The Punjabi Pappadum (6 page)

DAL MAHARANI .......... $10.00

Assorted lentils with kidney beans simmered in exotic spices, cream and coriander.

T
he mood in the Pappadum was worse than a losing team's locker room on grand final day. Sombre it was, to say the least. Mr and Mrs Singh had invited Dexter and Travis for a feast with the relatives to celebrate Veejay's birthday. But no one, especially the birthday boy, was in the mood for partying.

The restaurant was in desperate trouble now. The trickle of customers each week meant that the Pappadum was choking to death slowly. Mr Singh knew enough about business to know that you can't pay overheads when you've got an empty till. But he refused to give in. And you had to admire him for that.

“You could get a job,” said Uncle Ravi, scooping up some dal. “Start at the bottom somewhere and work your way up. That's how I made my fortune.”

Mr Singh was firm. “No.”

“Don't be stubborn, Ranjit, you've a family to feed. I've made some inquiries on your behalf and I know a place that's looking for a chef. You could start straight away.”

Uncle Ravi had their attention now.

“It'd be mainly burgers” — he grinned cruelly — “but hey, beggars can't be choosers.”

The jibe was designed to hurt and it worked.

“If you weren't my brother, Ravi, I'd ask you to leave right now.”

As far as Dexter and Travis were concerned, Uncle Ravi was now in the red, wok-wise. He was one of those big-noters — someone who dragged others down in public with the warped intention of making themselves look better. But in this instance, the tactic backfired. The cheap shot, delivered with a stinging tongue and an evil smile, reeked of bitterness and sour grapes. It did some damage all right, but Mr Singh, proud and dignified, came out the winner.

But still Uncle Ravi wasn't done.

“You can't live on pride, Ranjit,” he said. “Pride doesn't pay the bills.”

“Enough, Ravi.”

“You want your wife and boy to go without?”

Across the table, the brothers locked eyes.

“Like the mongoose and the cobra,” laughed Uncle Ravi. “Just like old times, hey?”

A hand slid into the coat pocket of his expensive suit and pulled out a wad of cash. With steely eyes he pushed the bundle across the table.

“Take it, little brother. Don't be fool.”

HARYANA SUBJI .......... $11.00

A variety of seasoned vegetables cooked with a spinach sauce and exotic herbs.

T
hat night, a full complement stood on the footpath ready for the stakeout. They'd invited Sam along, not so much for her surveillance skills, but more as a “getting to know each other” session.

The old Morris flashed its headlights then pulled up kerbside.

“I've got a good feeling about tonight, boys,” said Ron, his face beaming.

“Me too,” said Sam, sliding in across the front seat. “Pleased to meet you, Ron,” she continued. “I'm Sam.”

“You're Sam?” he asked, confused.

“Last time I checked.”

“But you're … a … a … girl!”

“So everyone keeps telling me. You don't mind if I ride up front, do you, Ron?”

“Suit yourself.”

Reluctantly, the car lurched forward and away from the curb. Up the hill it chugged, creaking and groaning in protest at the full load.

“Nice old Morris, Ron,” said Sam. “What year is it, 1954?”

“How'd you know?”

“My dad's a mechanic. He restores old cars. I've been crawling under 'em since I was three.”

“Well, fancy that.”

Crunch. The gear stick found second.

“Sounds like a dodgey clutch cable, Ron.”

“You reckon?”

“Pretty sure.”

Ron and Sam did most of the talking on the short drive, which suited the boys just fine. Like long-lost relatives they were, mouths running at full speed.

“Do you mind if I ask you something, Ron?” said Sam.

“Shoot.”

“No offence, but I was wondering what the go was with that nursing home. I mean, you're not that old, are you?”

“I don't actually live there, Sam. My unit's round the back in Cecil Street. I do a bit of voluntary work with some of the more mobile residents — gardening mainly. It does them wonders to get outside in the sunshine.”

“So you've still got a driver's licence, then?”

“Don't worry, Sam, I'm not ready for a wheelchair just yet.”

Finally they glided past Burger Barn, and for the third week in a row Ron backed the old Morris into the darkened alley.

“The boys tell me your feet smell like old fish,” said Ron.

“Is that right?” Sam glared over one shoulder.

“Yep … reckon you've got a voice like an angel, too.”

“Yeah?” She beamed. “They really said that?”

Grinning from ear to ear, Sam ducked down to the bag at her feet. On her way there she bumped her head hard on the dashboard.

“Ouch!”

“Clumsy too, they said.”

Carefully she removed something from her bag and placed it on the front seat.

A bright flash lit the car as she struck a match.

“Da daaaaah!”

“Is that what I think it is?” asked Ron, drooling.

“Chocolate mud cake,” smiled Sam, lifting it aloft. “Did they tell you I could cook?”

Suddenly the boys in the back perked up. Sam turned to them, her face lit by a flickering flame.

“Happy birthday, Veejay.”

As they soon found out, there is only so much partying you can do inside a crammed Morris Minor. So, with bellies full of tea and mudcake, the group kicked back and soaked up the background music coming from the ancient AM radio. Only Sam could see the wetness in Ron's eyes.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

“It's this song.” His voice quivered. “It was our wedding song.”

“You and Nance?”

“Yeah. Frank Sinatra — ‘The Way You Look Tonight'.”

“Did you dance?” asked Sam, laying her hand on his arm.

“All night, darling.”

The time was 11.00 pm and the last of Burger Barn's clientele were long gone. Inside the Morris, things had deteriorated into a slumber party.

“I think we're on, guys,” whispered Ron, stiffening in his seat.

“What do you mean?” asked Veejay.

“The lights inside the restaurant just flashed three times. I'm betting it's some sort of signal.”

“Cool,” replied Veejay. “Maybe this birthday isn't going to be a dud after all … Sorry everyone, no offence.”

“What do we do?” asked Dexter.

“Just sit tight,” said Ron calmly. “Veejay, hand me the telescopic camera, will you. It's in the bag on the floor there. Grab the walkie-talkies too.”

“Roger.”

The boys in the back were hard up against the front seat now, eyes peeled. A group of three men shuffled nervously under the spotlight.

“What's going on?” asked Travis.

“Keep your shirt on,” said Ron, adjusting the telescopic lens. “Let's see … We've got three suits — nothing fancy. Public service, I'd say. Caucasian and middle-aged — certainly not players.”

“What's a player?” asked Dexter.

“A heavy,” explained Ron, keeping his eyes peeled. “Someone with form. You know, a crim.”

“How can you tell?”

“You see the way they walked straight in under the spotlight?”

“Yeah.”

“They're stupid. A player would've gone round the side or the back, where it's dark.”

“They look nervous,” said Sam.

“You're clever, too,” chirped Ron.

Sensing the coast was clear, the smaller, ratty-looking man rapped on the double red doors. Seconds later they opened.

“Bingo!” breathed Ron. “It's my old mate Grubby. Okay everyone, here's the plan.”

It was simple, really. Sam was to act as the decoy, positioned in front of Burger Barn — Sector One. If things went wrong, she was to create a diversion using Dexter's old skateboard and two sachets of tomato sauce. Tacky, but highly effective. Covering Sector Two would be Dexter and Travis. Ron, Veejay and the telescopic camera had Sector Three.

11.15 pm.

“Okay guys, we're on,” said Ron. “Do you remember what I told you earlier?”

“What, about taking out the tea bag before you put the milk in?” asked Dexter.

“No. The plan, Dexter, the plan. We need to find out where they're sitting inside so we can get the camera to the closest window. It'll be light inside so they shouldn't be able to see out. Keep a low profile, and stay out of sight. Got it?”

“Got it!”

Finally, after weeks of inactivity, the call for action had come. They crouched together in a tight circle with their arms around each other's shoulders. Crime fighters they were now, connected by a silent oath of trust. Veejay broke the silence with a couple of deep breaths, as if inhaling the night air might somehow give him strength.

“Phew!”

“Sorry,” said Sam, “I think it's my shoes again.”

The group broke into Sectors, then began to move. Slowly they shimmied into position, working the shadows and hiding in dark corners.

“Sector Two in position,” whispered Dexter, on the two-way.

Sam huddled behind a hotted-up ute parked kerbside then followed suit. “Sector One in position.”

“Acknowledged,” replied Ron.

Peeking through the side windows, it became clear that Sector Three was closest to the action. At the east end of the bar, the three suits were busy backslapping each other over a free beer. Slowly, a figure moved in front of the window at Sector Two. It was Grubby. Dexter quickly killed the two-way and pulled Travis back into the darkness. Just metres away they were now, hidden by a giant elm tree, both completely still. Instinctively they tried shallow breathing like two kids playing a dangerous game of hide-and-seek. But it was impossible. In the stillness of the night it was as if two human vacuum cleaners had started spring cleaning in Sector Two.

Still at the window, Grubby ran a hand over his tatty goatee. Surely he'd seen them, so why hadn't he made a move? Then the boys remembered what Ron had said about not being able to see out. Grubby was staring at his reflection. Standing there, he produced a toothpick and went to work on his crooked teeth, picking out bits of food, then sucking them back down his throat. Satisfied, he turned and walked towards the others at the end of the bar. Quietly, Dexter and Travis moved out from the safety of the elm, flashed Sam a thumbs-up on the way past and joined the others at Sector Three.

“What happened?” asked Ron. “We lost contact.”

“We had to kill the two-way,” whispered Travis.

“Fair enough. Listen, it looks like this is the best spot. We've already got some good shots, but we need something that's going to really hurt them.”

Luckily, they didn't have to wait long.

“Hang on, this looks promising,” said Ron, lifting the camera to his right eye. “Good boy, Grubby. I wonder what's in those three yellow envelopes?”

Ron's trigger finger got busy on the telescopic camera.

“Come on, boys, don't be shy,” he whispered. “Show Uncle Ron what's inside.”

Zoom. Click.

“Gotcha!”

Like a fisherman whose line's been swallowed, Ron went to work, reeling off shot after shot.

“That's it, fellas, make sure you count it now … Oh, this is beautiful.”

Finally the succession of clicks ended with the zing of a rewinding film.

“Show's over, boys,” said Ron. “Let's go.”

Before the boys had a chance to move, Burger Barn's double red doors burst open. Sectors Two and Three hugged the brickwork, pressing their faces hard against the restaurant's east wall.

“What were you bloody well thinking, parking the ute out front, ya moron?” yelled Grubby, giving his offsider a clip across his left ear. “I could train a monkey to do a better job than you. God knows it'd be a damn sight cheaper.”

“Sorry boss.”

“You got the keys?”

“Yep.”

“And the address for the drop-off?”

“Seventy-four Boundary Road, Hillbrook.”

The offsider rubbed his palm slowly down the ute's side panel like a horse-lover admiring a thoroughbred's hind quarter.

“She's a beaut all right, boss. Must've cost you a fortune to hire this baby. It's got that many extras, a bloke could live in it.”

“Listen, Mullet, just get in, drive to the drop-off, unload and get yourself back here. Got it?”

“Don't worry.”

“Okay then, I'll see you in three hours.”

“Sweet.”

Checking that the canvas was secured correctly over the tray, Mullet jumped into the driver's seat and took off. With Grubby back inside, Sectors Two and Three hightailed it back across the road to the laneway. The Morris was empty.

“Where's Sam?” asked Ron, worried.

“She was supposed to be out front,” replied Dexter.

Four sets of eyes peered out from the darkened laneway, searching frantically for signs of movement. Nothing stirred.

Suddenly a faint but familiar voice crackled over the two-way.

“Sector One to Sector Three, come in.”

“Sector Three here,” answered Ron. “You had us worried there for a minute, Sam. Where are you?”

“On my way to Hillbrook, I think.”

“You didn't?”

“Sorry, I did. I couldn't help it. I'm under the canvas but I think I'm on to something.”

“Hang tight, Sam, we're on our way … Get in, boys!”

Ron pressed the accelerator to the floor and the Morris responded as best it could. Down the street it chugged, first gear, second, then third. Soon it was out on the highway, roaring and whining in top gear.

“Is that it?” asked Travis.

“'Fraid so,” replied Ron. “We're flat stick.”

The passengers were edgy. By now, everyone had done the maths in their heads. It was simple — Hillbrook was an hour and a half away. The longer they drove, the wider grew the gap between the two cars. All they could think of was Sam, huddled under the canvas, scared sick.

Dexter grabbed the two-way.

“Sam, it's Dexter, do you read?”

“Only just,” came a thin reply. “Nice night for a drive, hey?”

“Are you all right?”

The two-way crackled static then broke up.

“Are you all right?” persisted Dexter. “Sam, do you read?”

Silence.

It was official. Playtime was over. Inside the Morris, everyone was thinking the same thing.

“Mullet!” croaked Veejay.

“Not necessarily,” said Ron. “Could be we're out of range.”

“Maybe we should ring the police,” suggested Travis. “This is getting out of hand.”

“You're right,” admitted Ron, “there's a service station about fifteen minutes up the highway.”

Behind the steering wheel, Ron crunched up and dipped his head down low like a cyclist, as if doing so might make them go that little bit faster. Ridiculously, the boys followed suit. Like four hunchbacks they were, eyes peeled, counting red reflectors on the side of the road. The fifteen minutes seemed like a lifetime.