‘They like brother and sister still?’
‘It’s a little more than that.’
‘What?’
‘Ay, Carmelo.’ Diego started to stand, patting the other man’s shoulder and noticing a small wince. ‘Sometimes I think I put you down far too hard.’
‘You forgot something.’
‘I never forget a thing.’
Diego looked down. Carmelo’s fingertips edged the envelope back toward him.
…
In the kitchen, boiling pots and a broken exhaust fan created condensation on the otherwise scrupulously clean walls, the dully shining metal surfaces. Bobby knew he’d have to discuss the upkeep of the bistro with his father one more time, when he could get his old man to concentrate on that kind of conversation, of course—and when he might be able to focus his own mind on something so ordinary. Which might not be too soon. The place needed work done and money spent, sure, but for now Bobby could barely think past the next five, ten, fifteen minutes. His heart already pounded and he found it hard to breathe, and he hadn’t even gone anywhere near the alley yet.
But don’t worry, Pop, I’m going to fix things. You keep telling me to take the bull by the horns, now watch me do it.
Bobby imagined himself in Sissy’s arms, the sweetest and safest place of all, succumbing to the desire to just come out with the truth of what was happening. Could he betray his father like that, and maybe change the way Sistine saw the old man? No, it just couldn’t happen. He never wanted to see that kind of disappointment in her face, or anyone else’s for that matter. Bobby’s father was a man who’d done great things; he was admired by all and he was everyone’s friend. He let acquaintances fallen on hard times have a free meal or two in the bistro. As far back as Bobby could remember, come Christmas Day the bistro was open to the old and broken of Fortitude Valley, Diego Domingo happy to be silly in his Santa Claus suit and Bobby’s ma making sure every plate and glass was full. In the early days little Bobby was an elf, helping, yet always watching the way people would approach his father with gratitude in their eyes; later Bobby stopped dressing up but he liked to help cook the Christmas dishes his father told him these folk deserved.
‘Soon enough our own bellies will be full, but make sure those out there know we haven’t made any short cuts. What we eat, they eat—no second best. Me entiendes?’
Bobby would never take to a boxing ring the way his old man had, but to run a bistro, to be so generous to people who had a lot less than the Domingos—Papi, that’s one family tradition we’re never losing.
And so this problem now? I’ll handle it.
One of the kitchen hands asked him a question. Still preoccupied, Bobby gave the vaguest of answers then checked his watch. The head chef told him they were running low on saffron threads and pimientos, who the hell was in charge of the goddamn purchases these days?
‘Me, Esteban, you know that … I’ll take a better look at your lists in the morning, okay?’
Esteban, forty-seven years of age, beefy as a wrestler, hirsute and sporting a huge Fu-Manchu moustache, made a familiar hiss of disgust—‘In the morning the world’ll be perfect’—and returned to his steaming pots.
This was no place to hide but Bobby needed to be off the floor. When Sistine came into the kitchen, clearly looking for him, he stopped leaning at a sink and fumbled the cold water tap. He picked up the nearest glass, which was dirty, and made a production of pouring himself a drink. Meanwhile, the cooks and hands around him sweated and swore in Italian or Spanish, dying from the heat.
Esteban stopped Sistine before she could reach Bobby; he had some point to make about the way his dishes were going out to the tables.
She listened, nodding respectfully, but her eyes were on Bobby.
Fuck—those eyes and that face he knew so well, already so concerned for him. Like she had a woman’s intuition for trouble brewing.
Yet, more than anything, Sistine always had this weird quality that made his heart want to break for her, all the way back to when she and her mother had just about joined the family, Bobby’s papi becoming so much of a father figure that Sistine started calling him Papi too. She and her ma never lived with the Domingos, but they were invited to family occasions, came to lunches and dinners, shared Easter and Christmas with them, and two or three times even joined them on family holidays. Then, one vacation in particular, on the Sunshine Coast, Sistine at seventeen and finishing school, Bobby started to see her as more than just a sweet Australian-Italian kid sister in their thoroughly Spanish family. The way she fitted that new one-piece she wore to the beach, diving into curling waves, body brown and wet, hair slicked back. Then her new summer dresses and blouses, no longer the clothes of a little girl. Finally the scent of her when they hugged a hello or goodbye, berries, always berries, signalling to him that there was now a vibrant maturity to her body. All of these things had combined to just about drive him wild.
‘I love you, Sissy,’ whispered in the backyard of the holiday home the Domingos had rented.
That night the pair of them were standing behind the flickering flames of a great fire built up for roasting walnuts and artichokes. Then her soft, soft words back to him, saying the same thing. What followed was a full eighteen months of tension and longing until the night the last barrier broke and he hadn’t needed to hope her hand might find its way into his trousers. From that moment on, well, Sistine was a kid sister no more.
But the poor girl had so much to deal with; first her parents’ divorce, then living with her ma only two beats above the poverty line, and finally her beautiful mother dead too young. Now tonight this man, her biological father, had waltzed into the bistro like he owned the place. Talk about timing. Why this night of all nights, when Bobby had something far more important to deal with? He wished he could put that on some kind of backburner and fix the fuck-up in Sistine’s life instead. Like this: ‘You, you’re Charlie Smoke, right? Why don’t you get the fuck out of here?’
Finally, Esteban had said his piece and Sistine came over.
‘Bobby, what’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’ He took another sip of the tepid water. ‘Just having a drink.’
‘Where’s your cummerbund?’
‘I took it off for now.’
‘Are you leaving?’
‘What? No, it’s not even ten.’
‘So you’re all right?’
‘I need some fresh air.’ Bobby indicated the rear door. ‘And a cigarette.’
‘It’s busy …’
‘I’ll just take five.’ He did his best to smile. ‘You cover for me?’
‘Maybe you’re coming down with something?’
Esteban pushed between them, using the tap and sink to rinse a huge butchering blade with sinew stuck to it.
‘Cigarette,’ Bobby spoke around him.
She reached for his hand. ‘You’re cold.’
‘Will you talk to your father?’
‘No.’
‘Do you want to clock off and get out of here?’
She shook her head. ‘Then he wins.’
‘Sissy,’ Esteban growled. ‘Table four.’
Bobby watched Sistine collect the dishes, already so good at balancing them like an experienced hand, then checked his watch again.
Time had come.
‘Then tables seven and eight,’ Esteban told Sistine. He turned to Bobby. ‘Nothing to do?’
Bobby mumbled something and felt the head cook’s heavy gaze follow him out the back door, a man who liked to make it obvious this boy would never fill Diego Domingo’s shoes.
You’ll never know the truth, arsehole.
Bobby made sure that the door was shut behind him. He didn’t want Esteban or anyone getting a clue about what was going on. Especially Sistine. He could just imagine the trouble if she blabbed to his mother or decided
to get involved herself.
Nope, this one was on him.
The air was fresher out here, the night dark. A slanted roof above protected him from the rain. He heard it fall against the galvanised eaves. Even as Bobby bent his head to light his cigarette, two shadows started down the wet alley toward him.
He didn’t know much about this pair or even what their full names were. Hopefully he’d never have to find out. Right now he had all the information he needed—they were Mike and Denny, trusted employees of the man everyone called Terence Junior, or, more simply, Junior. Bobby steeled himself. He’d left that stupid cummerbund behind and had pushed his hair behind his ears in an effort to look older, maybe even a little tougher.
‘All right,’ Bobby said. ‘Good.’ But Mike, the smaller and more compact of the two, shoved him against the nearest wall and buried his fist into Bobby’s thin belly.
…
Mildly troubled, while at the same time half amused, Diego Domingo returned to his office. What Carmelo said about those dates, come on, what was he playing at? Yet Diego took the time to check a fight yearbook and then the framed certificate that went with his major middleweight belt. Jesùs but the man was actually right. Sugar Thompson and Wolfman Wallace, not 1947 but 1946, just as he’d said. And the big match against the Smokin’ Charlie of old, it was Anzac Day 1948, Diego out by two years.
A good two years.
Anda ya, really?
He rubbed both temples at that.
Well then, what was the best way for a man to handle such mistakes? Put them in the rear-vision mirror where they belonged. Soon enough, like un milagro bendito, a blessed miracle, it would be as if they’d never existed in the first place.
Diego wiped his brow with a neatly folded linen handkerchief, embroidered by Miranda with his initials. This little problem of his memory had worried him enough to form a cold line of perspiration on his forehead. He squared his broad shoulders, quietened his rasping breath, and so, with this act of will, he was el patrón once again. The boss, cool and fresh in a tan suit with a white shirt and spotted tie, left his office and re-entered the bistro’s dining room.
There was still this business of Carmelo’s envelope for Sistine.
A part of Diego—the paternal part, that nice piece of him that loved being a surrogate father to the girl—wanted to put Carmelo’s envelope in that rear-vision mirror as well. Save the girl some heartache. Yet Diego wasn’t her true father and he had to respect the man who was. For better or worse, especially with poor Tracy gone.
There she was serving the Davoli family at table eight, then Mary and Sam Catanessi at nine, all good regulars at Diego’s. He caught Sistine’s eye and nodded for her to join him at the bar. Here, the bistro’s elderly barman Don Paulo arranged bottles and glasses and waited for the next drinks order.
A pretty bolero played over the music system. Diego sent Paulo off to the storeroom out back for a new case of white wine from Spain’s Rueda region. Sistine approached with a half-smile. She made herself useful wiping freshly washed glasses and rolling out a clean bar mat. Diego noted the way she avoided looking toward Carmelo. He hated doing it, but he passed her that white envelope.
‘What’s this, Papi?’
‘It’s from your father.’
She slid it across the fresh bar mat toward him.
‘Why not see what’s inside?’
She hesitated, made herself even busier with a tray of wet glasses, then said, ‘If you’re curious, Papi …’
‘It’s not my business, querida.’
‘Just look for me.’
Diego was pleased that his hands didn’t tremble, not even slightly. He opened the envelope and found a sympathy card. Two fifty-dollar notes floated down.
‘My darling Sistine,’ he read aloud. ‘You must know I’m sorry about your mother. Tracy was one of God’s good people and very kind. No one ever treated me better, even when I didn’t deserve it. You didn’t want me at the funeral so maybe I was wrong to be there. And mostly I know you don’t like me so I try to leave you alone. But I’m your father and I think about you all the time. Please buy something nice for yourself.’ Diego returned the notes into the card. ‘And look at this.’
Sistine didn’t want to look, but Diego showed her the flowing cursive script, perfect and precise, in blue pen. ‘Can someone with such admirable handwriting be all that bad?’
‘Probably a girlfriend.’
‘Or a lonely individual teaching himself how to be better.’
Diego took the glasses and wash cloth from her hands and drew Sistine away from the bar, leading her to the polished floor where no one was dancing.
‘Oh, God no, Papi.’
‘Let’s show him what you can do.’ Diego knew the girl would agree; she’d never be rude to him. ‘These steps, three-quarter time, remember I taught you at your fourteenth birthday party?’
He guided her through slow turns within slow turns, taught and perfected.
‘Can you do me a favour?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Ask him to go away?’
‘I think he’s only here to eat and give you that message.’
‘Is he the type to give up so easily?’
Diego kissed the top of her head and brought her closer, no more turning. They followed the slow waltz.
‘Once, the toughest fighter we knew, a monster named “Kid Kapsulamis”, he was killing your father. Carmelino’s right hand was already broken but he wouldn’t give up. He took everything that man had.’
‘Should that impress me?
‘It’s to answer your question.’ Diego closed his eyes, enjoying the sudden, surprising acuity of this memory. ‘Right then your father was magnificent. There’s no other word. Maybe … maybe we can say this was his moment. I think every fighter gets one, if he’s lucky enough. The moment he proves himself or loses everything.’
‘What did he prove?’
‘I just told you.’ Diego shrugged, still smiling, then studied Sistine’s lack of sympathy. ‘Maybe he’s hoping one day he can prove himself to you.’
‘Tell him not to bother. My mother told me everything I need to know.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘He’s a criminal. He ruined her life. She promised she’d tell me the whole story but then she went so quickly. Do you know what he did?’
‘Not at all.’ Diego shook his head. ‘And if I did, it wouldn’t be up to me to say. Why don’t you try asking him yourself?’
‘Then we’d have to have a conversation. Just let him know I don’t want anything, including his stupid hundred-dollar bribe. All I want is that he leaves me alone.’
‘Maybe that’s the one thing he can’t do.’ This time Diego kissed her cheek. ‘As they get older, men have regrets. I know this. It makes us think too much.’
Diego turned her to look toward Carmelo’s table. No one was there.
‘And that one already is.’
He felt sad for the girl’s small sigh of relief, sad for both her and for Carmelino. Diego raised Sistine’s hand and there was scattered applause. It was usually he and Miranda who showed off their steps; now Miranda was waiting at the bar for them, and even though she smiled at their performance she also seemed a little confused. In her hand was Bobby’s cummerbund.
‘Did he go home?’
Don Paulo was returning with the carton of wine. Sistine moved the envelope out of the way so he could set it down.
‘No, Bobby just wanted five minutes for a cigarette.’
‘Ay, cigarettes,’ Miranda said. ‘This one used to sneak them as well. Now you,’ she told Sistine, ‘you can use your influence. Make Roberto see the error of his ways.’
‘Give the boy hell,’ Diego added, which returned a smile to Sistine’s young face. That made him happy, then both Domingos watched this daug
hter who wasn’t theirs leave them and go through to the kitchen, looking for their boy.
…
Mike hit him one more time and Bobby felt himself slide right down, his back against the timbers of the exit door.
‘Bobby,’ Mike said, ‘you still hear me?’
Bobby gave a small grunt, which was about all he could do. His head, his entire world, was swimming. Scared as he’d been to meet these men, he hadn’t quite expected this. He peered up, eyes as slits, and saw the outline of the men in the bistro’s shadowed exterior. Where Mike was squat and wide, the second man was wiry as a long-distance runner, all protruding veins and gangly limbs.
‘Plenty of good old wood here,’ Mike observed.
Bobby’s voice was a hoarse whisper: ‘What?’
‘Mate, don’t be thick.’ Mike pulled his boot back to give Bobby a kick, but seemed to relent. ‘Your old man, no one wants him to go up with his place.’
‘That’s right … that’s right.’
It took Bobby a moment to comprehend that he was talking to the moist air. Mike and Denny were already disappearing up the alley, two silhouettes made to shimmer by the rainfall.
Bobby dropped his head to the ground. There was a wasted flagon of wine on its side in a fresh puddle nearby. He knew most of the drunks who sometimes slept in this alley, gathering up the scraps from the bistro that his father liked to have sent around. Papi always told his staff never to leave good leftovers to rot; there were always hungry people.
My papi, born into poverty, never forgotten.
If I can save this place, when it’s mine, no one goes hungry.
His thoughts drifted like that, and he was nearly asleep when he felt the back door pushing against him, his curled body blocking it.
One last good hard shove, and was that Sissy on her knees beside him?
…
After one in the morning; so late and still Charlie Smoke couldn’t sleep. Not after he’d seen Sistine at Diego’s and she’d made such an effort to ignore him. Diego Domingo, wealthy and happy, surrounded by family and friends who loved him, sticking it to Charlie by taking Sistine onto his polished floor and showing off the way the two of them could dance. Maybe he’d never let himself realise just how deep the girl’s resentment went. There’d been so many years of separation and distance, exactly what Tracy had demanded of him, but now she was gone and things needed to be different.
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