The Punjabi Pappadum (4 page)

GULNAR-E-DARYAI ..........

Whole red snapper marinated in spices and simmered in a piquant sauce and cooked in the tandoori oven.

S
tanding outside the Pappadum, Dexter took a moment to think about Hugo's advice on successful tuning techniques. Be yourself, he'd said, and go in hard. You're the man. According to Hugo, flowers were essential first up. Granted, they were a bit of a drain on the bank balance, but they worked a treat. In his opinion, a flashy display of affection never failed. It set you up as a big spender — sensitive, and unafraid to splash out when it came to the girls.

With that in mind, Dexter pushed through the doors, a bunch of roses tucked under his arm.

At a front table, Veejay sat reading a cricket magazine. Opposite him, Indira cradled a
Cosmo
magazine in her lap. Voices filtered out from the back room.

“Hi,” said Dexter. “What's going on?”

“Warney's having trouble with his flipper,” replied Veejay glumly.

Instead of the sari, Indira wore dark denim jeans, folded into thick hems at the bottom. Her bare feet were crossed and resting casually on the table and a tight T-shirt said “New York''.

Hugo's voice sounded clear in his head. “You're the man, Dexter.”

“These are for you, Indira,” he said, pushing the roses forward.

She looked up briefly from an article, rolled her eyes, then returned to the magazine.

“Flowers give me hay fever,” she yawned.

“Hay fever,” reeled Dexter, stumped. “Oh … okay then … I'll just … um …”

He tried to recall if Hugo had mentioned hay fever. They'd certainly covered acne and personal hygiene. But nothing on hay fever.

“A quiz!” beamed Indira, turning the page. “This sounds interesting. ‘Man or Mouse — Is he Lightweight or the Real Deal?' ”

Suddenly the blond supermodel on the cover of
Cosmo
came to life. All arms and legs she was, like a puppet, dancing on the page. She giggled through swollen red lips and looked Dexter up and down. “That's no man, honey,” she announced, “that, there, is pure rodent.”

It was time to regroup and, luckily for Dexter, Veejay was onto it.

“Come on, Dex,” he said. “Let's see if there are any curry puffs floating around.”

GOSHT NAWABI BIRYANI .......... $8.00

Basmati rice cooked with saffron-flavoured lamb and garnished with nuts. A royal treat!

T
hat afternoon, the boys found Ron in his usual spot by the window, giving the tea lady hell.

“Forget it,” he snapped, when he spotted them. “My boys are here.”

Three chairs were arranged around him in a semicircle.

“White with one, Ron?”

“Good lad, Travis. A couple of shortbreads too, if you don't mind.”

While Travis fixed the tea, Ron started up some small talk.

“Any luck with Indira, Dexter?”

“Who's the big mouth?”

Veejay shifted uneasily in his chair. “Sorry.”

“Fraid not,” admitted Dexter. “I think she's got a bit of jet lag.”

“Never mind, she'll come round.”

While the other residents dozed quietly in their recliners, Ron was unstoppable.

“Waste of bloody time sleeping,” he said.

On the outside Ron looked like one of those antique cars, a rare collector's item, but inside, the engine was a roaring V8.

“Okay then. I've been doing some research, boys. Still got some contacts in the force, believe it or not. Anyway, we've struck gold. Turns out that the owner of Burger Barn is none other than one Horace Dundee — ‘Grubby' to his mates. I knew him when I was a copper. He's as dodgy as they come. Trouble is, no one's ever been able to pin anything on him.”

“So what's the plan?” asked Travis.

“It's time for a stake-out, fellas.”

“Cool,” said Veejay. “Where?”

“If I remember, Grubby is a creature of habit,” explained Ron. “Not the smartest guy in the world either. He likes to shower his associates with free grub, hence the nickname. Let's try Burger Barn at closing time.”

“You've forgotten one thing, Ron,” interrupted Dexter.

“I have?”

“Yeah, we don't have a car.”

Ron drained the last of his tea and smiled.

“Just meet me here tonight. Outside, say nine o'clock?”

In the street outside Happy Valley, Veejay checked his watch again.

“He's late.”

“Don't worry, Veejay,” said Travis. “He'll be here.”

“We should have synchronised our watches. It's not professional.”

In the distance, a car chugged sluggishly into the street. A horrible grinding noise sounded as its driver searched for the right gear. The gear stick found its mark and shot the car forward, whirring sickly towards them.

“Sorry I'm late,” said Ron from the driver's seat. “Had to do a couple of warm-up laps. Didn't miss a beat, the old girl.”

“You're kidding, right?” asked Travis.

“Behold the Morris Minor, boys,” beamed Ron. “A brilliant feat of British engineering.”

“It's prehistoric,” stated Veejay. “We can't do a stake-out in that thing. It's … it's unprofessional.”

“What do you suggest then, skateboards? Come on, jump in.”

Veejay eased himself in next to Ron, leaving Dexter and Travis to get into the back. For a moment they sat completely still, worried that any sudden movements would cause the old girl to collapse. Inside, the car was immaculate. The seats were slippery, brown vinyl with white trim.

“They don't make them like this any more, boys,” beamed Ron, slapping his gloved hands together. “Are we strapped in?”

“Affirmative,” replied Travis. “Bag 'em up, Ron.”

“Do you want us to start pedalling or something?” asked Dexter.

Ron turned and stared them down with serious eyes.

“That's all we need, hey Veejay? Comedians in the back seat. Pass me the list in the glove box, will you.”

From his pocket, Ron unfolded a pair of glasses. Black-rimmed numbers they were, with thick lenses.

“Right, then,” he said, holding the list centimetres from his eyes. “To move the car forward, depress the clutch, move the gear stick to first, release the handbrake and …”

Before he got to accelerate, Travis and Dexter were unbuckled and going for the doors.

“Fellas! I'm kidding.”

Before long Ron had the Morris Minor parked in a dark alley across from Burger Barn. The spot was perfect. They were hidden by the buildings beside them but had a clear line of sight to the restaurant's front doors. A conveniently placed streetlight lit the faces of customers as they spilled outside. Stake-out wise, it didn't get any better.

“Sit tight, fellas,” said Ron. “I'll just get my gear from the boot.”

Like a geriatric tap dancer, Ron dick-clacked his way over the bluestones to the rear of the car.

“This is so cool,” said Veejay. “I wonder what kind of surveillance equipment he's got. High-tech stuff, I hope.”

“Probably,” said Dexter. “You can't do a stakeout without the right gear.”

Dexter and Travis propped themselves forward as Ron slid a black duffle bag onto the front seat.

“Hope I didn't forget anything,” said Ron, un-zippmg.

“Come on then, show us!” squealed Veejay excitedly.

A long metal object, definitely high-tech, emerged from the bag.

“What is it?” asked Veejay, goggle-eyed.

“One jumbo-size thermos,” smiled Ron. “Who's for a cuppa?”

Back in the bag, his free hand searched for something else. He became frantic, scratching and pawing at its contents.

“Sorry lads, we'll have to call it quits, I'm afraid.”

“Why?” asked Dexter.

“I've left the lamingtons at home.”

Everyone relaxed into stake-out mode while Veejay familiarised himself with the telescopic camera. From the backseat Dexter watched Ron pour himself a second cup of tea. The whole process was done in slow motion, carefully, like some kind of ritual. He made a big deal of cupping the mug gently in both hands then easing it up and breathing in its leafy aroma.

“Aaagh!”

“What's with the tea anyway, Ron?”

“It's a long story, Dexter.”

“Well, we're not going anywhere.”

Over the whirr and buzz of the telescopic lens, Ron took a healthy slug of tea. He gulped again and again until the mug was at full tilt, then drained it.

“I met her at the Railway Hotel,” he began. “Nancy, her name was. She was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen. Her dad owned the place, so Nance worked the bar certain nights. Wednesdays and Thursdays I think it was. I'd call in after a shift just to see her. Can you imagine that? This tough copper at the end of the bar too frightened to say ‘boo'. She did that to people, Nance. She left you speechless. When you're a detective in the force, you learn to read people. But with Nancy it was different. Mysterious, she was. Sitting at the end of the bar I slowly got to know her. It was exciting, as if she had given me permission to peel away a layer one by one. But she didn't take any lip either, no sir. Handled herself just fine. And do you know what the funny thing was …?”

The boys shook their heads.

“Nuh.”

“She chose me … Out of all the blokes in Longwood, she chose me.”

“You asked her to marry you?” said Dexter.

“Sure did.”

“Did you take flowers?”

“The biggest bunch of roses I could afford.”

“Typical,” said Dexter. “Some blokes have all the luck.”

Travis rolled his eyes. “Let him finish, Dexter.”

Ron gripped the mug tightly to stop his hands shaking.

“… and six months after we were married, Nance died in a car crash.”

Gently, Veejay levered the mug from Ron's grip and poured him more tea.

His tongue rolled across his top lip and caught a tear.

“Thanks,” he croaked.

In one hit the tea was gone.

“That's all we had … six months. A drunk driver ploughed into the car at high speed. They didn't stand a chance.

“They?” choked Travis.

“Pregnant she was — on her way home from the doctor's with the good news.”

Veejay went to say something but nothing would come.

“Completely lost it I did,” continued Ron. “I couldn't get out of bed. Stayed there for a week, I reckon. Then I had this idea — a way that I could be close to Nance. Straight to the pub I went. Sat at my stool at the end of the bar, night after night, drinking till I couldn't drink any more … I'd be dead if I hadn't stopped.”

“So that's why you drink so much tea,” said Dexter.

“Yep. That and because it was Nance's favourite. She reckoned it cured everything from a broken heart to haemorrhoids.”

Unscrewing the lid, Veejay held the thermos in the air.

“White with one, Ron?”

“Don't mind if I do.”

Across the road, the last of the customers stood milling about under the streetlight.

“You might want to check this out, Dexter,” said Veejay.

“Check what out?”

“Right there, at two o'clock, in the tight jeans and denim jacket?”

“Where?”

“Sorry, make that three o'clock.”

Stretching forward, Dexter bent over the front seat and braced himself. His head was on the dash now, peering through the front windscreen.

“Indira?”

“What's she doing here?” asked Travis.

“That's what I'd like to know,” spat Dexter. “And who's that she's holding hands with?”

On cue, the boy with Indira turned into the streetlight.

“Daryl?”

“Who's Daryl?” asked Ron, confused.

“Daryl's Burger Man,” explained Travis.

“Oh.”

“Look on the bright side, Dexter,” said Ron. “She seems to be over the jet lag.”

Shuffling through the Singhs' back gate, the boys made a beeline for the front door of Veejay's bungalow. A dim light peeked through a partially drawn curtain just as they'd left it.

“Come on, Dex,” said Travis. “It's not the end of the world.”

“What's he got that I haven't got?” spat Dexter.

“An ability to do cartwheels for one.” Veejay grinned.

Over and over, the image of Indira and Daryl, hand in hand, flashed through Dexter's mind. If his world hadn't ended, it had certainly come to one almighty standstill.

A figure in tight jeans and denim jacket moved out of the darkness of the Singhs' back porch.

“Well, well, well,” ribbed Indira. “If it isn't the little choir boys, how sweet. Had a night out at the local library, have we? Let me guess … there's a new set of encyclopedias just come in?”

“I'm afraid that's classified,” replied Veejay swiftly.

The two cousins stepped from the shadows and into the moonlight. It was obvious it wasn't the first time they'd locked horns.

“The cobra and the mongoose meet again,” announced Veejay, circling.

“Cobra?” interrupted Travis. “You're nothing like a cobra.”

“I'm the mongoose, you idiot.”

“Oh yeah, sorry.”

Despite being a similar age, Indira looked much older than the boys. She stood tough, hands on hips, with her black hair messy across her face. Her denim jacket opened up revealing a white T-shirt with “DEADLY” written across its front in black.

Indira attacked first. “Loser! You and your dad are both losers, you always have been. And look at your friends …”

Veejay attacked back. “So, how did you enjoy Burger Barn tonight?”

The question rocked her.

“Burger Barn?”

“Let's just say we saw you there on our way home from the library.” Veejay grinned.

Indira took a backward step, reassessing as she went, her confidence brilliantly shot to bits by the cagey mongoose. They'd reached a stand-off. Not so much the classic Mexican stand-off, it was more your Indian variety.

Now Indira didn't look so tough. She looked lost. Despite being terrified of snakes, Dexter couldn't help thinking that even venomous reptiles are entitled to have someone in their corner cheering them on.

“You coming, Dexter?” asked Veejay, unlocking the bungalow door.

“I'll be there in a sec.”

“Suit yourself.”

Somewhere in his head, Dexter heard a familiar voice.

“You're the man,” it said.

Slowly he moved towards Indira.

“Listen Indira, I think we may have started badly. How about I have another crack at it.”

“You're not my type.”

“And Daryl is?”

“Yeah, he's cool. He scored eighteen out of twenty on my
Cosmo
survey. You scored four. Anyway, I wouldn't be seen dead with a choirboy.”

For some reason, Dexter thought about Ron and Nancy.

“We could take it slow,” he said. “How about you let me peel off a few of your layers?”

Indira took another step back then tightened her denim jacket around her.

“What are you, some kind of pervert?”