Death in Brunswick Read Free Page B

more than—what? Twenty-eight? God, maybe I could… He felt his spirits lift higher. Tonight might be all right after all; the food wasn’t too bad considering. And he did owe Mustafa money, so if the Turk was gone maybe that was it, and he must be able to score some pills somewhere— and then there was Sophie!
    A certain lack of the self-consciousness usually found in young Greek women, coupled with heavy hints dropped by the bouncers, made her definitely available and to Carl, shy with women, availability was the scent of a bitch in season.
    But I must have another drink. Now if I can get her to pinch me another, strictly against house rules, it’ll mean she fancies me—or will it? He hurried back to the kitchen.
    She had finished the pots and was leaning against the sink; she wore his short apron. He saw her in profile, a very Greek profile, he thought; her round, soft face was dominated by a strong hooked nose. Jesus, what a conk! It was a bit intimidating really. But what about that pouter-pigeon chest—that big shapely bum—the uniform—even the apron—God, she looks like something out of one of those magazines!
    He felt predatory—like that well-known molester of young Greek girls, Lord Byron. However, not having the social advantages of that aristocratic harasser, he put a note of appeal into his voice:
    â€˜Sophie, listen, go and get us another drink, will you? A double, ay?’
    She smiled. God, look at those teeth. He thought of his own: twenty-eight left and sore gums.
    â€˜Yeah, OK, Cookie,’ she said good-naturedly.
    â€˜Don’t get caught now,’ he said as she swung out of the kitchen like the head girl at St Hilda’s.
    Excitedly he planned his next move. What time is it? Seven-ten—not much time—first, pasta and rice. He put two big pots of water on the stove, dropping a handful of salt into each. The heat near the stoves was terrific and the roar and boom of the exhaust fans made his head ache, so he retreated to the serving area. He could hear the steady electric grunt of an electric bass from overhead; a cymbal clashed—bands rehearsing. He remembered his dead father saying puzzledly:
    â€˜But they all sound the same. ’
    Carl would try to explain but his father would just say in his polite way:
    â€˜A bit quieter, please, boy, that’s all.’
    And Carl would turn up his record player.
    But they do all sound the same. The guitar whine was knifing into his middle ear. I’m sorry for torturing you with them, poor old chap—now I’m being punished.
    Sophie appeared from the gloom carrying another glass.
    Sex, drugs and rock’n’roll! But what about drugs? What about Mustafa? Where was he going to get some stoppers?
    He took the drink, and after taking a big slug:
    â€˜Everything OK? Listen, thanks a lot, Sophie.’
    â€˜No sweat, Cookie, Yanni’s in his office with Laurie and the bouncers.’
    â€˜Jesus, they’ll be down for their tea soon. Um, listen Sophie, can you give me a hand with something? I have to bring in a bag of rice from the passage.’
    â€˜Yeah, OK,’ she said absently. ‘Jeez, they’re shit-house, them Abos.’
    â€˜What Abos?’ said Carl, taken aback.
    â€˜That band upstairs,’ said Sophie impatiently. ‘It’s an Abo reggae band from Northcote.’
    â€˜Oh yeah,’ Carl muttered.
    Vinyl, Aboriginal reggae—how long ago did I stop noticing these things?
    She went through the kitchen. He followed, admiring her thick hair, gleaming blue-black under the harsh fluorescent light.
    She went through the passage door and he realized with some trepidation that this was the perfect place for what? A declaration? Maybe even some foreplay! Not romantic to be sure, filled as it was with bags of rice and rusty iron compressed-air cylinders.
    Quickly, before he lost his nerve, he slipped his arm around her waist and pressed