Matthew Flinders' Cat (12 page)

Billy finally lost his patience. ‘Look, bugger off, will you!’

To his surprise, the boy merely smiled and made no move to leave, cocking his head to one side. ‘What’s yer name then?’

‘Billy! Now get packing.’

‘At school when they ask, you’re supposed to say yer full name. Want to know what mine is?’

Billy sighed. ‘Not particularly, but I don’t suppose I have a choice.’

‘It’s Ryan Sanfrancesco, like the place in America, only with an
e
.’

Billy nodded, his face deadpan. ‘How do you do?’

‘Can I call yiz Billy? Or do I have ter say Mister . . . and then your other name?’

‘O’Shannessy without the
u
. You may call me Billy, but only if you leave right now.’

Ryan grinned, ‘Termorra. You won’t forget, will ya? You promised yiz’ll talk ter the cat. Ter Trim.’

‘Yes, yes, tomorrow. I promise.’ Anything to get rid of the brat. Then Billy had a sudden stab of conscience. It had been a long time since he’d talked to a child and made a promise for the sake of a bit of peace. He wondered how often he’d done the same thing to Charlie and then failed to keep his word. Later, when his hangover had cleared a little, he’d realise that he hadn’t asked the kid what it was he wished him to ask Trim. ‘Tomorrow morning will be fine, Ryan.’

The boy named Ryan Sanfrancesco placed his foot down on the end of his skateboard so that the opposite end flipped upwards, allowing him to grab hold of it and swing it under his arm in a single neat movement. He walked the eighteen or so steps to the pavement and turned, ‘See yiz!’ he called cheerfully. Billy heard the clatter of the wheels on the cement, then a thump as the skateboard jumped the pavement, and later the softer sound of the wheels on bitumen as the kid crossed the road and took off in the direction of Hyde Park.

Billy sat for a while, trying to gather the energy to get going. The boy had exhausted him. After five minutes or so, he rose from the bench and started to walk down Macquarie Street on his way to Martin Place. He felt dreadful and the lad may have been right, his wrist was becoming increasingly painful and beginning to take priority over his hangover. He decided he’d do his ablutions first, then wait until the shops opened and get a sling from the pharmacy across the road, or maybe he’d do his ablutions and go down to the Quay for his usual assignation with Con. There was a pharmacy just across from Con’s cafe, maybe he should take a couple of aspirin as well.

‘Well, well, what have we got here?’ Billy looked up to see Sergeant Phillip Orr almost upon him. He panicked and turned to run but the policeman grabbed at his elbow and slid his hand down to Billy’s wrist, gripping hard. Billy stopped and his legs buckled as he howled in sudden anguish, his knees hitting the pavement.

Orr released his grip and observed Billy’s torn and swollen wrist. ‘Jesus, what you done to yerself, mate?’ But Billy, crouched on the pavement, could only whimper. The cop reached down and grabbed him by the belt and pulled him to his feet. ‘Steady on, I’m not going to hurt you. Here, lemme take a look.’

Despite the shame, Billy felt sudden tears run down his cheeks as he held out his left arm for the policeman to examine. ‘What yer do, get pissed and fall down?’ Sergeant Orr took a step backwards and examined Billy. ‘You’ve done a bloody good job on yerself, haven’t you, mate.’

‘I fell,’ Billy whimpered. He wanted to wipe the tears from his cheeks but he couldn’t, his left hand was extended for the cop to examine and his briefcase was shackled to his right.

‘Yeah, I can see that.’ He glanced at his watch and sighed. ‘Better come along with me.’ He indicated the hospital next door to Parliament House with a jerk of his head. ‘Wrist could be sprained, needs a dressing anyway, looks a bloody mess.’

‘No, please, sergeant! I’m . . . I’m just on my way to St Vincent’s, they know me there,’ Billy said, repeating Ryan’s words.

‘You a tyke?’ Orr asked.

‘No, but my wife was ...er, is.’

‘Suit yourself, but there’s a perfectly good emergency right here. Take you half an hour to walk to St Vincent’s.’

Billy tried to grin, ‘Family’s always gone there,’ he lied.

The police sergeant glanced down at his watch again.

‘Please, sergeant, I’ll be fine, you must catch your train.’

The policeman hesitated a moment longer. ‘Okay, Billy, I’ll trust you.’ He looked stern. ‘But if I see you tomorrow morning and you haven’t had it treated,’ he paused and pointed to the briefcase, ‘I’ll find something inside that case to charge you with. Bloke who walks around with a briefcase handcuffed to his wrist is either silly in the head or he’s got something to hide. You ain’t silly in the head. Get my drift?’

Billy, unable to speak, nodded. The legs of his trousers started to shake as his knees trembled violently.

Orr was quick to see the effect of his threat. ‘Got something to hide, have we?’ His voice took on a threatening tone, ‘Get your wrist attended to or I’m going through your shit like a pig snuffing for windfall apples. Okay?’ Then he turned and crossed the street hurriedly, heading for Martin Place station. Billy’s mouth had gone completely dry again.

He felt quite sure he was going to pass out. The shock of the policeman’s threat, the pain in his head and his injured wrist were rapidly becoming too much for him to bear and he knew his wobbly legs were unable to take him a step further. The thought of the policeman finding the blackfella’s stash made him tremble afresh and he sank slowly to the pavement and sat with his back against the iron-railing fence of Parliament House. He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate in an attempt to bring his pounding heart under control.

‘Here, give’s the key,’ a voice beside him said. He opened his eyes to see Ryan seated beside him, holding out his hand.

Billy hadn’t heard Ryan approach and was suddenly unsure of how long he’d been sitting with his eyes closed. He knew that he was beyond protesting but the effort to raise his left arm proved impossible. Orr’s fierce grip around his wrist had greatly exacerbated the pain and the slightest movement of his fingers sent an agonising stab, as if a long shard of broken glass was being forced up the inside of his arm and into his shoulder.

‘I’ll get it,’ Ryan said, and leaping to his feet, reached down the back of Billy’s neck and pulled the key chain over his head. He grinned, ‘See, ya couldn’t have wiped yer bum, could ya?’ He removed the handcuff from around Billy’s right wrist, leaving it dangling against the side of the briefcase. Billy’s right hand immediately returned to the handle, gripping it protectively.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t look inside it. I ain’t the fuzz,’ Ryan said calmly, replacing the key around Billy’s neck.

‘You heard the policeman?’

‘Yeah, some stuff. I was across the road.’ Ryan looked at Billy’s hand clasped about the case. ‘If we’re gunna go to St Vinnie’s like you told the cop, I’m gunna have to carry it. Yiz buggered, mate.’

Billy released his fingers from the handle of the briefcase. Ryan stooped down and snapped the handcuff around his own wrist.

‘You don’t have to do that!’ Billy exclaimed.

‘Yes I do, me mum says I can’t trust no bugger and mustn’t ever, it’s the same for you. I could run off.’ He extended his free hand to help Billy to his feet. ‘C’mon, grab a hold, let’s kick the dust.’

There it was again, an expression from the past. ‘I’ll be fine,’ Billy said, trying to rise. He placed the palm of his right hand on the pavement at his rear and pushed, trying to rise. Reluctantly he took the boy’s hand and struggled to his feet. ‘Right,’ Billy said, looking about, though at nothing in particular. He was trying to regain his composure, ashamed that he had become so dependent on the lad’s help. It was just that there seemed to be too many fears invading him at the same time. He was a weak bastard.

Ryan flipped his skateboard up and under his arm and they began to walk up William Street to Kings Cross, turning right along Victoria Street towards St Vincent’s. True to his word, Ryan called a halt outside Cesco’s. A group of cyclists in their mid-forties and -fifties sat around the pavement tables posing in their skin-tight, multi-coloured riding gear, some of them clearly overweight. They’d removed their moulded plastic protective helmets since they thought they detracted from their image. A dozen or more five-thousand-dollar racing machines were arranged carelessly against the pavement edge in a bright tangle of spokes and neon colours. It was only just seven o’clock yet the place was full of people looking for a coffee fix or simply wanting to be seen.

Cesco, the owner, enjoyed a reputation for the best coffee in town and the shortest fuse. He had reputedly been a cruiserweight boxer in Italy, though nobody could recall if he’d ever been a champion. A pair of red boxing gloves hung from the lip of a giant cappuccino cup and saucer set on a special shelf built high up on the wall behind the espresso machine. Across the face of the cup were the words
Il Campione!
It wasn’t clear whether this appellation referred to Cesco’s boxing career or to the superior brand of Italian coffee he used. But it nevertheless succeeded in reminding patrons that Mr Cesco was not to be trifled with.

It was one of those curious anomalies that the more aggressive Cesco became, the greater the reputation of his coffee. Although his regular clients included dozens of celebrities and business high-fliers, Cesco was nobody’s toady. He played early-morning host to a cross-section of Sydney society, ranging from prostitutes to real-estate barons, stock-exchange millionaires to nightclub bouncers, lawyers as well as crims, drug addicts, doctors, media tycoons and building workers. All were equally welcome, provided they weren’t drunk or off their heads from substance abuse, kept the peace and had the price of a cup of coffee in their pockets.

There was one exception. Children weren’t allowed on the premises. Cesco sold only coffee, biscotti and Florentines. He considered caffeine bad for a child under sixteen and the Italian biscuits too good to waste on some yuppie’s precocious little bastard.

Ryan placed his skateboard at Billy’s feet, walked into the coffee bar and stood at the takeaway counter. When his turn came, he asked for a large cappuccino and held out his fifty-dollar note. The young woman doing takeaway shook her head, ‘No kids,’ she said, jerking her head towards a sign on the back wall.

‘It’s not for me,’ Ryan protested. He pointed at Billy, who stood to one side in the gutter. ‘It’s for me friend.’

‘Sorry, I’m not allowed,’ the waitress said, not changing her expression, clearly not believing Ryan. She lifted her chin slightly and, with her eyes, indicated the next person in line.

Ryan put two fingers to his lips and let out a piercing whistle that brought the entire coffee bar to a standstill. ‘A large cappuccino to take away, please, miss,’ he said politely, though loud enough for his voice to carry to Mr Cesco as well as to the patrons seated inside.

Mr Cesco, busy at the second espresso machine at the far end of the counter, shouted, ‘Whazzamatta?’ Then he saw Ryan. ‘Oh itsa you!’ He nodded at the waitress, making a dismissive gesture with his hand. ‘Give him!’

‘But, Mr Cesco, you said–’ the young woman protested.

‘Nevermind I said, you give!’ Cesco shouted impatiently, then looked out over the counter at the silent patrons. ‘Everybody talk!’ It was more an order than a request.

The young woman shrugged and made the takeaway coffee, which she handed to Ryan without saying a word. Ryan held out the fifty-dollar note and she took it with a resigned sigh. Mr Cesco must have been watching out of the corner of his eye because now he shouted, ‘Florentine! No money!’

The waitress sighed, handed Ryan back the money and removed the fruity Italian biscuit from a glass jar and dropped it into a small white paper bag, handing it to the boy.

‘Thanks, miss,’ Ryan said, without having once looked at Mr Cesco.

Several of the patrons laughed as they watched Ryan carrying the coffee in one hand while Billy’s briefcase was handcuffed to his wrist. Someone shouted, ‘Hey, Cesco, that the bagman doing his rounds!’

Cesco banged his fist on the counter. ‘Shutta up!’ he shouted, bringing the coffee bar once more to silence. ‘You watcha your mouth!’ he said to the joker who’d made the quip, and pointed a fat, gold-ringed finger first at him, then at the pavement. ‘You drink your coffee, bugger off!’

Billy watched as Ryan approached. His wrist was growing increasingly painful and he was sweating from the walk. He suspected he had a slight fever. ‘I seem to create nothing but trouble,’ he said, wiping his hand across his face.

‘Nah, no worries,’ Ryan said reassuringly, handing him the coffee and gripping the paper bag containing the Florentine between his teeth. He brought his skateboard up under his arm, impervious to Cesco’s outburst. ‘He’s our rello, see. Me grandpa was Eyetalian.’ He indicated Cesco with a nod of his head in the direction of the coffee bar, ‘His name’s same as us, but he’s changed it since he come here.’

Billy stopped and took a sip, the coffee was still too hot and he drew back suddenly.

‘Shit, I forgot the sugar!’ Ryan said.

‘No, it’s quite all right, not today,’ Billy fibbed. ‘It’s very hot, that’s all.’ Billy couldn’t bear the thought of Ryan returning to the coffee bar.

The boy looked momentarily doubtful. ‘Really and truly, you don’t take sugar?’