St Kilda Blues (Charlie Berlin #3)(55)
‘Nasty little f*cker, is he?’
Lauren smiled at Berlin. She really was a looker. He knew a lot of blokes would find it easy to misinterpret that smile. She was thinking he was a nice older gentleman, and with a sense of humour too. And not too uptight to say ‘f*ck’ out loud.
‘He’s a smooth-talker, comes off as a nice enough bloke when you first meet him but let’s just say I went out with him once and once was enough. My dad took me to see the professional wrestlers at Festival Hall a few times when I was a kid and Gorgeous George and Killer Kowalski had nothing on Derek. When we got into his car it was like being attacked by an octopus, one who didn’t understand the word “no”.’
‘Do you know where we can contact him for a chat? Maybe someplace he might be right now.’
She wrote an address down on a notepad and tore the page off. ‘This is the studio where he works. He’s there most days.’
Berlin handed the page to Roberts, who put it into his folder with-out taking his eyes off the girl.
Berlin extended his hand. ‘Thanks for your help, Lauren.’
The girl shook his hand and smiled. ‘Don’t mention it. And when you track Derek down don’t say I said hello.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Berlin glanced at his watch then looked up and down the street. ‘See anywhere we can grab a pie or some fish and chips for lunch? Something fast, I don’t want to waste time.’
Roberts indicated the café under the GEAR office. ‘What about Greek? I reckon we can be in and out in ten minutes, fifteen tops. Just as quick as fish and chips, and tastier.’
The café was dark after the brightness of the street and it took a minute for Berlin’s eyes to adjust. The only other customers he could see were several elderly men playing dominos at a laminex-topped table towards the back. They looked around when the two men came in and then went back to playing and drinking black coffee out of tiny cups. The music from the jukebox was unusual and there were travel posters on the wall showing ancient temples. Some of the tattered and grease-stained posters looked to be almost as old as the temples.
The bloke behind the counter who took the orders was wearing a dirty apron over a dirty singlet. Berlin didn’t have a clue about Greek food but Roberts appeared to know what it was all about, probably from hanging out with his girlfriend’s uni mates. Roberts ordered two souvlakis with everything and promised Berlin he would enjoy the taste. Cubes of meat impaled on metal skewers went into a puddle of oil on the hotplate. They sizzled and the smell told Berlin it was lamb.
The two men drank icy lemon squash from cans and watched as the meal was prepared. Round flatbread was warmed on the grill next to the skewers of lamb then spread with a smear of white creamy paste. Berlin glanced over at Roberts.
‘It’s called tzatziki, Charlie. Cucumber and yoghurt and garlic and stuff. It’s nice.’
The tzatziki was topped with shredded lettuce and diced tomato and onion and the cook layered the meat from the skewers across the top. Each souvlaki was sprinkled liberally with dried oregano and then rolled up in waxed paper. They came to the table on plastic plates. Berlin peeled the waxed paper back and took a bite. After a second mouthful he decided he would add Greek food to his list of good things to eat.
Roberts finished off his souvlaki before Berlin was halfway done. He leaned back in his chair and let out a loud belch. Hanging around with a bunch of twenty-year-olds appeared to have also affected his manners.
Berlin took a two-dollar note from his wallet. ‘Why don’t you pay for lunch and ring in to Russell Street and see if anything’s come up on the girl while I finish this off.’
After paying at the counter, Roberts left the café and walked across to a public phone box at the kerb near the parked Triumph. Berlin followed him outside a minute or two later and waited at the kerb by the Triumph. He noticed the cook from the café was leaning in the doorway in front of the multicoloured vertical strips of vinyl meant to keep flies out. The man appeared to be waiting, looking up the street to his right. Berlin turned around and saw Lauren coming out of the stairway entrance to the GEAR offices.
The long skirt and peasant blouse had been replaced by tight satin shorts, a ribbed woollen top with a high collar, a big soft cotton cap and a leather shoulder bag. She had a wide studded belt around her middle, a long chain with a crucifix round her neck and a brown suede jacket that came down to mid-thigh. Matching suede boots came up to just below her knee and between the bottom of her very short shorts and the top of her boots there was nothing but leg. She smiled when she saw Berlin and walked over to the kerb.
He smiled back. ‘I think my daughter might say that was fab gear.’
‘Thanks. We can’t wear stuff like this around Lance, unfortunately, he gets a bit too grabby. I don’t think he understands it’s just fashion.’
Berlin took a business card from inside his suit coat pocket. ‘If you ever did want to give modelling a shot I know someone who could have a job for you.’
Her smile was polite but Berlin saw disappointment in her eyes. So he was just another sleazy middle-aged man. ‘My wife is a photographer and I think she’d like to work with you.’
The girl glanced at the card and then back at Berlin. There was a different look in her eyes now.
‘You’re married to Rebecca Green? Really? I saw some of her nudes in a group exhibition at the Photographers’ Gallery last year, she’s groovy.’