important things. How is it that you miss nothing?’
‘Nice little drop this,’ Drew said, examining the label. ‘Barone Ricasoli. A red baron. I miss nothing because I’m a citizen of the world, playing a full part in civic life. You, on the other hand, allow the affairs of the public sphere to pass you by while you master pigeonhole joints.’
‘Dovetail. Tricky things.’
The main course arrived: dark meat falling off the bone, pool of glistening dark sauce, sweet potato with flecks of something, baby green beans, crunchy.
We didn’t talk for a while. Finally, Drew said, ‘Jesus, how can I get Donelly to owe me money, lots of money? Are these bits of apricot?’
‘Stick around, make yourself known, your turn will come. Sooner or later, he’ll be up for pinning a kitchenhand to the wall with a knife.’
The bottle was low. I signalled to the swimmer for another. ‘So Tony Rinaldi knows about TransQuik?’
‘Oh yes. More than he should, I reckon. I had a few glasses with Anthony one night, his wife went off with a librarian from Camberwell library. Female librarian. That hurt the boy. Bloody Eltham artist is one thing, big dick notwithstanding. At least he had a dick.’
We went back to savouring the shanks. The new bottle arrived. I waived the approval ritual, went directly to Go.
‘A bitter man, Tony Rinaldi,’ said Drew. ‘First the wife’s knee-trembling in the library stacks, then he gets shafted in the DPP’s office. He reckons the DPP’s a silent partner in this new place, The Dining Room. Top of Collins Street. Know it?’
I shook my head. I’d been too dazed by encountering Linda’s perfume to notice much when I was last at the top of Collins Street.
‘Like eating at the Melbourne Club, I gather. Only with decent food and Jewish members. Victorian grandeur, my client Simeon Haldane, Melbourne Grammar and Cambridge, tells me. That’s Simon with an e stuck in. You went to Grammar, you’d probably know Simeon. About your vintage. Same dissolute appearance.’
‘Charged with what?’
‘Usual. Male minors, all orifices, possessing a range of educative pictorial stuff. Bit of light caning.’
‘Sounds like an ordinary day at boarding school.’
‘Simeon sat two tables away from the Premier at lunch at The Dining Room last week. The leader eats there all the time, takes the visiting money for dinner. Stuff themselves on prime Victorian meat. That’s all Simeon wanted to do really.’
We breasted the tape together, put the implements down on plates naked save the bones.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Simeon doesn’t stand out in my mind. Could be any one of fifty people from school. Why did Rinaldi get the boot from the DPP?’
Drew was looking at his empty plate in sorrow. ‘Not clear to me. Something to do with the Levesque gang. Tony was moving the flamethrower freely at that point, the wife, the librarian, the DPP, all blazing. Also, it was bottle three.’
I poured. ‘Want to go to the footy on Saturday?’
‘The footy? What, just pick a game? Any old footy?’
‘Saints and Geelong.’
‘Christ, what a pair. So, we’d be going for nobody, just like to see a game? Any old shitty game? That’s it?’
‘No. We’re going for the Saints.’
Drew emptied his glass of Barone Ricasoli’s 1986 Chianti Classico. ‘We? You and the Prince?’ Incredulous tone, loud. People looked at us.
‘Well, not the Prince as a whole.’
Drew glanced around, a what-the-fuck-are-you-looking-at glance. ‘The old buggers? You and the old buggers?’ Even louder, more incredulous.
‘Yes. Drew, steady, the other customers think we’re about to have a fight.’
He sighed, looked around again, apportioned the rest of the Ricasoli. ‘This is, well—you hear some strange things. I’ll be fucked.’
I couldn’t think of the right thing to say.
Drew sighed a few more times. ‘Jesus, Jack, are you all off your fucking heads? The Brisbane bloody Lions at least represent a bit of the old
‘Nice little drop this,’ Drew said, examining the label. ‘Barone Ricasoli. A red baron. I miss nothing because I’m a citizen of the world, playing a full part in civic life. You, on the other hand, allow the affairs of the public sphere to pass you by while you master pigeonhole joints.’
‘Dovetail. Tricky things.’
The main course arrived: dark meat falling off the bone, pool of glistening dark sauce, sweet potato with flecks of something, baby green beans, crunchy.
We didn’t talk for a while. Finally, Drew said, ‘Jesus, how can I get Donelly to owe me money, lots of money? Are these bits of apricot?’
‘Stick around, make yourself known, your turn will come. Sooner or later, he’ll be up for pinning a kitchenhand to the wall with a knife.’
The bottle was low. I signalled to the swimmer for another. ‘So Tony Rinaldi knows about TransQuik?’
‘Oh yes. More than he should, I reckon. I had a few glasses with Anthony one night, his wife went off with a librarian from Camberwell library. Female librarian. That hurt the boy. Bloody Eltham artist is one thing, big dick notwithstanding. At least he had a dick.’
We went back to savouring the shanks. The new bottle arrived. I waived the approval ritual, went directly to Go.
‘A bitter man, Tony Rinaldi,’ said Drew. ‘First the wife’s knee-trembling in the library stacks, then he gets shafted in the DPP’s office. He reckons the DPP’s a silent partner in this new place, The Dining Room. Top of Collins Street. Know it?’
I shook my head. I’d been too dazed by encountering Linda’s perfume to notice much when I was last at the top of Collins Street.
‘Like eating at the Melbourne Club, I gather. Only with decent food and Jewish members. Victorian grandeur, my client Simeon Haldane, Melbourne Grammar and Cambridge, tells me. That’s Simon with an e stuck in. You went to Grammar, you’d probably know Simeon. About your vintage. Same dissolute appearance.’
‘Charged with what?’
‘Usual. Male minors, all orifices, possessing a range of educative pictorial stuff. Bit of light caning.’
‘Sounds like an ordinary day at boarding school.’
‘Simeon sat two tables away from the Premier at lunch at The Dining Room last week. The leader eats there all the time, takes the visiting money for dinner. Stuff themselves on prime Victorian meat. That’s all Simeon wanted to do really.’
We breasted the tape together, put the implements down on plates naked save the bones.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Simeon doesn’t stand out in my mind. Could be any one of fifty people from school. Why did Rinaldi get the boot from the DPP?’
Drew was looking at his empty plate in sorrow. ‘Not clear to me. Something to do with the Levesque gang. Tony was moving the flamethrower freely at that point, the wife, the librarian, the DPP, all blazing. Also, it was bottle three.’
I poured. ‘Want to go to the footy on Saturday?’
‘The footy? What, just pick a game? Any old footy?’
‘Saints and Geelong.’
‘Christ, what a pair. So, we’d be going for nobody, just like to see a game? Any old shitty game? That’s it?’
‘No. We’re going for the Saints.’
Drew emptied his glass of Barone Ricasoli’s 1986 Chianti Classico. ‘We? You and the Prince?’ Incredulous tone, loud. People looked at us.
‘Well, not the Prince as a whole.’
Drew glanced around, a what-the-fuck-are-you-looking-at glance. ‘The old buggers? You and the old buggers?’ Even louder, more incredulous.
‘Yes. Drew, steady, the other customers think we’re about to have a fight.’
He sighed, looked around again, apportioned the rest of the Ricasoli. ‘This is, well—you hear some strange things. I’ll be fucked.’
I couldn’t think of the right thing to say.
Drew sighed a few more times. ‘Jesus, Jack, are you all off your fucking heads? The Brisbane bloody Lions at least represent a bit of the old
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