Wet Graves by Peter Corris Page B

Napoli, where I had the wine and a lasagna to blot it up. It being Wednesday night, the place was pretty quiet. I go there often enough to consider myself almost a regular and I saw a few people I’d seen there before, which tells you you’re a regular. But it’s the kind of café you feel comfortable in whether you’re a regular or not. The people serving the food and coffee will talk to you if you want or leave you alone—your choice. You can read or look at the nicely framed paintings, drawings and photographs on the walls. These are by people known to the management and are for sale. I once saw a customer buy a painting.
    I ate my food slowly and made the wine last. The television was turned to SBS for the news and a sports roundup and then Bruno, the proprietor, turned it off and settled down with cigarettes and a short black to talk to his pals. The TV wouldn’t go on again unless Bruno said so, which meant until there was a soccer match. That was fine with me. I read some stories in the Sydney Review , a give-away tabloid that seems to be subsidised by upmarket wineries and boutiques. I got a few laughs and a few yawns for free. Two dawdled-over coffees took me past eight o’clock, which was still way too early to actually find Rhino Jackson behind a wheel or a poker hand. Before leaving I had a quick word with Bruno and we came to an understanding.
    I took a walk around the back streets, making the dogs bark but drawing comradely nods from the other nocturnal strollers.
    By 9.15 I’d run out of streets and was sharp and dear-headed. A plane passed over, low down and with landing lights blinking, as I reached into the car and took out the licensed and totally legal Smith & Wesson .38 automatic. As I put the weapon in the pocket of my leather jacket I had the thought that ninety-nine per cent of the people I’d seen and spoken to since I’d arrived in Leichhardt would have disapproved of me carrying it in their suburb. I disapproved myself, more or less, but there was that dangerous one per cent who thought and acted differently. It was still too early to find Jackson playing games, but it wasn’t too early to ask around, politely.
    Four doors down from the Bar Napoli is another coffee shop in which very little coffee seems to get drunk. It’s small, crowded with tables, has a big flashy espresso machine and they work hard at creating a busy atmosphere. The TV is always on; La Fiamma and other papers and magazines lie about, and there’s always at least one table with coffee cups and full ashtrays sitting on it. They sit there for a long time. Also sitting for a long time are a succession of men who smoke, watch the TV with one eye and the street with the other. In Australian they’re called ‘cockatoos’; I don’t know what they’re called in Italian.
    I went past the Bar Napoli and gave Bruno the sign. Then I walked into the other place and nodded to the man sitting near the door. There were no other customers but there was a guy sitting on a stool behind the bar. He was dark and thin, not more than twenty years old, and he was reading an Italian soft porn magazine with deep concentration. I bought cigarettes I wouldn’t smoke and a cappuccino I wouldn’t drink from him and put two twenty-dollar notes on the counter. He made change for one of the twenties and I pushed it and the other note towards him.
    â€œYou know me, don’t you, mate?” I said.
    He shook his head.
    I pointed at the door. Bruno stood there, all five foot three and fifteen stone of him. He nodded and the man behind the bar scooped up my money. His accent was straight inner-west Sydney. “It’s too early,” he said.
    â€œI’m looking for someone.”
    â€œWho’d that be?”
    â€œRhino Jackson.”
    â€œHaven’t seen him for a fuckin’ month, the bastard.”
    â€œMy sentiments exactly. I’ll go up and watch for