The Punjabi Pappadum (9 page)

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T
here was much to celebrate when Christmas came to Longwood. With Horace Dundee in police custody, and the money returned to the Citrus Growers Association, the construction work on the Big Valencia and souvenir shop was already under way and a new buzz word hit the streets of Longwood — “Tourism”. Everywhere you went, the locals gathered in groups and lingered in shops discussing the possibilities — backpacker hostels, caravan parks and mini golf. But for Ron and his team of crime fighters, the streets were off limits. Since Horace Dundee's departure in a police car and the subsequent recovery of the money, they had managed, even in the festive season, to pip Santa in the popularity stakes.

But in a way, being confined to the Macallisters' garage was a blessing, because January 19 seemed to be hurtling towards them, faster and faster, and Deadly needed to stay focused.

“We've been over it a hundred times, Veejay,” snapped Theo. “It's shuffle, shuffle, step, then turn. Right, right, left, right. Do it again.”

Veejay looked down at his feet. A strip of yellow masking tape with the word “LEFT” was stuck to the toe of one of his boots.

“I don't feel like dancing. What's the point anyway?”

“Deadly is the point,” replied Theo. “You've got three other people here busting their arses, and that's not good enough. We need four arsebusters. If you fall behind it's going to throw the whole thing out of sync. Let's try it together, from the top.”

From the first step, you could tell that Veejay's heart wasn't in it. There was no zing, as Theo put it, no zap. During the verses, sloppiness didn't matter so much. As Sam sang the melody, the boys free-danced around her. But zing and zap were crucial in the chorus. It was the part where all four came together in sync. It needed to be tight and slick, explosive and in-your-face. Slightly off-colour wasn't going to cut it — they had to be DEADLY.

“Let's lift the intensity, guys,” roared Theo, skirting the perimeter as the song progressed. “Eyes up, Travis, stop looking at your feet … attitude, people, give me attitude.”

Theo Ryan killed the stereo, cutting the Hammond organ short. He fiddled with the BMW logo on his gold necklace until he had it centred. Something was on his mind.

“Okay, take five,” he said.

Breathless and exhausted, the band members found a seat and waited.

“Technically, we're almost there,” continued Theo. “And I couldn't be happier with the vocals.”

“But?” asked Sam.

“But there's still something missing.”

“What is it now?” chimed in Veejay sarcastically. “The zing? The zap? The vibe? Or maybe it's the vah vah vooom? It's all bullshit if you ask me.”

Everyone, especially Theo, looked his way, shocked.

“Considering what you're going through, Veejay,” said Theo, “I'll let that slide.”

“Yeah?” said Veejay, getting to his feet. “Well, let this slide … I quit. How's that for attitude?”

Off he bolted down the driveway.

“Veejay!” roared Dexter.

But it was too late.

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“L
et's give him another five minutes,” said Sam, checking her watch.

“He's not coming, Sam.” Theo shrugged. “We've got to get moving. It'll take us a good hour to get there.”

“He'll be here,” snapped Ron. “Who's for a cuppa?”

Five minutes came and went and still no sign of Veejay. You couldn't blame him really. For the Singhs, the Pappadum's demise was like a death in the family. It was something they'd nurtured from scratch, shaped from day one, until they had it exactly right. And now it was gone, just like that.

Theo Ryan, used car salesman, slid into the front seat of his BMW and kicked it into life.

“Looks like a no-show to me,” he said. “Ron, how about you wind the old girl up.”

Before getting in, Sam checked her watch one last time. Then, as she was throwing her bag into the Morris, something at the end of the street caught her eye. It was the unmistakable swagger of Veejay Singh.

“He's here!” she screamed, running off towards him.

The others looked on as Sam jumped into his arms then led him up the street.

“Didn't think you were coming,” said Dexter, slapping his back.

“Couldn't leave you in the lurch.” Veejay smiled. “Wouldn't be professional now, would it?”

Deadly and its small entourage pulled out of the Happy Valley car park in convoy. Leading the way, Theo, Dexter and Travis got comfortable in the BMW's soft leather seats.

“How's eighteen degrees sound?” asked Theo, adjusting the air-conditioner with the push of a button.

“Make it nineteen,” said Travis, smiling. “How about some tunes?”

Meanwhile in the old Morris things weren't so cruisey. At 11.35 am, the mercury outside was pushing thirty-three degrees.

“I'm sticking to the seats back here,” protested Veejay. “Hasn't this thing got any air-con?”

“You want air-con?” snapped Ron. “Stick your head out the window.”

“I knew I should have gone in the beamer.”

Forty minutes into the trip, Ron spotted the BMW in a service road. He angled the Morris in like a driver going for the pits.

“About bloody time,” he grumbled, joining the others.

“He's cracked the sads,” explained Veejay. “Sam wouldn't let him have a cuppa while he was behind the wheel.”

In ten minutes, Ron had the thermos drained. He re-gloved, adjusted his driving hat, then lowered himself into the Morris, refreshed and raring to go.

Close behind were his passengers. Veejay propped at the rear door, looking down at the sun belting in on the vinyl seat covers.

“What's the problem now?” asked Ron.

“You could fry an egg on the seats back here,” explained Veejay. “I'll get blisters.”

From the bag at her feet, Sam removed a plate then passed it back.

“Here, sit on this.”

“You've got to be kidding,” said Veejay, studying the bunny rabbit pattern around the plate's edges. “Haven't you got anything with horsies?”

“We're going to be late, Veejay,” snapped Sam.

Carefully Veejay lowered his rear end onto the plate then buckled up.

“Economy sucks,” he whinged. “I think I'll pay a bit more and go business class next time.”

The directions from the passenger seat were spot on — follow the road into town, hang a left at the first roundabout, keep going past the Anzac statue and you should see it, the Eastcoast Art Centre. The madness of the car park didn't seem to phase Ron. He motored in, nearly cleaning up a kid unloading a drum kit, then swung wide into a park just near the steps.

“I think my bum's gone walkabout,” said Veejay. “It's completely numb.”

In the crowded foyer, they met the others then lined up at the registration table.

Behind them, a mother licked her hand then smoothed her son's hair flat.

“Stop messing with it, Patrick,” she snarled. “You look like a street kid.”

“But I like it spikey, Mum.”

“I didn't pay thirty dollars to have you looking like an echidna.”

In front, a girl carrying a banjo untangled the corks hanging from her hat then moved forward to the desk.

“Name?” asked the registrar.

“Kristie O'Reardon,” she replied nervously. “The Yorkstone Yodeller.”

“Sign here, Kristie.”

“I thought this was supposed to be a rock eisteddfod,” whispered Veejay.

Everyone shuffled a few steps forward.

“Name?”

“Deadly,” said Ron with a smile.

The registrar raised her eyes, unimpressed.

“I'm afraid this eisteddfod is for those under eighteen years of age, sir.”

“I'm the manager,” explained Ron delightedly. “Although I did have a stint with the Police Band — tuba, mainly.”

“How lovely,” murmured the registrar, returning to the pages on the desk. “Let's see … Here we are, Deadly. You're on in an hour. You'll be called up in twenty minutes. Once you hear your name, make your way to the backstage area. Pete, the stage manager, will take care of you from there. Next?”

Through the chaos of the foyer, Theo guided them to a spot against the wall. All around them kids tuned various instruments and warmed up with scales. Guitars twanged and trumpets hooted, louder and louder until it sounded like a giant chook with a throat infection had been let loose in the foyer.

“QUIETLY!” roared the registrar.

Ah, the giant chook.

Travis steadied himself and felt his face blend with the white wall behind him.

“I can't remember any of the steps,” he blurted in a panic. “Shouldn't we be doing something?”

Before anyone could answer, someone grabbed their attention.

“Deadly?” shouted a man with a clipboard. “Deadly?”

“Over here,” called Ron.

“Follow me, please.”

Double-timing it, Deadly followed the man up a ramp and into a space backstage. Standing off to their right was another act, a group of four boys decked in black and looking very sharp.

“Now that's what I call a boy band,” said Veejay anxiously.

“Hi, I'm Pete,” said the man with the clipboard. “You're our last act for the group category. You'll be on after ‘The Primetime All Stars' over there. Obviously you'll need to get changed. There are rooms off to the left.”

“Thanks, but we're right as we are,” said Theo.

“Suit yourself.”

The big finish from the trio on stage didn't happen. Its ambitious lead singer, spurred on by the full house in the auditorium, tried to hit a high note that was well out of his range. Squealing, he was, over and over, until he finally called it quits and settled for the octave lower. Sweaty and shattered, the trio emerged backstage to a dribble of polite applause.

“We're home, fellas,” smirked one of the All Stars. “Five hundred bucks, bring it on.”

No one had noticed Theo's absence, but when he reappeared he was vibing, big-time.

“I've just worded up the lighting crew,” he said, smacking his hands together. “It's all set.”

Centre stage, minus the clipboard, Pete worked the crowd into a frenzy.

“In no particular order, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I'd like to introduce some local boys — Marty, Rory, Dave and Liam. Please give it up and welcome to the stage the very talented PRIMETIME ALL STARS!”

“Does anyone else want to go home?'' asked Veejay, over the applause.

“We're dead.”

“Not just yet, we're not.” Ron produced a small piece of paper from his back pocket. “Check this out, Veejay.”

Veejay took the cheque and read the details.

PAY
THE PUNJABI PAPPADUM

AMOUNT
FIFTEEN THOUSAND DOLLARS $15,000.00

Slowly he looked up, his eyes filled with tears. “You guys are sick, you know that?”

“It's no joke, Veejay,” explained Travis. “It's the reward money from the robbery. A little ‘thank you' from the Citrus Grower's Association.”

“Fifteen thousand dollars?” babbled Veejay. “But …?”

Dexter silenced him by raising his forefinger and making a slashing sign across his throat. “We've already decided, Veejay. If you remember, The Pappadum was the reason we started this business in the first place. It's only right.”

“But …?”

“We want you to have it,” added Ron, placing his arm around his shoulders. “It'll get the bank off your back and, who knows, there may be enough left over for some renovations.”

Quickly, Veejay flicked through a jumbled screen of images in his head — “Grubby” and the public servants, the food critic and the lies. He let them stay only for a second, then banished the lot into a dark vault, locked it and tossed away the key. Good riddance.

Next, a happier picture appeared — his mum and dad flat stick in a pumping Pappadum. He watched them for a while, his mum in her favourite purple sari working the tables and his dad in the kitchen, pinching spices into spitting pans.

“We're back, aren't we?” he said to Ron, a dreamy expression on his face.

“You'd better believe it.”

* * *

Just offstage, Theo Ryan waved the others over. They gathered around him, arm in arm, while The All Stars belted out a catchy boy band number.

“Can we focus for a second, guys?” pleaded Theo, rotating a ring around the little finger of his left hand. He gave it one last turn, then very delicately aligned a chunky gold treble clef so that it sat upright. The intensity on stage lifted.

“Wow!” barked Dexter. “They look good. Vocals sound a bit thin, though. What do you think, Theo?”

“They're good,” replied Theo. “Nothing new, choreography wise, but they're together. And the timing is spot on.”

“The black looks good,” said Veejay, his mind on the job. “How come we don't have outfits, anyway?”

“Because you're all individuals,” explained Theo. “And each of you brings something different to the group. Why would you want to cover that up?”

Looking around at the others, Veejay had to agree. All their gear was casual, street stuff mainly, but each of them looked different.

“I mean, look at your hat, Veejay,” said Theo. “It's Indian, right? It's a statement. You're saying,
Look at me, I'm proud of my culture.
Am I right?”

“'Fraid not. It's one of the head-rest covers from the Morris. Ron gave it to me to put on because my head was getting hot and now I've got hat hair. There's no way I'm going on with hat hair. I'm stuck with it.”

“It looks cool,” said Dexter admiringly. “What is it, velvet?”

“Okay then,” interrupted Theo. “Look at Sam's tank top.”

“What about it?” she barked, defensively, hands on hips.

“Well, it's tight, isn't it? You're saying,
Look at me everyone. I may not be perfect but I'm proud of my body.
Right Sam?”

“Sorry, Theo. Mum put it in the dryer last night and shrunk it. Actually it's making me itch.”

Flustered, Theo adjusted the pure wool jumper around his shoulders. A two-toned number it was, blue with white sleeves.

“I don't think anyone's saying anything in particular, Theo,” said Ron. “They're just being themselves.”

“Exactly,” agreed Dexter. “I think some people can get carried away with what they're wearing. It's like they're obsessed or something.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” said Theo, checking himself in a backstage mirror. “Tragic, isn't it?”

On stage, The Primetime All Stars shifted into top gear. It was time for some serious attitude. Off came the black jackets. They put on their “bad boy” faces, all tough and serious, and rode the song home tight in black muscle shirts. Perfectly timed, they pulled up just before the music stopped as if someone in the audience had hit “PAUSE” on a giant remote control. Something special was happening on stage. The blond All Star, acting as the centre-piece, got down on one knee, while the others gathered around him in various poses. It was a weird finish. Completely still they were, in a formation that could only have been dreamed up by an unimaginative callisthenics' teacher after a glass of sweet sherry. Still, the audience loved it and they let them know. Chests heaving, The All Stars broke formation and moved to the front of the stage, soaking up the applause with fingers raised m victory signs.

“Err, spew!” said Sam. “Are they serious?”

At the stage entrance, Pete caught Theo's eye.

“You're on in five,” he called, before charging on to the stage. Joining The All Stars, Pete asked the crowd for more and they gladly gave it.

Backstage, Deadly got busy and bunched up. There was an urgency in them now. The awkward banter died as something more powerful took over. It raced through them like electricity. This wasn't practice any more, it was the real deal, and they were on in less than five.