Cooking the Books (22 page)

I left Horatio asleep and let myself out into the street. It was hot and still, that drowsy sort of weather which presages storm. It also presages sweat. I would be dripping by the time I got back. I adjusted my straw hat and hefted my bag. I might drop in at Uncle Solly’s New York Deli. I didn’t feel like cooking tonight.

I strolled along Elizabeth Street. It was now late afternoon and people were going home, dodging the sun by crowding the shade. I was carrying my own shade with me. My passage was unobstructed.

This part of Elizabeth Street is notable for large motorbikes and larger men with black T shirts and beards that a possum could nest in. Actually I have never examined a bikie’s beard for wildlife. He mightn’t like it. The air was alive with petrol fumes.

Across the road was the green space surrounding an unassuming little church dedicated to, yes, St Francis of Assisi, and there was his statue. How this had hidden from the extensive ruination of the city during the sixties I could not imagine. It was a survivor, like Insula. I searched diligently around the base of the statue. No parchment. No papers or litter at all. I wondered where they dumped their sweepings. In a nearby bin, I hoped. I drifted over to said bin and looked inside. Wrappings from fast food, cigarette butts, a pair of sneakers—what sort of story was behind that? They didn’t even look worn.

‘Looking for something?’ It was a
Big Issue
seller. He seemed amused. This was, of course, his corner.

‘Yes, a piece of paper,’ I told him. I approve of the
Big Issue
. Gives the long-term unemployed a profession and dignity and also, of course, money. To spend on dinner and shelter. This was a youngish man with black curly hair and an affable grin.

‘Worth something to you?’ he bargained.

‘Five dollars. Ten, because I haven’t bought a copy of the magazine this month,’ I told him. ‘Is this where they put the rubbish from St Francis’s?’

‘Sure is. What is it? Clue to buried treasure?’

‘Sort of.’ A reply of which the girls might have been proud.

‘Well, I been here since sparrow fart, and the sweeper comes past every hour. Old bloke. Says that people bring things to the church to throw them away just to annoy him. And the derros hang around here. The lawns are nice and flat to lie down on when the grog’s got you.’

‘Yes,’ I said, encouragingly.

‘Well, one of them was very careful to put this where someone might see it. I saw it and got it. Twenty, I think you said?’

‘Ten,’ I insisted. He was waving a piece of parchment. ‘Going to split it with Pockets?’ I asked, producing the bill.

‘Oh, you know ’im? Nah,’ he said, taking the money and giving me the paper and a copy of the magazine. ‘Can’t. After leaving the paper poor old Pockets was picked up by the constabulary for lying down in front of a tram, and they took the poor bugger away. ’Bout six this morning. Sister Mary was here.’

‘Soup Run? Of course, she is a Franciscan nun.’

‘You know Sister Mary?’

‘Yes, I do the bread for the Soup Run.’

‘Jeez,’ he said. ‘I can’t take your money!’

‘Yes, you can,’ I told him. ‘It was a fair deal, and if you hadn’t picked up the paper, it might have gone forever in the early rubbish collection.’

‘All right,’ he said, relieved. For a woman devoted to the virtues, Sister Mary engenders tremendous deference. The sort of respect awarded to army, police and Colombian hit men. ‘I promise my entire profits will be spent on my dinner.
Big Issue
!’ he yelled at passing commuters. ‘A cheap way to demonstrate you have a social conscience! Come on! Only the price of a couple of lattes!’

That man would go far. I went home, perspiring. As I walked I unfolded the letter.

Georgie Porgie
, it said. I sang it to myself as I slipped into Uncle Solly’s New York Deli, a haven of civilisation. Yiddish civilisation. Uncle Solly was there, sitting behind the counter reading a newspaper he always described as the
Hebrew Astonisher
.

‘Corinna! Dollink! You look hot!’

‘Thank you, I think,’ I replied. ‘I’m too tired to cook dinner, Solly. What’s on your menu today?’

‘Sit, sit,’ he urged. ‘A glass of tea, perhaps? Yes, good, for such a day.’ He poured me a glass of lemon-coloured tea from his samovar, which simmered all day on its stand. ‘There, that’s better,’ he said, beaming. ‘Catch your breath. I got sausages, you fancy maybe some weisswurst, nice with mustard, maybe some potato salad, maybe Thousand Island dressing for these leaves? Special for you.’

‘Yes,’ I said weakly. The tea was very hot and refreshing.

‘And for dessert I got a special
apfelstrudel
. Just like mother. Your Daniel never tasted the like. All right?’

‘Pack it all in this.’ I handed over the bag. ‘You’re a life saver, Uncle Solly.’

He was, too. Since the advent of his deli several of the night-crawlers had tried to rob him. This had always been sorted out amicably, except in the case of the man who had been so unwise as to pull a knife on the respected uncle. The attacker had gone down under an expert assault from Uncle Solly’s nephews. They not only took away his knife and broke his arm, they scared him so badly that the word spread that Uncle Solly’s was not the place to try a little adventitious robbery. I knew things about Uncle Solly’s political connections. He was a powerful man.

Also, he stocked the best weisswurst. He packed my bag with deliciousness and handed it over. And in exchange he asked only money. It didn’t seem fair. I waved to the ever-present nephew and slogged my way back to my apartment.

In the atrium of Insula, whence I had paused to relish the coolness, I recited Pockets’ latest clue.

‘Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie, kissed the girls and made them cry. When the boys came out to play, Georgie Porgie ran away.’

Sounded political. But then, most things did.

Daniel came in as I unpacked my bag and stashed the sausages where no cat could be tempted. Horatio has not yet managed to open the fridge. Like most cats, he is careful of his dignity and will not try anything if he thinks he might not succeed. Or in the process be put in an embarrassing position. I have never forgotten his shame when I had to rescue him from being captured by one paw from the hanging basket of catmint which had been presented to him by Trudi. He had decided to help himself and had been trapped by gravity. He had slunk away and refused to speak to me for days . . . Like Jason, perhaps.

‘Uncle Solly has provided dinner,’ I told Daniel. ‘Tea?’

‘God, yes.’ He sank down and rubbed his face with both hands. ‘Actors! Crew!’

‘You’ve had an overdose of emotions?’ I asked sympathetically.

‘If it was sugar and I was diabetic you would have been visiting me in hospital,’ he replied. ‘But I’ve spoken to everyone. At length. And once I have recovered my nerve I will tabulate it all. That ought to narrow down the suspect list to the people who had the opportunity to carry out these tricks. Then we will think about motive. Also, I am making progress with the little Zephaniah. Ms Atkins’ child,’ he reminded me. ‘I have a line on who adopted him. What about you, my angel?’

As I made tea I told him about the holy fools of Gotham, the church of St Francis and the
Big Issue
seller. I also told him that Pockets was in custody.

‘Thank God,’ said Daniel piously. ‘I can get some sleep tonight. This detective game is wearing on the nerves. That was clever of you, ketschele,’ he told me. ‘What do you make of Georgie Porgie?’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Mr Google will help me. But for the moment, you will drink your tea, I will put on some music, and we will be peaceful.’

I put on my favourite rendition of Monteverdi’s sacred songs and we sat in silence, drinking tea and listening. Sweet, clever, intricate music with a hint of dissonance. Lovely. Outside, as the music finished, lightning flashed and then thunder rolled. That storm was coming along nicely.

‘I’m glad you don’t have to go out,’ I said to Daniel, kissing him. ‘It’s going to be a nasty night.’

‘Perfect for bad deeds.’ He grinned at me. ‘Let’s have some delicatessen,’ he suggested. ‘I’m starving. Did Uncle Solly give you weisswurst?’

‘He did, also a strudel which he says will be better than your mother’s.’

‘It would have to be,’ he said, getting up to put the grill pan on the stove. ‘My mother never cooked a strudel in her life.’

‘You don’t talk about your family,’ I said hesitantly.

‘They’re ordinary,’ he replied, unwrapping parcels. ‘My mother is a surgeon and my father is a businessman. They live in Tel Aviv. They think I’m an aimless youth and live in hope that I will go back to university and get a good degree, preferably medicine or law, marry a nice Jewish girl and settle down to raise children in Israel. Instead I am shacked up with a shiksa in far-flung Australia, making a living out of other men’s evils. We don’t get on,’ he added unnecessarily. ‘Fortunately my elder brother is everything they required in a son, so I got let off the hook a bit.’

I did not want to make a comment which might be considered hurtful, so I shut up and laid out the salads. Uncle Solly does a lovely Thousand Island dressing. I don’t know what his secret ingredient is. Not for lack of testing and wheedling. But he won’t tell me. I could taste capsicum, tarragon, a hint of chilli, garlic, tomato, chives, paprika—what was it? A smoky flavour . . . sort of celery . . . did anyone smoke celery?

We dined on the delicatessen in amiable silence. Families. They were a problem.

When the sausages were eaten and the salad bowl empty, I asked, ‘What about Zephaniah, then?’

‘He was adopted by a couple called Smith.’

‘Oh, that should make life easier,’ I said, surprised into irony. ‘Not a lot of Smiths around.’

‘They seem to have been very religious,’ said Daniel. ‘They gave their reference for the adoption as the Church of the Holy Mother of Perpetual Suffering.’

‘I’ve never heard of that one. Our Lady of Perpetual Succour, or Help of Christians, yes. But perpetual suffering?’

‘I thought it was odd, too. But I don’t know much about your religion. I looked it up but there is no listing for it anywhere. Not now, of course. I am working on the directories twenty years old. They were said to live in this church in Eltham.’

‘Artists’ colony?’ I asked. I had watched Eltham change from apple orchards and wandering watercolourists to close-packed houses and lots of prams. It is scary how far the city now extends. You can drive for hours and never leave it.

‘I don’t know. Surely not even artists would sign up for endless suffering?’

‘They would if it improved their pictures,’ I told him. ‘Have some strudel.’

Daniel tasted. ‘If my mother had ever made strudel, this would be better,’ he opined. It was indeed wonderful and I schemed to pinch Uncle Solly’s recipe. Once he told me about the Thousand Island dressing. I must introduce him to Bernie. This was her kind of cooking.

After dinner Daniel went to his laptop and I went to my computer to look up Georgie Porgie. All sources referred me to the amazing career of George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, favourite of James of Scotland, who called him ‘my sweet wife’. He was the highest-paid tart in the kingdom, it appeared, got involved in war (for which he was quite unsuited) and was finally stabbed by a soldier, survivor of his campaign where he had got five thousand out of seven thousand men killed. The murderer was understandably miffed about this. But somehow this did not feel right to me. I was no folklorist but I felt that the George in question must relate to the kings called George, of whom we had had lots. And didn’t they call the Hanoverian era ‘Pudding Time’? Plus I was sure that I had seen a statue of King George in Melbourne somewhere. Near the shrine?

Thunder crashed. My, that storm was getting its eye in. I logged out before I was forcibly disconnected. Horatio, who dislikes climatic assaults, walked in a dignified manner to my wardrobe and tucked himself inside. That was a sign—Grandma Chapman used to call it ‘beast reckoning’—that it was going to be a significant storm. The Mouse Police did not pay attention to thunder. If it wasn’t a mouse or rat—or on occasion a spider, pigeon or moth—they didn’t even twitch a whisker. They might have noticed a hurricane but only if it demolished the bakery. I hunted out a few candles, in case the power went out. The night was now as black as pitch and rumbling and flashing like a Steven Spielberg movie. The leafy green things on my porch were suddenly bent over by a lash of wind and rain came belting down. Daniel looked up from his laptop and said ‘Wow!’ as the weather slapped the building aside and all the lights went out.