting him on the shoulder. "Come with me. I saved your foods. But hurry. I've got to be at work in a minute."
Stavros and Yiannis exchanged glances, and followed Danny up to the corner.
"My beautiful van!" Stavros wailed. "Look, the corner all crushed in. The headlight broke. The wheel bent."
Danny didn't have the heart to tell him about the inner tube.
"What man did this?" Stavros demanded of Danny. "Who was he?"
"He looked sort of woggy," said Danny. "Orange shirt. Yea tall. Hair like this." He demonstrated a slickback with his hands.
"I think I have seen that man," said Yiannis, in a guttural, evil voice.
"But look!" Danny said, opening the back door with a flourish. "Your foods are safe."
"Wonderful!" said Stavros enthusiastically, clapping Danny on the back so hard he nearly fell over. "Look Yiannis, Danny has saved the meat. Don't worry about this man with orange shirt. We can get him later. Let's take the food back now."
When Danny strolled into the deli at lunchtime, they had a souvlaki all ready for him, on the house. And they wanted to talk to him. This annoyed him, because he couldn't have a quiet word with Sylvia. But she already knew what had happened.
"Now I really believe you are an explorer, Mr Wills," said Sylvia. Was that sarcasm?
The others laughed. Stavros was getting quite friendly. Sylvia stayed in the background, which annoyed Danny. Stuff her, he thought. I'm wasting my time with her. Mone's a lot more fun.
"What's happening with your van?" Danny asked Stavros, peeling the paper off his souvlaki.
"A tow truck pulled it away. It needs big repairs. Lots of dough." He mimicked flipping through a heap of banknotes with his thumb.
"It's a heap of Jap shit," said Danny, feeling good with his mouth full. "Those things have plastic engines. You should chuck it and get something decent, say an old EH like mine. Those are really built to last."
"It has been very reliable," said Stavros evenly. "I don't know what we do while it is fixed. It will take a week, they said."
"We can hire one," said Sylvia, enthusiastic.
"Lots of dough," Stavros answered, shaking his head. "Lots and lots of dough."
"Borrow mine if you like," said Danny, gesturing grandly with the remains of his souvlaki. "I don't use it during the week."
They looked doubtful.
"That is very kind, Mr Wills," said Stavros, "but we need a van."
"It is a van. Sort of."
"But you need it for your band," said Sylvia. The others all turned and looked at her: how did she know this?
"I only need it on Saturday nights," said Danny stubbornly. Why wouldn't they accept his offer?
Stavros and Yiannis exchanged some eyebrow language.
"Thank you, Mr Wills," said Stavros, after a pause. "We accept. That is very good of you indeed. We will pay you, of course."
"Forget it," said Danny, waving an arm vaguely. He paused to swallow the last crumbs. "Not costing me anything. Just top up the petrol, that'll do. I'll drop it over tomorrow."
As he left with their thanks ringing in his ears, he realized that it wasn't so much Sylvia that fascinated him, it was the whole atmosphere of the Deli. These are real night people, he thought. That must be why I feel I've known them so long.
He turned up early the next night to deliver the hearse. He wanted to arrive before dark, so they could see it, and he could see their reaction.
As he came to the side door of the Kremlin, he found Bernie outside, having a smoke.
"Why are you here so early?" Bernie asked. Bernie was always early, but Danny preferred to cut it fine. If they were more than five minutes late clocking in, they lost a quarter of an hour's pay. Danny tried to arrive four minutes late.
Danny told him, laughing. "Don't know what came over me last night. I kept trying to make them take it, and they didn't want to. And just now, you should have seen their faces when they saw it was a hearse. Stavros accused me: 'You said it was a van.' It bloody is a van, I pointed out. He says they're going to clean out the back yard and park it where nobody can see it. Reckons it'll scare the customers away. Superstitious lot, these Cypriots."
"What does a hearse carry but dead meat?" Bernie said philosophically, puffing at his pipe. He'd taken up smoking a pipe in the hope that it would make him look older. "And what does the deli transport, but dead meat? So why do they worry?"
"And speaking of dead meat," he added, "there's a vewy interesting story in today's Herald. Look at this."
He took the afternoon paper from his duffel bag, found the story, and handed it to Danny without another word.
MAN KILLED BY TRAIN At 7.55pm last night, an as yet unidentified man was hit by a freight train as he ran across the tracks on the viaduct at the south end of King Street, in the city.
"It was a mystery how he managed to be up there," said the driver, William Garritt, 53, of Thomastown.
"He was running across the track as if the devil was after him. I thought he was well in front of me, but then I saw his figure flying through the air across the viaduct."
The man, believed to be of Medi- terranean extraction, and in his 20s, was wearing an orange shirt, blue jeans, and had a tattoo of a snake on his upper left arm.
Anybody with information which might help identify the body is requested to contact the railway police at Flinders Street."Your friend, I think," said Bernie.
"I guess it must be," said Danny, reading it again. "But how could he get there so quickly? I looked at my watch when I was chasing him, and it was nearly ten to eight then. He must have sprinted all the way to get there in five minutes."
"Or caught a tram."
"I had the impression he couldn't wait. And then, how would he get onto the viaduct - and why?"
"The devil was after him, of course," said Bernie. "William Garritt says so. You can do amazing things when the devil's after you."
"Poor bastard, guess he didn't deserve that." Maybe I was responsible for his death, Danny thought. The thought soaked in like a stain, and wouldn't go away. He tried to distract it.
"Hey Bernie, do you want that story?"
"No, you keep it. I suppose you want to show Sylvia."
"Stuff Sylvia - I'll show Stavros."
Bernie faced him in alarm - real or mock, you couldn't be sure with Bernie. "You're not bweaking up with Sylvia, are you? If so, out the window go my chances with Simone."
"I'm bored with her," said Danny. "I'm crazy about her voice and her eyes, but she doesn't do anything."
"She never gets a chance, the poor girl, with those relatives breathing down her neck twenty four hours a day. You should take her away for a holiday."
"Fat chance!" said Danny, laughing. "And I'm not sure if I want to."
At lunchtime on Thursday, Stavros told Danny he could have the hearse back the next night: their van would be in running order again, though not totally fixed. Sylvia was nowhere in sight.
"Your van has caused a lot of comment among our wholesalers," Stavros said. "It is perhaps a bit too easily noticed."
"That's the idea," said Danny. "New bands need all the publicity they can get. Why not new delis, too? A hearse would be perfect for the Midnight Deli. I'll sell it to you, if you like - I'm thinking of getting an ambulance."
"Thank you, but the little blue van is fine for us. We will fill your van with petrol, and Sylvia will clean it tomorrow. It is full of dog's hairs, and an ugly mask. Tell me please, to settle a small bet, do you wear the mask while playing in your band?"
"No," said Danny, amused. "Actually I wear it when I'm driving, to scare little old ladies."
Stavros slapped him on the back, quite hard. "You are a joker, Danny. But you have been so generous to us. We would like to make you a gift."
"Don't bother," said Danny. "A clean hearse will be great."
"We would like to offer you a meal at a very high class restaurant," said Stavros. "A Cyprian restaurant, where you will taste the height of our cuisine, far better than we can do in this little deli."
Oh yeah, thought Danny.
"Sylvia will go with you, and introduce you to our food."
Danny's jaw dropped, almost hitting the floor.
"Sylvia will take me to a meal at a high class restaurant?"
"I thought you would be pleased," said Stavros, studying Danny's expression. "When would you prefer? If you don't mind, Tuesday or Wednesday would be best for us. Those days are not so busy."
"Any day's OK with me, except Saturday," Danny told him. "How about next Tuesday? You're talking early evening, are you? I have to start work at eight."
"Any time you like!" Stavros beamed, conducting with both arms.
"Wait until I tell Simone!" said Bernie, a little later. "She'll be so jealous. She'll throw you over, and I shall sneak in to comfort her."
Danny laughed. "Why don't you comfort her in the same restaurant, so she can see how little there is between me and Sylvia?"
"Which restaurant?"
"He didn't say."
"Probably a sleazy joint run by relatives who owe them a favour."
"Don't spoil it, Bernie. It's just a pity it has to be so early."
"Perhaps it doesn't. You're good at arranging stop-works, aren't you? Perhaps you could find something wrong with the fire extinguishers."
Danny laughed again. He was already starting to look forward to this meal.
The next night, Sylvia served him. He'd hardly spoken to her all week. No other customers were there when he came in. She was dusting, and singing to herself very softly, but stopped as soon as he entered.
"Don't stop," Danny said. "What's the tune?"
"Just an old song, called Nerantzoula."
"Sing it to me," he begged.
"OK, but promise not to laugh at me. Just one verse."
Listening to her sing was like drinking the purest water he could imagine. The tune reminded him of one his father often sang when he was drunk, called Carrickfergus.
"You're a fantastic singer," Danny said, with feeling.
"I was told my voice is too small," Sylvia said.
"Who told you that?"
"My music teacher at Richmond High School."
Aha! So she'd been to Richmond High School. So had his mate Jason. He'd ask if he remembered her.
"These music teachers," Danny said, crossing his arms, playing the big-time talent scout. "What they forget is that mikes have been invented. You don't have to be an opera singer and yell at the top of your voice these days, you know."
He hated opera - his mother had taught him that, by playing her screechy opera records.
"It doesn't matter," Sylvia said. "I sing only to amuse myself, not for others. Often I sing with no sound at all."
Stavros was now hovering in the background.
"What's this restaurant you're taking me to?" Danny asked her.
"The Famagusta, in Richmond. Have you heard of it?"
"Yes," he lied. "But I've never been there."
"The very best Cyprian food. Tuesday, don't forget. It opens at seven o'clock, and you need to start your exploring not too late, don't you Mr Wills? So why don't you call in here at about half past six."
"Sure," he said, thinking hard. How was he going to manage this? He had to start work at four minutes past eight. That would be less than an hour with her. Maybe he could throw a sickie. But he'd already used up all his sick leave for the year, soon after he met Simone. And he couldn't rely on Henry to cover for him. Right now, Henry was mad at him, and at the whole world, and specially at everybody who wasn't married with six kids.
"Maybe you could even take the night off from the exploring," said Sylvia. "Then you wouldn't need to rush back."
"Not a hope!" said Danny. "I have to give a week's notice so Henry can arrange a substitute."
"You will enjoy it very much," said Stavros, joining them. "It will be a gourmet sensation of the first order. But it doesn't take all night to eat a meal."
A few hours later, Danny had it worked out. He'd try the old Uncle Charlie trick, that his friend Blair had used a couple of years ago, when he wanted to spend the afternoon in the pub instead of going back to work.
"Look at this," said Bernie, passing Danny a newspaper clipping:
TRAIN VICTIM IDENTIFIED A man who was hit by a train on the King Street Viaduct last Tuesday was yesterday identified by police as Nicos Elicoides, aged about 25, of Northcote.
A police spokesman said Mr Elicoides had lived in Australia only a few months, spoke little English, and may have been confused about where and how to catch a train.
There were no suspicious circumstances." 'No suspicious circumstances' means they think it was suicide," said Bernie. "What do you reckon?"
"Pack of garbage!" Danny snorted. "Listen to this: 'Confused about where and how to catch a train' - you don't get up on that viaduct by accident. They're hiding something, that's for sure."
"Why would they do that? What could there be to hide?"
"Haven't a clue."
"However, I agree with you," said Bernie. "There are suspicious circumstances, but we don't know them."
"Better not nick anything from the Midnight Deli, mate," Danny joked. "You you might end up under a train too. Hey, can I have this?"
"That's why I cut it out. I knew you'd want it. Run along now, and show Sylvia - or is it Stavros this week?"
The Uncle Charlie method turned out to be easy: Danny asked his mate Geoff (who could do an old and pompous voice) to telephone Henry with some bad news. Henry always arrived at work early, to get away from his family, so Geoff rang up half an hour before Danny was due in on Monday night.
"I'm trying to reach Mr Sullivan urgently," he told Henry in a grave voice.
"Try again in half an hour, matey," said Henry. "But make it snappy - he's not meant to take phone calls at work."
"I'm afraid I can't wait that long, sir. I have to leave immediately for Bendigo, to begin the funeral arrangements. Could you pass on a short message, please, so that Danny won't need to take a call at work."
Danny was listening in on the other phone, in Geoff's North Melbourne flat. He had to put his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing. Brilliant! he thought.
Impressed at being called sir, Henry reluctantly agreed to pass on the message.
"Would you tell him, please, that his Uncle Charlie has died suddenly, and as a beneficiary under the will, Danny is expected to be a pallbearer at the funeral tomorrow in Bendigo. Would you ask him to contact his Aunt Phyllis in Bendigo as soon as possible? I'll give you the number, in case he doesn't have it."
Geoff made up a number on the spur of the moment.
I didn't realize they had such long phone numbers in Bendigo, thought Henry, as he laboriously wrote down the details. The place must have grown a lot since I was last there.
When Danny rolled up on the dot of eight o'clock, Henry came rushing out of the office, waving a piece of paper.
"Important message for you, Danny."
"What is it?" Danny asked innocently. "I hope Marcus Wackerby's not asking my advice again."
"A man called Edward Spaniard rang. Does that mean anything to you?"
"The name does seem to ring a bell," said Danny vaguely.
"He said he was your Uncle Charlie's executor. Sounded like a lawyer."
Danny clapped himself on the forehead, perhaps a little too enthusiastically.
"Oh, you mean old Eddie. That's right: Spaniard. What did he want?"
"He said your Uncle Charlie has died, and - "
"Oh no!" Danny wailed. "My favourite uncle. The poor bastard. Was it sudden, or what?"
"I didn't get any details. But he has apparently left you some money, and his will requests that you be a pallbearer, and the funeral's at 7 o'clock tomorrow night in Bendigo, and you'd better make it." He frowned suddenly. "That's very late for a funeral, isn't it?"
"The cemeteries are floodlit these days," said Danny. "Bendigo's getting really big now. So many people are dying, the funeral homes have to work two shifts."
"Yes, Bendigo's a real metropolis these days," Henry agreed. He wished somebody would leave him some money. "Was he wealthy?"
"Well, he didn't look too well-off," said Danny, screwing up one side of his face, "but sometimes these miser types turn out to have thousands in the bank. I didn't expect any money from him. I'd rather have Charlie back - he was my favourite uncle." He tried to look mournful, by imagining the saddest thing he could think of. What was that? Leicho run over? He pictured his dog's stiff body, upside down in the gutter, the tongue still warm and hanging out.
Danny gave a choked sniff: it was the tongue that got to him.
"Look, son," said Henry, patting Danny on the back. "Try not to get upset when people die. We all have to go some day. By the way, you'd better take the night off tomorrow. You won't get back from Bendigo on time. I'll see if I can get Dick to come in."
Danny had taken over Dick's job a couple of years ago when he had retired. Now Dick was bored, and sometimes turned up at nights to pass the time.
"All my sick leave's used up," said Danny. "Guess it will have to be leave without pay."
"No, there's compassionate leave," said Henry. "You're entitled to one day off a year, to go to funerals."
I wish I'd known this before, Danny thought.
"Don't forget to ring your Aunt Phyllis," Henry called, as Danny went to check the presses.
On Tuesday night he arrived in the hearse, taking a roundabout route to the Midnight Deli to avoid passing the Kremlin. He was there at 6.30, and it was just possible that Henry would arrive at work at the same time.
Danny had decided not to tell the Midnight Deli people that he now had a full night off. He hadn't expected that - four hours would have done. He'd hold the other four hours in his hand, and see what he could do.
Sylvia was very impressed when he turned up in his suit and tie. Usually he wore grey overalls to the Deli. He'd explained it to his mother by saying that Bernie's Uncle Charlie had died. The poor man had had few friends in Australia, and Bernie had asked Danny to be a pallbearer.
As Danny held open the passenger door of the hearse for Sylvia to get in, he noticed several faces at the window of the Midnight Deli, checking him out. There seemed to be at least four of them. Some of those mysterious people from the back, maybe.
"Who are all those people watching us in the window?" Danny asked Sylvia as they drove off. She was wearing a long silky dark blue dress, with a low neckline. He was practically salivating over it.
"I can't make them out," said Sylvia. "It's too dark in there. Probably my parents and Stavros, and maybe one or two of the others."
"What others are there?"
"Oh, just the casuals that we have in the kitchen. Friends of friends, that sort of thing. Nobody you'd know."
"Tell me about them, I'm curious."
"But they aren't important. They come and go all the time. We seem to have trouble keeping staff. Probably because we pay them so little. Maybe when the business picks up it'll be better. They say the first year is always hard."
"Why don't they ever come to the front of the shop?"
"Most of them don't speak English well. Anyway, I like to see the customers myself. This is a very nice suit you're wearing, Mister Wills. A real change from your usual exploring costume."
"Yes, I get so tired of that pith helmet."
She laughed at that.
The Famagusta restaurant was down a dingy side street in Richmond, in an area of nondescript factories: small car repair businesses, plumbers' workshops, and so on. Some signs were only in Greek, and Sylvia translated them:
Exclusive Women's Clothing Factory Mr P. Christiakou,
Businessman
NO CONTRACT TOO LARGE OR TOO SMALL
That sort of thing.
The street lights emphasized the uneven brickwork in the old buildings, and the road had huge pot-holes. A sad area, Danny thought, swerving to avoid a squashed cat.
"Here it is," Sylvia said. "See the sign up ahead? I was beginning to think this was the wrong street. When I finished high school my family took me here, but I haven't been back since then, two years ago."
"What have you been doing in those two years."
"Here and there, round and about," she said dismissively. "Look, you can park right outside, it's not very busy tonight."
That was an understatement. The inside of the restaurant was a little more impressive than the outside, but only two other tables were occupied. A group of shady looking men at one table waved at Sylvia, and said something in Greek, obviously inviting her to join them.
"Not tonight, guys," she told them gaily.
At the other table were two middle-aged couples, who kept darting suspicious glances at Danny. He was feeling disappointed. He could tell he wasn't going to enjoy this: he hated near-empty restaurants. Sylvia seemed very stiff and formal too, prattling on about boring things, like which brand of paper bag the Midnight Deli should pack their hot food in.
He found himself staring gloomily at the top of her breasts, where the neckline came down in a deep V. In the dim light, her skin looked velvety-smooth, but so pale, compared with Simone's golden tan.
"What are you looking at, Danny?" she asked, suddenly alarmed. She glanced down at herself. "My birthmark's not visible, is it?"
"What birthmark?"
"I have one just here." She pointed between her breasts.
"Can I see it?" he inquired.
"Not here," she laughed. "Not anywhere, in fact." She covered the bottom of the V with the fingers of one hand.
After a long pause, a waiter came over to their table, and started talking Greek to Sylvia. He seemed to know her quite well; from the way he was glancing at Danny it seemed he was asking who she was with.
"Speak English, please," Sylvia told the waiter.
"I recommend the Mavrodaphne wine," he said in a strong accent, addressing Danny.
"OK mate, let's have a couple of flagons of it," said Danny, who much preferred beer.
Still, it wasn't bad - for wine. By the time they started on the second bottle he was a bit more cheerful. He'd expected Sylvia to barely sip it, but she was more than keeping up with him. This could get interesting, he thought. But of course the wogs feed their kids wine from an early age - she can probably sink more than I can and not even show it.
He wanted Sylvia to talk about herself more, but she kept ignoring his questions. They talked about the weather, politics, the current unrest in Cyprus, the history of the city of Famagusta, and so on, and so on. She asked him a couple of questions about Simone, but he parried those well.
For example: "Does Simone you know you're out with me tonight?"
"I couldn't get her on the phone," he said truthfully.
"Do you think she'd mind?"
"Why would she mind? She's always going off with her brother and his tennis-playing friends, and it doesn't worry me. Just as well I'm not married to you, Sylvia. You'd be insanely jealous."
"We Cyprians are always jealous - that's how we show our love."
The main course, recommended by Sylvia, was disappointing. The lamb was overdone, and too dry."What do you think?" she asked anxiously.
"OK," he admitted. "This egg and lemon sauce is good."
She was hardly touching hers, the same dish.
Danny glanced at his watch. Five past eight. Normally, he'd be dashing into the Kremlin right now. He wondered what the arrangements for payment would be. He'd brought plenty of money, just in case, but the prices on the menu seemed fairly low. Hardly a "top-class restaurant."
The two couples at the other table left, casting furtive glances at Sylvia and Danny. The group of men at the other table had vanished without a sound.
As they were finishing the dessert, Danny emptied the second bottle, and started wondering about a third.
Reading his mind, the waiter appeared. "I'm sorry, sir, but we are going to close in ten minutes."
"It's not even nine o'clock," Danny pointed out.
"As you can see, it is not so busy on a Tuesday. You are the only customers now, and nobody else will come in so late. Would you like Cyprian coffee?"
"I can't believe this!" said Danny, as the waiter left them. "The cosmopolitan night-life of the busy metropolis: eight-thirty closing."
Sylvia laughed. "Not everybody stays awake as late as we do," she pointed out.
"Look, I know," said Danny. "There's an excellent new coffee bar in Swan Street. Let's go there, and get a decent sized cup of coffee."
As they were leaving (with no sign of a bill, or mention of money), Sylvia asked him anxiously "What did you think of that food, Mister Wills? Were you impressed?"
He tried to be enthusiastic, but failed. "Pretty good," he said.
"I was disappointed," she said. "It was much better last time I was here."
"The lamb was way overcooked," he admitted. "I could do better myself."
"Are you a cook?" she asked, interested.
"They call me the Midnight Barbecuer," he boasted.
On the way to the new coffee bar, he told her about the band's seaside barbecues.
"They sound like fun," she said. "Will you take me one time?"
"Sylvia, I'd love to," he said. "But will they let you go?"
"They are starting to trust you, I think. We are a suspicious people. History has taught us that."
The coffee bar was very different from the discreet, hushed atmosphere of the Famagusta. This one was crowded, noisy, and brightly lit. He'd been here with Simone a few weeks ago, and she'd seemed to thrive on it.
He sensed that Sylvia was anxious about standing in the queue: if a table had been spare, she'd have sat quietly at it. They tried to talk, but the tiled floor and walls reflected sound everywhere, and it was hard to make out the words. Danny suspected that his hearing was going, with the thundering sound of the printing presses in his ears all night.
But suddenly it was almost quiet: people were leaving, and the staff were putting the chairs on top of the tables and mopping the floor. The place was about to close. They had to leave, to save their feet from being mopped around.
"This is ridiculous," said Danny, as they walked back to the hearse. "The whole of Melbourne is closing on us. Why don't you have tables at the Midnight Deli, where people can sit and eat? They already stand around and eat, have you noticed?"
"We thought of that," Sylvia said. "In fact, that big space at the front is reserved for tables. My father wants to have a few tables, but Stavros isn't keen. When we make a little more money, I think we may do it."
"It'd do well, I'm sure," he said. "You wouldn't have to serve big meals, people don't want that at midnight. Just coffee and snacks."
"We don't have a good meat cook," she said, as he let her into the hearse. "Would you be interested?"
"You couldn't afford me," Danny said grandly. "Cooking meat is only my hobby. Exploring pays much, much better."
"It's certainly a fine hearse," she said, patting the glovebox. "I didn't get a ride in it last week - Stavros kept it to himself."
"The seat's real vinyl, too," he pointed out, putting the hearse into gear.
"Where are you going? Are you taking me home now?"
"I've been meaning to ask you that: do you actually live at that place?"
"Yes, there's a flat," she sighed. "I hardly leave the building. This is the first time I've been out since last week. But Stavros will be expecting me back soon, for the midnight rush."
"It's only ten o'clock. Let's not go back just yet."
He headed off, taking a roundabout route.
Stopped at a traffic light, he absent-mindedly stroked her upper leg, as he often did with Simone. Halfway through the motion, he realized it wasn't Simone, but decided to go through with it anyway, to see if she'd notice.
The dress was thin, and very soft: her leg felt cool through it. Unlike Simone, who always ran hot.
"Why are you doing this, Danny?" she asked timidly. He glanced across; her eyes seemed huge, and looked straight into his soul.
"It feels nice," he explained. "Don't worry. I won't force you to do anything you don't want to."
"Or Simone would be very jealous."
"She's not that type."
"I would be like a tiger to her."
"Come again?"
"If you seduced me, I would have to be faithful to you, and I would make Simone suffer." She almost shouted the last few words.
Weird! thought Danny, amazed. "Calm down, Sylv, I'm not going to seduce you."
But suppose you seduced me, he thought.
"Sylv?" she queried.
"I always give nicknames to people I'm fond of. You wouldn't want to be called Sylly, would you?"
"Please let go, Danny. It makes me feel funny."
Somebody tooted behind them. The lights were green now. Danny put his hand back on the gear lever.
"I have to keep myself pure for Christou," she pointed out.
"For who?" He thought she meant Christ. "You're not going to become a nun, are you? My mother's always threatening to do that."
"No, they wouldn't take me. Christou is my future husband. Why are you stopping here, Danny?"
He was parking on the riverbank.
"Because the whole of bloody Melbourne's closed, except the Midnight Deli. We can watch the mud flow past while we talk."
"It's worse in Cyprus. Everything closes at 7 o'clock. No shops, no buses."
"What does everybody do?"
"Mostly they watch TV. That's what my parents said when they went home two years ago. In the old days, they went to bed," she laughed.
"Your parents?" Both of them looked about ninety.
"No, silly, the Cyprians. They did those things that people sometimes do in bed." She was getting really bold now.
Here's hoping all that wine's had an effect on her, Danny thought. "You wouldn't know about the things people do in bed, of course?" he said.
"Of course not, or Christou would be disappointed, and my parents would be shamed," Sylvia said, sitting up straight, and looking out at the river. She put a hand up to her head, and stroked her hair a little.
"But how will you be able to satisfy him, if you don't know what to do? Have you ever heard of a husband straying because his wife can't satisfy him, and finding other women?"
"This happens a lot," she said knowledgeably. "Once, my father started going to a whore - he borrowed her from Stavros. My mother was so angry when she found out. She broke some plates on his head."
This sounded interesting. Danny decided to follow it up later, but right now he had a theme to pursue. "How will you make sure it doesn't happen to you?" he asked.
"Perhaps I could be like my mother, and trick Christou," she said faintly, looking at the river with great interest. She hated to talk about this.
"The best solution is to satisfy him so well that he won't even think about going to another woman."
"You're probably right, but how could I be sure of doing that."
"You'd have to take a series of lessons," he pointed out.
"And you would teach me, I suppose?" she laughed.
"As a special favour, I'd consider it," he admitted.
"Oh Danny, you're terrible!" she laughed. She lifted her arm to hit him playfully on the shoulder. As she brought it down there was a little noise from behind her. Something wet and sticky was grasping her wrist. She gave an unearthly scream, almost deafening Danny.
"Don't be silly, Leicho," he said, when his heart had slowed down again. "She was only playing."
The dog let her wrist go, contrite now, his head poking through the gap in the curtains behind the seat.
Now Sylvia was laughing in relief, almost as loudly as she'd screamed before. "It's a dog! How did it get there, Danny? How long has it been there?"
"It's OK, Sylvia, calm down, it's only Leicho. He must have been there all night, the cunning bastard. Come on over, mate." Danny patted the seat and the dog jumped over, squeezing in between them.
"I didn't know you had a dog," she giggled.
"Couldn't do without him," said Danny. "He saves me from wild women."
A torch came up from behind, and glared in Sylvia's face.
"I heard screaming," said a suspicious cop. "Is everything all right in here? Are you OK, miss?"
"Yes thank you officer, the dog gave me a fright."
"This is not a suitable place to park at night," the cop told them, shining the torch into Danny's eyes. "There have been attacks here. Move on, mate. Go somewhere better lit."
"It's OK. We've got the dog to protect us."
"Get going, matey," said the cop, very slowly. "Or I'll see what I can do you for. Been drinking, haven't you? And that dog looks vicious to me."
"I'm going," said Danny angrily, starting the engine. The cop went on his way, swinging his torch. "Two places close down on us, and now the fuzz send us packing. Might as well take you home, OK, Sylv?"
He thought of going to the beach, but it was starting to rain now, and it wouldn't be much fun there.
He glanced across at Sylvia. Leicho was making happy snuffling noises, his head stretched across her thigh as she stroked him.
"You've got a friend there," Danny told Leicho.
"Yes," Sylvia agreed. "This is such a nice dog - he didn't even bite me."
"Poor old bugger has hardly any teeth left."
"Stop!" said Sylvia, a block before the Midnight Deli.
"OK," said Danny, pulling over. "Why?"
"I want to thank you, without my family looking on."
Leaning over the dog, she put her hands on Danny's shoulders and kissed the edge of his mouth. A little clumsy, but nice. She needed practice, of course. And so cold, she needed warming up. He told her that.
"I'm not cold," she protested. "You are the one - you are too hot blooded."
She got out quickly, and walked down the street to the deli. As Danny kept an eye on her, he tried to think what to do next. The night was young: it wasn't 12 o'clock yet. Perhaps he could drop in at work, say he was just back from Bendigo. But he couldn't face Henry right now, asking what the inheritance was. To avoid jealousy, it would have to be something worthless and boring. Maybe some old medals from World War I.
Feeling lonely, he flicked the radio on, on the off-chance he'd find some decent music instead of the usual commercial pap. It was blues. He couldn't believe it.
After a minute or two, the announcer spoke. "That was Howlin' Wolf, singing the Willie Dixon classic 'I ain't superstitious.' Kevin Woodiland here, on MCR's Blues Hour. Coming up, we have Elmore James."
Fantastic! Danny thought. He'd hardly ever heard Kevin's program because he was always at work. And Kevin had said often enough to drop in at MCR when he was on air - it got lonely there, with nobody else around.
He zoomed over to Carlton, where MCR had its studio: upstairs at the back of an old office building. The entrance was in a side alley, and the door was locked. Danny pressed the button for the entry buzzer, and waited patiently: Kevin obviously couldn't come while he was announcing.
Danny pressed the buzzer again, listening carefully for the sound inside, but not hearing it. That could mean it's broken down, he thought. Then again, it's a long way up the stairs. After a while, he knocked.
Finally it started raining, and he gave up.
Sitting in the hearse, wondering where to go next, he remembered Don's pie-cart. He drove back to the deserted end of Spencer Street: an area where nobody ever went at night unless they wanted a pie, and some abuse from Don.
Strangely, no customers were there. He found a legal parking place almost next to the pie-cart. A quiet moment, obviously. That was OK, he hadn't talked to Don for months. After all that Greek food, he had a sudden craving for a plain old steak and kidney pie. Besides, it was lunchtime.
He arrived just in time to see Don's grotesque figure packing everything away and getting ready to go.
"Hi, Don!" he called cheerfully. "How's things? You got a date tonight, or something?"
"What's with the fuckin' suit?" Don asked belligerently. "And where've you been, the last couple a months? There's no fuckin' business any more. Everythin's gone to the fuckin' dogs. These days, I close up at twelve o' fuckin' clock." He spat viciously on the pavement, blasting a small hole in the asphalt. "You can even bloody park now, since the brown bomber knocked herself off."
"What are you talking about?"
"Didn't you hear? In your own bloody paper, too. Maria somebody, found with her head in the gas oven. Probably started feelin' sorry for the bastards, after givin' them all fuckin' tickets for parkin' one fuckin' second too long."
He spat another great gob of mucus at the ground. Danny jumped back so it wouldn't melt his shoes.
Don was never one for great happiness, Danny remembered now.
"As for the fuckin' dagoes up the road!" Don continued. "Continental shit."
"Got a pie?" Danny asked casually. Don would go on for hours if he didn't interrupt.
"Fuckin' dozens of them," said Don. "Fuckin' cold. No cunt buys them any more. Here, take one." He reached in through the hatch he was about to close, and handed one to Danny.
"How much?" Danny asked. "Still forty cents?"
"Might as well be fuckin' free," said Don, continuing his process of closing up shop. He ignored Danny. That was normal. Danny slipped a 50-cent piece onto the counter just before the hatch closed.
"The problem is, you're not where the people are," Danny called through the now-closed hatch. "If you parked opposite the tram terminal by the Spencer Street station, you'd do much better."
"Fuckin' council," said the muffled voice from inside. "Bloody permits, and all that. Takes fuckin' months to move."
"Why not try it, Don?" Danny called cheerfully. "What's there to lose? Sweet dreams!" Noticing the pie in his hand was cold, he yelled, "And what about a discount for cold pies?"
"Treacherous bastard," muttered Don.
Danny thought of handing the cold pie over to Leicho, asleep on the seat next to him, but then remembered he was hungry.
What a dump Melbourne is, he thought, driving automatically home. Should have gone to work after all. There were a few other places he could try, but he didn't fancy going by himself. He'd warm the pie in the oven at home.
He switched the lights off as he came into his street, to avoid waking people up, and closed the driver's door very quietly. Not even 1 a.m. yet, but not a soul in the street was awake. Apart from his father, of course.
Holding his cold pie at shoulder height up to keep it away from nosy Leicho, Danny let himself into the side door of the garage.
Jim Sullivan, surrounded by heaps of radio equipment and old records, was sitting with his feet up on a battered wooden office chair. He seemed to be crooning silently into a microphone. His toes, elegantly clad in fine leather shoes, were tapping a silent rhythm on the desktop. Seeing Danny, he motioned him to take the other chair, a chrome-and-vinyl reject from an early phase of the kitchen's existence.
Jim flicked a switch on one of the radios, so that Danny could hear the voice at the other end.
"So we were real stuck in the valley," said a man in a strong American accent. "We couldn't go upstream because of the ice cliffs, and we couldn't go downstream because a herd of wild caribou was waitin' to attack us. So I figured there was only one alternative for Allie and me. 'We gotta BLAST our way outta here,' I says to him, so we had to take our outer mittens off and practically get frostbite to load the magazines. Anyways, we made it OK, but there was dead caribou litterin' the valley for miles. Snow was soaked in blood. Say, you're not sayin' nothing, Jimmy. Am I comin' in OK?"
"Jes' fine, Marrrvin, jes' fine," said Jim, in a ridiculous parody of Marvin's voice.
"And whatcher been doin' yerself since we last spoke, Jimmy boy? Been out huntin' them koalas again."
"Damn pestiferous varmints!" In the shadows, he seemed to be signalling to Danny with his eyes.
Was that a wink? Danny wondered. Is my father winking at me? What's the world coming to?
"Went down to the local supermarket the other day, Marrrvin," Jim began. (That was a lie, for a start - he'd spent most of his married life avoiding shops.) "Pack o' wild koalas had baled up an old lady, retired headmistress from the girls' school here in Sunshine."
What girls' school? They were all co-ed.
"She was screamin' good and loud in the supermarket carpark. Them koalas was climbin' up her back, tryin' to get into her hairdo. They use hair for their nests, you know? Some o' they was bitin' her head, and others was rippin' up her shoppin' bags outta her trolley with them's vicious claws. They was gettin' the tins of tomato sauce, and openin' them with those claws - that's how sharp their bloomin' claws are, Marrrvin. But it was when they started rippin' at her dress I felt impelled to take action."
"Was anybody else around, Jimmy?"
"Just a pack of old ladies gawkin', Marrrvin. You know what supermarkets is like. So said to Minkovitch - "
"You're fading, Jimmy. Was that Minkovitch you said - your pet goanna?"
"Roger, that's the one. So I said to Minkovitch -"
Danny leaned back in the chair, amazed. Minkovitch had been his father's nickname for a cat which had died years ago.
There was a loud cracking sound from the chair, and Danny cautiously brought it back a little.
"Hey, what's that I heard, Jimmy. That a piece goin' off?"
"Roger. It'll be Gwen Dixon down the back firing at the feral kangaroos again - they keep eatin' her washin' off the line. Now, as I was sayin': I says to Minkovitch 'Get 'em, boy' - and boy, did he get 'em! Dead kangaroos - sorry, koalas, plastered from here to kingdom come, with their guts hangin' out all over the car park. I had slabs of raw meat hangin' off me car, and the bloody dawg come up and ate them off of it the next day, jes' like he's eatin' me boy's meat pie right now. Over."
Danny jerked around to see the remains of his pie in Leichhardt's mouth, along with a few scraps of its brown paper bag.
"Sorry Jim, you're fadin' badly. I didn't follow that last bit about the koalas and the pie. Over."
"OK Marvin, let's call it a day then," said his father. "See yiz next week."
"Bye now, Jimmy, take care. Over and out."
His father switched something off, sighing philosophically.
"I knew there was some reason you don't like the supermarket," said Danny. "What with packs of wild koalas attacking retired headmistresses in the carpark."
"Come on!" said his father. "You think I believe his bullshit any more than he believes mine? How do you like my US of A voice? I have to talk like that because Marrrvin doesn't understand me if I speak Aussie."
"Over," said Danny sceptically. It sounded like fun, though. Maybe he'd try it with the band. Or with Mone. How would Burke and Wills handle a pack of wild koalas? he wondered.
"Any word from Kevin yet?" Jim asked. That's what Danny liked about his father. He didn't ask the obvious questions like "Why are you home from work so early?" - he just carried on a conversation they'd started a year ago, as if it had never been interrupted.
"Roger," Danny admitted. (Jim didn't even notice.) "All the program ideas have to go to the MCR managing committee, and they decide who gets a timeslot and when. Kevin reckons there's no show of a swing program being OK'd, because nobody on the committee's over 30 and they've never even heard of swing."
"What about the sample tape I made?"
"Don't know if they've listened to it yet," Danny lied.
"Find out when the next committee meeting's on, would you, and I'll come and address them. There's got to be thousands of people out there who'd appreciate a swing program. Look at all those complaints 3LW got when they dropped Willy Backsland."
"OK Dad, I'll find out from Kevin."
Kevin was only the technician on MCR, but Jim had the idea that he was the manager.
"I discovered this fantastic old record," said Jim. "Butch Board and the Swingaways. Want to hear it?" Not waiting for an answer (and not getting one) he started to delve in a huge heap of 78s on one of the desks, and pulled out several. "What are these?" he asked. "Read the labels, would you? I'm getting short-sighted in the dark."
"'It must be jam 'cause it shakes like jelly,'" Danny read out. "That can't possibly be right, hang on, I'll just get it into the light."
Stretching his arm across the desk, he dislodged something precariously balanced on the top of the neighbouring heap. A prehistoric radio came crashing down onto Leicho's back. The dog yelped in pain, and as he backed away almost tripped up Jim, who was trying to rescue it before it hit the floor.
"Just as well it landed on doggo," said Jim, fussing around. "Clumsy, aren't you? Nearly broke the case on the U6-L9. Nice old unit, that."
"What does it do?" Danny asked, feigning an interest.
"Special type of transceiver. Army surplus. I'm only keeping it because it's so well built. Pity to throw it out."
Finally he found the 78 he was looking for, put it on the ancient record player, and turned the volume up. The hissing was louder than the music, and the scratches made Danny wince.
But Jim didn't notice them: he was doing a funny hopping dance, arms stretched out to an imaginary partner. This took place on the tiny square of carpet: the only space in the garage that wasn't piled high with records or old radio gear. On his face was a strange expression, a mixture of pain from a bunion, and ecstasy from his memories of Townsville partying in the 1940s.
"How's Simone?" he asked, still dancing. "You've got a hot one there, kid. Should have seen her dancing with me the other night. Pity you weren't here. Got right into the spirit, she did. Going to marry her, or are you looking out for something better? Doubt you'll find it - speaking as a connoisseur."
"What?" said Danny. "What did you say? She was here the other night?"
"Let's see, who was I talking to?" said Jim carelessly. "Think it was Jose in Costa Rica, so that'd be the night before last. Or was it Diego?" He muttered on a bit. "Sunday night!" he decided.
"Nobody told me," said Danny, injured. "Why did she come when I wasn't here."
"Wanted to talk to your Mum, I suppose. Returning some magazines, I think. Done it before, you know. She's dropped in here two or three times. Look, I keep forgetting, I never see you anyway, she left something here. I've got it somewhere." He fumbled for a while. "Here it is," he said, holding up a white sock, which seemed to glow in the dim light. "Better give it back to her next time you see her."
"How come she left a sock behind?" Danny asked.
"Only took one with her. You know what women are like - they leave a trail of clothes everywhere they go."
"One sock? Was she wearing it, or what?"
"First it was on, then it was off," his father explained patiently. "Ask her yourself."
Danny looked at him suspiciously.
"Terrible, isn't it? Yes, it sure is. As fast as you look after one woman, another one rushes around behind your back."
"Tiring, too," he called after Danny, who was getting up without a word and heading for bed.
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