“No,” I said hoarsely. “Come back in five years.”
She laughed a bit unsteadily. “Don’t be silly. Where’s your bed?”
“Upstairs, front.”
She whipped around and I heard her feet dancing up the stairs. Carefully carrying a full glass of wine I followed. She’d turned on a lamp in the bedroom and was bending to pull back the cover. In the lamp glow she looked like an Egyptian maiden of infinite grace performing some domestic task. She slid into the bed except for one thin bare arm which she arranged outside the covers and alongside her. She lifted the arm and let it fall.
“Get in.”
She’d have tempted Gandhi and I knew that if I moved an inch towards the bed I was done for. I raised the glass and drank some.
“Go to sleep. If it’s any consolation to you I’m going to get drunk.”
I started back to the stairs. She was laughing when I reached them but the sound stopped very soon.
I didn’t get drunk. Not then. I let myself quietly out of the house and caught a taxi back to Balmain. The all- night cafe was fighting the darkness with a pale, flickering neon sign and droning, toneless canned music. I pushed the door open and went in to the smells of burnt bread and over-fried oil. There were about ten tables in the place and solitary men sat at three of them. One of the men had his head on his arms and the other two weren’t far off it. A heavily built man wearing a large white apron came from the back of the place when the door slammed behind me. He went behind the counter and leaned forward over the espresso machine. His hair was black and curly above a round olive face. The thought crossed my mind that he was the same nationality as Coluzzi, but that’s where the resemblance to that predator ended. This was a soft, comfortable man.
“Yes? You want something sir?”
I asked for coffee and got out a five-dollar note. He pushed the cup over to me and I gave him the money.
“You can keep the change for a little information.”
He held his fingers poised over the keys of the cash register like a typist waiting for her nails to dry.
“Information?”
“Nothing dangerous. Were you working here yesterday morning?”
“Sure, I own the place. I’m here all the time.”
I handed him the picture of Noni Tarelton. He looked at it and shrugged.
“Maybe. Lots of girls like that around here.”
Balmain, it’s the only place to live. I described Berrigan to him and he nodded so hard his chins wobbled.
“Sure, sure, I remember now. Ears like this.” He fanned his ears out the way Lorraine had; it must have happened to Berrigan all his life and it was a bad thing for a criminal to be so recognizable. He should have tried another trade.
“That’s him. What did they do?”
“They had breakfast – eggs and toast and coffee.”
“Did you hear them talking?”
“No, too busy.”
“OK. Now this is the important part. Who else was here?”
He laughed with the rich, high notes of the Italian tenor. The guy slumped at the table jerked up and looked around, then his head fell back.
“I couldn’t tell you Mister, the place was full. It’s my busy time like I said.”
“I appreciate that, but you should remember this one – a black girl, young, very good-looking.”
“Ah, the blackies, sure I remember them.”
“Blacks? Did you say blacks?”
“Yeah. The girl, must be the one you mean, and a man, youngish fella, a tough guy.”
I felt the excitement rise up inside me. He pushed my coffee cup forward on the counter.
“It’s getting cold.”
“Forget it,” I said, more sharply than I meant to. He look offended and I picked up the cup and took a sip. “Terrific. Tell me about the girl and the man, what did they do?”
“Are you the police?”
“No, private enquiries. Look. I showed him the licence and drew another five out of my wallet.
“Is it about dope?” he said quickly. “I hate dope, sloppy people, dirty…”
“So do I. Yes dope’s part of it. Just tell me about the girl and the man.” To encourage him I finished the coffee. He pulled out a packet of Gitane filters and offered them to me. I refused and he shook one out and lit it; the acrid smoke overwhelmed the cooking smells and gave the place a conspiratorial, secretive atmosphere. I fiddled with the note, folding it and tapping it on the counter.
It got to him and he screwed up his eyes against the smoke, visibly searching his memory. “The man was here first, yeah, that’s right. He had just had coffee, over there.” He pointed to the deepest, darkest corner of the cafe. Then he thumped himself on the head and his curls bounced. “No, no, I’ve got it wrong. The girl, the blonde, and the man with the ears came in first. They sat here.” He indicated a table near the door. “I didn’t see the black come in. He must have come in the side door. It’s open at the busy time.” The cafe had a lane running beside it and a door let out onto the lane. I nodded and he went on: “He was just there, the toughie, in there where I said. I remember because he paid me when I brought his coffee. That’s not usual, you know?”
I knew, I said. “What about the dark girl?”
“She didn’t stay, didn’t buy anything. The blonde and the man with her paid and went, then the young guy went after them. The girl came in the front – they were all going out the side, see? She just went straight through after them. She came back later and had coffee… yeah, I think it was her.”
“You’ve got a good memory.”
“I sing, opera you know? I have to remember the words and the movements. You like opera?”
I hate it. “Yes,” I said. I gave him the other five and he tucked it away in his apron.
“Thanks, I’ll buy a lottery ticket. The big one, you know?”
“Yeah, good luck.”
“It’s bad luck for those people, isn’t it?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Don’t get me wrong, it’s nothing personal, but I got a sense, you know? You’re a bad luck man and the chair told me anyway. The one with the ears, he sat in the bad luck chair.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t let this get around, eh? But there’s a chair in this place that’s unlucky. People sit in it and they have bad luck. A friend of mine, his daughter died, and a woman I know, she got hit by a bus, right out there.” He pointed out into the street. I took a last look around the cafe. Nobody had moved. Nothing had changed. It was just a little bit later and the air was a little bit staler. And for the men at the tables the park was just so much nearer.
“Why don’t you move the chair?” I said.
“I do, every day. It’s over there now.” He waved his hand with the cigarette in it to the far wall. “You think I’m superstitious?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, could be. Why don’t you try an experiment?”
He looked interested. “Like what?”
“Try the chair on someone you don’t like.”
“There’s no one I don’t like that much.”
“You’re lucky. I’ve got to go. Thanks for the help. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight Mr Hardy.”
He was quick. I grinned at him and went out.
The house was quiet when I got home. The bedroom let out a soft glow and Penny’s coat and clothes were still in the kitchen. I tossed the clothes onto a chair and fought down the impulse to go upstairs. I needed help in the fight so I rooted around and found a bottle of rum, half-full. I got out ice and chopped up lemons and settled down in the front room with the bottle and the fixings. I worked steadily through the liquor and started on Flashman for the third time. I remember reading “Possibly there has been a greater shambles in the history of
