walnut board with a block plane, working at an angle to the grain to avoid tear-out. The thick plane steel, sixty years old at least, honed and strapped, could clean shave a Gulf Country feral pig. With each stroke, long translucent shavings whispered through the plane’s throat, bending back with the grace of a ballerina’s arm.
‘When it’s finished,’ he said, ‘that’s when.’
I went to the storeroom at the back and got out the packing blankets, World War Two army blankets Charlie had bought in the 1950s. Then I disassembled the library. There was not a screw in it; secret woodenlocking wedges held it together. By 8.30 a.m., I’d finished wrapping and taping the pieces. I was waiting for the water to boil and thinking about my anchovy-paste sandwich when I heard the vehicle outside.
Cam was in his stockbroker gear – chalk-striped charcoal suit, blue shirt, silk jacquard tie – and carrying a dark-blue cardboard box. He put it on the steel trolley Charlie used as a table.
‘Breakfast,’ he said and opened the box. ‘Scrambled eggs and barbecued pork New Orleans style on Greek bread. Coffee. Blue Mountain.’
Fusion cooking was completely out of control. What chance did an anchovy-paste sandwich and a cup of tea stand? We got going, sitting on the chairs Charlie had rescued from a skip. The pork melted in the mouth, the scrambled eggs had a faint mustard and cream taste.
‘Southern barbecued pork? Greek bread?’
‘Good?’
‘That’s not strong enough. Who’s the cook?’
‘Greek bloke in Brunswick, used to live in New Orleans. He’s got a brick oven out the back, looks like a rocket ship. Fat rocket ship. Little pig’s in about eight at night, comes from his brother in the bush, the neighbour comes off shift at 4 a.m., checks it. Bit of bastin. Ready at seven.’
‘Write down the address.’
He nodded, looked at me reflectively, tonguerunning over his upper teeth. ‘Talked to Cyn again. She’s gettin better, not so vague now.’
‘That’s good.’
We chewed in silence.
‘The one, he’s got a tatt down the middle finger. Right hand.’
‘What kind?’
‘The Saint.’
‘No, don’t say that.’ The stick figure with the halo was St Kilda’s emblem.
‘She says she was at the stove, it came to her. The head and the halo. Halo bigger than the head.’
I took the cap off the coffee cup.
‘Can’t drink it without sugar. Needs sugar,’ said Cam.
‘No.’ I sipped. This was coffee, Harry Palmer coffee, sugar ruined it. ‘That’s it?’
‘No. Ring each side she thinks, gold.’
‘She should go back to the jacks.’
Cam opened his coffee, added sugar from two little paper bags, stirred with the plastic implement, tasted. ‘She’s not happy to do that.’
Our eyes conversed. I said, ‘Yes. Leave it with me. It’s an exceedingly long shot and I’ve exhausted my welcome. But.’
He nodded, not looking at me, eyes on his coffee. ‘Can’t find any other way.’
‘The vehicle,’ I said. ‘I’ve been thinking about the vehicle.’
‘The vehicle?’
‘From a carpark.’
‘A carpark.’ Cam looked up, into the distance, turned the eyes on me, yellow eyes, the sinews bracketing his mouth showing. Nothing more to be said.
‘Do the tatt,’ he said, ‘then we’ll do the carpark.’
‘This breakfast, I owe you.’
‘Dinner. Owe me dinner.’
When he’d gone I made a call about the tattoo. The man at the other end groaned.
‘Jesus, fuck,’ he said. ‘Use the phone book.’
‘Robbery with violence, maybe serious assault. Not inside on February 20.’
‘Use half the phone book. Tomorrow it’ll have to be. Six-thirty.’
‘Not fucking bad,’ said the driver.
It was 10.40 a.m. and we were in the furniture van outside the wrought-iron double gates of Mrs Purbrick’s neo-Georgian mansion in Kooyong. The greasy rain on Punt Road had turned to a soft, clean mist here, further testimony to the preferential treatment handed out to the extremely
‘When it’s finished,’ he said, ‘that’s when.’
I went to the storeroom at the back and got out the packing blankets, World War Two army blankets Charlie had bought in the 1950s. Then I disassembled the library. There was not a screw in it; secret woodenlocking wedges held it together. By 8.30 a.m., I’d finished wrapping and taping the pieces. I was waiting for the water to boil and thinking about my anchovy-paste sandwich when I heard the vehicle outside.
Cam was in his stockbroker gear – chalk-striped charcoal suit, blue shirt, silk jacquard tie – and carrying a dark-blue cardboard box. He put it on the steel trolley Charlie used as a table.
‘Breakfast,’ he said and opened the box. ‘Scrambled eggs and barbecued pork New Orleans style on Greek bread. Coffee. Blue Mountain.’
Fusion cooking was completely out of control. What chance did an anchovy-paste sandwich and a cup of tea stand? We got going, sitting on the chairs Charlie had rescued from a skip. The pork melted in the mouth, the scrambled eggs had a faint mustard and cream taste.
‘Southern barbecued pork? Greek bread?’
‘Good?’
‘That’s not strong enough. Who’s the cook?’
‘Greek bloke in Brunswick, used to live in New Orleans. He’s got a brick oven out the back, looks like a rocket ship. Fat rocket ship. Little pig’s in about eight at night, comes from his brother in the bush, the neighbour comes off shift at 4 a.m., checks it. Bit of bastin. Ready at seven.’
‘Write down the address.’
He nodded, looked at me reflectively, tonguerunning over his upper teeth. ‘Talked to Cyn again. She’s gettin better, not so vague now.’
‘That’s good.’
We chewed in silence.
‘The one, he’s got a tatt down the middle finger. Right hand.’
‘What kind?’
‘The Saint.’
‘No, don’t say that.’ The stick figure with the halo was St Kilda’s emblem.
‘She says she was at the stove, it came to her. The head and the halo. Halo bigger than the head.’
I took the cap off the coffee cup.
‘Can’t drink it without sugar. Needs sugar,’ said Cam.
‘No.’ I sipped. This was coffee, Harry Palmer coffee, sugar ruined it. ‘That’s it?’
‘No. Ring each side she thinks, gold.’
‘She should go back to the jacks.’
Cam opened his coffee, added sugar from two little paper bags, stirred with the plastic implement, tasted. ‘She’s not happy to do that.’
Our eyes conversed. I said, ‘Yes. Leave it with me. It’s an exceedingly long shot and I’ve exhausted my welcome. But.’
He nodded, not looking at me, eyes on his coffee. ‘Can’t find any other way.’
‘The vehicle,’ I said. ‘I’ve been thinking about the vehicle.’
‘The vehicle?’
‘From a carpark.’
‘A carpark.’ Cam looked up, into the distance, turned the eyes on me, yellow eyes, the sinews bracketing his mouth showing. Nothing more to be said.
‘Do the tatt,’ he said, ‘then we’ll do the carpark.’
‘This breakfast, I owe you.’
‘Dinner. Owe me dinner.’
When he’d gone I made a call about the tattoo. The man at the other end groaned.
‘Jesus, fuck,’ he said. ‘Use the phone book.’
‘Robbery with violence, maybe serious assault. Not inside on February 20.’
‘Use half the phone book. Tomorrow it’ll have to be. Six-thirty.’
‘Not fucking bad,’ said the driver.
It was 10.40 a.m. and we were in the furniture van outside the wrought-iron double gates of Mrs Purbrick’s neo-Georgian mansion in Kooyong. The greasy rain on Punt Road had turned to a soft, clean mist here, further testimony to the preferential treatment handed out to the extremely
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