Below this headline was Johnny's prison photograph. The letterpress went on:
Missing from home, believed suffering from loss of memory: Johnny Bianda. Heavily built, five foot nine inches, clean shaven, sallow complexion, grey-black hair, forty-two years of age. Known to favour a St. Christopher medal.
A reward of $10,000 will be paid to anyone giving information that will lead to this man being found. Contact:
Dyson & Dyson, Attorneys-at-Law,
1600 Crew Street.
East City. Tel. 007.611.09
'He'll hide up with someone without money . . . they always do,' Tanza said with his evil grin. If this doesn't flush him out, we have other tricks, but I think it will.'
SEVEN
Johnny came fully awake when he heard the phut-phut of a motor boat. Lifting his head, he looked out of the open window to see Freda in a small boat, powered by an outboard motor, moving away from the houseboat. She was wearing the faded shirt and stretch pants and a cigarette dangled from her lips. The boat headed across the lake. Johnny dropped back on his pillow. He had been woken previously by the sound of the truck starting up, and only half conscious, he realized Scott was off to work.
He lay on the small bed and thought of the previous evening. They had eaten curried Black Crappie, a lake fish, with rice, onions and tomatoes. It had been a good meal, eaten more or less in silence. Scott had wanted to see something on T.V. and he had eaten fast, then leaving the other two at the table, he had gone over to the set and turned it on.
Johnny had been very aware of Freda as they sat opposite each other. He had eaten hungrily.
'You cook fine,' he said.
'Ed says the same.' The flat in her voice made him look sharply at her. 'That's all men think of . . . food.'
He glanced across the room to where Scott was absorbed in the lighted screen.
'Not all men.'
'Have some more.'
'I'd be nuts if I didn't.'
She pushed back her chair.
'We live like pigs here. Go ahead. I've things to do,' and she left the table, going into the kitchen.
The food was so good and he was so hungry, he didn't hesitate. He cleared the bowl, then sat back reaching for a cigarette.
After a short smoke, he crushed out his cigarette, collected the plates and carried them into the kitchen. He was surprised to see her sitting on the deck, staring across the lake.
'Let's clear up,' he said. 'You want to?'
'Sounds like you're domesticated.' There was a slight jeer in her voice. 'Leave it for tomorrow . . . tomorrow's another day.'
'I'll do it. You stay there.'
She stared at him, then shrugged.
'So I stay here.'
It took him some twenty minutes to wash the dishes and clear the table. He liked doing this. It reminded him of the safety of his own apartment which seemed far away, then he joined her on the deck and sat beside her in an old, creaking bamboo chair.
'Nice view,' he said.
'You think so? I've got used to it. After two years, a view gets faded. Where are you from?'
'Up north . . . and you?'
'Sweden.'
'I guessed that. Your hair . . . your eyes . . . you're a long way from home.'
'Yes.' A pause, then she said, 'Look, you don't have to make conversation with me. For two years I've lived more or less on my own. I'm used to it. You're our lodger. I wouldn't have you here if it wasn't for the money. I like being alone.'
'I won't get in your way.' He stood up. 'I've had a rough day. I'm turning in. Thank you for a fine meal.'
She leaned back in her chair and looked up at him. 'Thanks for clearing up.'
