Novel - The Ozone Café, The Agent

The Agent

There were only three placards of restaurants for sale in the window. Ronny Williams knew that Vincenzo would not relinquish thoughts of buying No. 5 Bream Street; a property that had been hidden like a kellick under water. It was late Saturday afternoon, he was tired and wanted to go home. He could hear the clock ticking loudly above his head. Sat squashed behind his small desk, his belt buckle pinching, he wondered just how much money he had stored away now in savings bonds. He was thinking he needed around $500,000 to retire. The real estate business was getting him down. All he wanted to do was laze in his hammock, read, dream or drink his way into oblivion. Since Katherine left, no one had ever taken her place. There was Betty at the club, but he knew she flirted with most of the customers. They’d had a misunderstanding about her home sale commission and he knew that was that. The smile had ceased, along with the flirting. Most days she turned her back on him, especially when he was panting, stationery at the top of the stairs. Women! He didn’t need another one to add to his growing problems. What he wanted was retirement, to maybe take a holiday on Hayman Island, or somewhere where he could get back into shape, maybe lose a few pounds. He worked seven days a week, running the business, taking most of the sales’ commission. There was no room for days off, exercise or another agent. Satara Bay was too slow a pace for another agent wanting entitlements. Marjorie was enough. But then he needed her there three days a week, so he figured he must be working about sixty hours a week.

In the front window he added another “House for Sale”. A small cottage, set back from the Esplanade. A property that he thought would suit Vincenzo and his brother. A nice quiet street, the men could have their café out the front. He could get permission from the Council. Bill Haycock was the man to see when it came to changing a “residential” zone into “commercial”.

He fixed the sign and removed three SOLD cards. How long had they been there, he wondered. Well over a year. Only good selling time was summer, and they were heading into the next.

He went inside and pointed to the clock. His receptionist sat filing her nails. Marjorie looked over her shoulder at the wall, smacked out a bubble of chewing gum and covered her typewriter.

‘Got to go to the doctor’s tomorra, but I can make up the time. Elsie said I should give up the fags, but you know how hard that is doncha, Ron?’

‘Sure do,’ said Ronny, packing his briefcase with notes. ‘If you can come in around twelve, that would be just dandy. I want you to ring Bill whatsit at the Shire, re that property in Bream Street. Need to get an angle on what’s going on there.’

‘That old place used to belong to one of those Masons. Can’t think of his name, but me dad used to go to the Masonic club wiv im. Dad said he was an old cunt. Then he just passed away, mysterious like.’

‘When was that?’

‘I was just a girl,’ she said, pulling down the front blinds. ‘Must have been around 1946. Drink got to im, I think.’

‘Marjorie, you’re a mind of information,’ said Ronny, switching off all the lights and following Marjorie out the door.

‘See you twelve then,’ she said. ‘Wiv bells on.’

‘Yeah, see ya later Aligator.’

‘In a while crocodile.’

Novel - The Ozone Café, Old Heroes

Old Heroes

They drive silently through town; Vincenzo’s dream bubble having sizzled to a watery heap. He’s not sure now whether he is making the right decision. Maybe he should look into buying the cake shop, or the store at Oyster Bay. But his mind is still giving him the beautiful view from his Esplanade café. He is standing at the front door, the easterly sea breeze ruffling his cooking apron. He holds a broom in his hand, giving it a pogo wave to Bill Sanderson across the street. His Maria is inside putting the finishing touches of plastic roses on every red-checkered tablecloth. She is singing along with the wireless, singing along with Marty Robbins, to the tune of ‘a white sports-coat and pink carnation’. At the back of his shop he can hear the crackling sounds of onions and bacon cooking. He can hear the slurping sounds of sipped coffee: an espresso machine gurgling, sputtering. He can hear the wind tweaking the pine trees along the beach, sounds of laughter, children splashing, harping, and the inveigling hover of sea-gulls above each other.

On his first night without Renato, Vincenzo visits the Memorial Club. It is nearly midnight with only a few patrons playing cards. Perched high on a stool at the bar, his only company now is a busty blonde who keeps refering to him in terms of endearment. Earlier, he had moved amongst the lanes of machines, talking to some old diggers, hesitant to respond, elbowing each other when they detected his foreign accent. But Vincenzo had found a sympathetic ear in an old bloke called Herb, making sure his war stories of being a French Legionier, wearing a green beret, and ducking sniper fire in the dessert, had floated over every head. He had found the night amorous and immortal, getting to know Sid and Barney, two war veterans who had supped back their own heroics. With winnings from the poker machines, he had bought them all a beer and a Churchill cigar, telling them, Mussolini was a fascist pig! How they had laughed, patting him on the back, saying they would visit his café, and to keep the onions sizzling. Of course, all this had been a great big whopping lie, but it gave him ideas about the café.

The desk clock ticks 1.00pm, and Betty is still counting the cash in the till. 'Drink up, Dearie,' she says. 'Time to go home to the little wife.'

'I would like one more beer, beautiful Betty,' says Vincenzo, feeling in his pockets for change, letting them topple, so that he soon finds himself scratching for them under the counter.

In the dull haze of his brain he thinks of Maria. She is standing over him, huffing and lifting him out through the door, telling him that if he wants to come back, he better not call soldiers, dirty fascist arsehole pigs.

Vincenzo stills himself at the curbside. He feels his neck hairs bristle as the fresh sea air shudders him awake. He can feel Maria holding him, pushing him into the taxi. 'Darling,' he says, clinging to her warm chest. 'Vinneybum never wanted to clean toilets for those fascists pigs. I never tell you Maria, but I been failure at war.'

'At least you're still alive, Love,' says Betty, pushing his shoulders into the cab.

* * *