Lockie was talking but she found it hard to hear over the traffic noise. “Sorry?”
“So many weirdos out,” he said. “It’s great.”
She took that as a compliment from a Hunters Hill boy who went to St. Joseph’s College and then Sydney Uni. She didn’t hold it against him, having a privileged childhood; she was never envious of others because she had a theory that it all evened out in the end.
Lockie whispered in her ear how much he was looking forward to doing it in the X5. “Hope to Christ it’s safe parked there,” he said.
A group of shaved-eyebrow guys were staring from the Italian Bowl, checking out his rig. Unlike her previous BFs, Lockie never ogled other girls, never even glanced out the corner of his eye at a pretty girl, or commented on their attributes; it was almost as if he wasn’t interested in other women. Sometimes she asked herself if Lockie was gay, but no, he couldn’t be. He was like a horny puppy dog, always rubbing up against her, always touching her butt.
He stopped at the entrance to the hotel, checked his app to make sure this was the correct address, confirmed it was. “The crispy soft-shell crab is the go apparently,” he said. If only he’d asked her instead of Google, she could have told him this was her father’s former local, transformed into an upmarket eatery. Downstairs still retained its sour, beery, wet-carpet odor, a few gray-faced men drinking alone at dark tables, a bluish flicker from Sky Sports, a buxom barmaid playing with her split ends. No different from twenty years ago, but upstairs — Jazz couldn’t recall there ever being an upstairs — upstairs there was light and a beer garden with potted plants and climbing vines and tables that faced an open-plan kitchen where short-order cooks flipped meat and fish and red capsicum over a stone grill; there was a wine list and specials on a chalkboard and photos plastered on the walls of what Newtown must have looked like in her grandfather’s day before he was run over by the steamroller. The twin barmaids were younger than she was and fashionably pierced.
“What do you think, Jazz?” Lockie asked proudly, as if he’d built this rooftop courtyard himself. Like most men, Lockie liked to be praised for little things.
“You did well,” she said.
He went to the bar and ordered drinks: a full-strength pale ale for her and a light lager for himself.
Never trust a man who drinks light beer, her dad used to say. Or was that her mum? Neither of them had worried about drunk driving.
Jazz watched Lockie return — confident, broad-shouldered, attracting male glances.
“The marinara looks awesome!” he said.
“This used to be my dad’s old pub,” she told him. “They didn’t serve food back then, only crisps and beer nuts.”
“So much character,” he said. “My parents would love it.”
“I must meet them one day.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t like them, Jazz. They’re very left wing.”
What did he mean by that? Was he ashamed of her? Did his parents even know he had a girlfriend? Wasn’t it peculiar how you could sleep with someone, go out to dinner with them, see two Ryan Gosling movies in a row, and still never really know them? Even after eleven months she didn’t know Lockie and he sure as hell didn’t know her.
“I haven’t told you my news,” he said. “I won the Sociological Jurisprudence Prize.”
“Wow,” she said.
“One hundred forty dollars, awarded to a final-year law student.”
They toasted his success. When the plates came, he talked about how this award would improve his chances of working for an international NGO. His life stretched out in front of him like a brand-new superhighway, while hers was a bumpy, winding back road filled with potholes.
“You should do a course,” he said, sifting through his marinara for shellfish.
“Like what?”
“Bookkeeping. You can’t go on caring for that old woman forever.” Soon as he said it he tried to backtrack, mumbling through a mouthful of spaghetti how it was better for senior citizens to be with people their own age, that modern nursing facilities had improved their level of aged care exponentially.
“So what are you suggesting?”
“Let’s not discuss it now,” he said.
“You brought it up!”
He gave her a look to indicate her voice was loud. A couple at the next table glanced over so she breathed in deeply and said, “I know what I’d want if I was her age.”
“And what’s that?”
“To die in my own home.”
He didn’t argue, wasn’t going to spoil the evening. His crab, he told her, was superb. She didn’t tell him her dish, the one he insisted she order, was bland, the seafood overcooked and drowning in a watery sauce.
“Don’t look now,” he whispered, “but there’s a guy who keeps staring at you.”
The man was seated alone in the corner: coarse red hair, ruddy complexion with pitted skin. She had a feeling she had seen him somewhere but couldn’t place where.
“You know him?” Lockie asked.
“Not sure.” The guy was wearing a tight-fitting white shirt, unbuttoned to reveal the links of a gold chain. He was chewing, deep in thought, but at that moment he glanced up from his T-bone and gave her a curt nod of recognition. She leaned back in her chair.
“Looks like a cop to me,” Lockie said.
Now that Lockie mentioned it, he did look like a cop. She’d met her fair share of detectives when her father was alive. His suit jacket was slung over the back of his chair and although overweight, he had the physique of a man who used to work out. He stood up, a red napkin tucked into the belt of his trousers.
“Oh shit,” Lockie said, “he’s coming this way.”
Jazz put on the smile she used at the bottle shop. The man stopped at their table and said, “You’re Spearsy’s kid. Jasmine, right?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Just wanted to say, your old man was one of a kind. They broke the mold when they made him.” He took the red paper napkin out of his belt, wiped his mouth, then balled it on the floor near her feet. “Sorry to hear about your mother too,” he said. “Real shame what happened there. Real shame.”
She nodded.
“Just thought I’d say hi.” He made no attempt to move on toward the bar, seemed to be waiting for an invitation to join them, but Lockie didn’t offer any encouragement. Jazz sensed hostility between the two men. “Decent send-off, all them speeches, Johnny woulda been proud...”
“Sorry, I’ve forgotten your name,” she said.
“Kenny. Call me Kenny.”
“Like the movie?” Lockie put in.
“What movie?” The man gave Lockie a stare, then lowered his voice: “You wouldn’t know where I can buy some marijuana, would you, son?”
“What?”
“My niece has cancer, and smoking weed relieves the pain.”
Jazz said, “There’s a guy down at Redfern Station—”
Lockie kicked her under the table. “Sorry, can’t help you.”
The man nodded as if he was weighing up his response. “Nice shirt, son. Is that peach?” And turning on his heels, he walked over to the bar, bouncing his keys in his hand.
“Told you he was a cop,” Lockie whispered.
“He didn’t like you very much,” Jazz said.