Black Wattle Creek (Charlie Berlin #2)(50)
At first he thought she was too smart by half, aggressive, foul-mouthed, suggestive and all too ready to fall into his bed. But she had also calmed and comforted him, accepted him for who and what he was without judgement at that terrible time in his life. And then, on his blackest night, she had secretly taken the cartridges from the Browning, to save him from putting it to his temple for a second time in so many days and actually pulling the trigger. He didn’t think she would want to see the gun again.
He cleaned the weapon as best he could, using rags and some of Rebecca’s sewing-machine oil. Even though the Browning looked to be in good working order, the condition of the cartridges still had him a little worried, and there was only one sure way to find out if they were okay. On the way home he’d dropped into a milk bar for a packet of smokes and some firecrackers. He’d chosen a packet of Big Tom Thumbs, twenty medium-sized bungers in two facing rows with their paper fuses neatly plaited together. The garishly coloured illustration on the label showed a couple of chubby Chinese toddlers lighting long strings of firecrackers by a pagoda and on a bridge over a fishpond. Did Chinese two-year-olds actually get to do that? he wondered. The crackers were made by the Chen Cheong Fireworks Company and the label promised they would make MUCHEE LOUD NOISE, and that was exactly what he was after.
When he was ready he crossed the road to the vacant plot of land opposite his house. Even though Guy Fawkes Night was still a month or so away, the ground was already littered with wisps of red paper from recently exploded firecrackers. After school and on weekends the whole neighbourhood echoed to the sound of detonating bungers and the whoosh of skyrockets.
He knelt down out of sight of the road, behind the growing mound of rubbish that would be a community bonfire for the families at this end of the street. Using the glowing tip of his cigarette he lit the fuse on the Tom Thumbs before tossing the hissing fireworks a couple of feet away. In the middle of the machine-gun-like staccato blasts of the exploding crackers, the quick bang bang of a Browning .32 being fired into the muddy creek bed went unnoticed. He picked up the two still-warm brass shell casings ejected from the pistol and dropped them into his overcoat pocket, along with the weapon. At least he knew the gun would work if he needed it to.
Back in the house he tracked down Lazlo Horvay’s home telephone number through directory assistance, but there was no answer when he called. He tried again on the hour, helping the kids with their homework in between, and around six someone finally picked up. The man who answered had a thick foreign accent and there was piano accordion music and laughter in the background.
‘Horvay eat away this night. Eklund Street, Sent Keelda. You know Café Budapest? Near to tram stop. Horvay miserable bloody bugger. Bloody Magyars all same, all miserable bugger.’
There was a noise like somebody spitting and the phone was slammed down before Berlin could ask any more questions.
Rebecca was making a beef stew with potato dumplings for dinner and she protested when he leaned over her shoulder and used a fork to spear a piece of meat. ‘Hells bells, Charlie, between you and Sarah I’m surprised we ever get anything to the table.’
He grabbed his wife round the waist and squeezed tight. ‘Sorry, but I have to go out and I might be a bit late. It tastes great, can you save me some?’ He kissed her on the lips and she kissed back.
When they separated she looked at him quizzically for a moment and then leaned forward and sniffed his suit-coat lapel.
‘You taste like stew and smell like firecrackers. I’ve got enough on my hands with Peter without you turning into a nine-year-old. Can you telephone if you’re going to be back really late?’
‘I promise,’ he said, and then, ‘I love you.’
Café Budapest was on the ground floor of a rundown, three-storey brick terrace on Acland Street, near the intersection with Carlisle Street. Closed wooden shutters over the front windows gave the place an unwelcoming air. The name was painted on a simple wooden sign over the door and there was a menu pinned inside a glass-fronted case next to the entrance. None of the items on the menu were familiar to Berlin.
He opened the door and walked into a murky haze of cigarette smoke. The haze was broken by pockets of light from low-wattage bulbs in shaded lamps mounted around the walls at irregular intervals. There was a smell of meat and cabbage cooking, and a low rumble of conversation, which stopped as he entered. The dark space was crowded with tables, and the clientele was all male as far as Berlin could make out. No one seemed happy to see him. Well, almost no one. A hand waved from the back of the room. It was Lazlo, sitting alone. As Berlin crossed the room, weaving between tables, the buzz of conversation started up again.
‘Charlie, my friend, this is an unexpected surprise. Come join me’.
The table had a square of butcher’s paper for a cloth and held a half-eaten plate of food and a half-finished glass of wine.
Berlin pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Are you a spy, Lazlo?’
Lazlo seemed unperturbed at the question. ‘Always the policeman, are you not, Charlie? Let me get you a glass for some of this quite reasonable wine and I shall finish my dinner and then we can talk. Are you hungry? I recommend the szikelykdposzta. Pork with sour cream and paprika served on sdvanyu kdposzta. That would be sauerkraut to you. Sadly my Jewish Hungarian heritage causes me almost insurmountable ethical problems with szikelykdposzta – the pork, you see.’
‘I’m not hungry and I thought you told me Lazlo Horvay wasn’t Jewish.’