Dead Point by Peter Temple Read Free Book Online

with a red handkerchief drawn from his top pocket.
    ‘Next time you come we’ll be drinkin The Green Hill pinot noir. We’re takin delivery of vintage number one in a coupla days. From our own little estate out there on the Mornington. Nectar, I tell you, a drop fit for a crowned head.’
    He waved at the barman.
    ‘Some of them pecan nuts, Dieter lad. Now Jack, you’re in the legal line the boyo says. That’s the solicitorin, is it? Or are you one of them fellers wears a ferret on his head?’
    ‘Solicitor.’
    Dieter positioned a silver bowl of pecan nuts.
    ‘Good few of your kind drop in here,’ said Doyle. ‘Corporate, a lot of em, the Lord knows what they do. How’d you get involved in this unfortunate affair?’
    I chewed a nut. ‘His relatives,’ I said. ‘Lost touch with him, now they want to know a bit more about his life.’
    Doyle nodded. ‘Perfectly understandable.’ He flashed a cuff, looked at his watch. ‘Day’s flyin away from me. Jack, it’s a pleasure to meet you. We’ll be seein more of you now? Promise me that.’
    ‘Promise,’ I said. ‘Xavier.’
    ‘Call me Ex,’ he says. ‘It’s what they call me.’ He turned his head to Dieter. ‘Fix this feller in your mind,’ he said, ‘and take proper care of him.’
    He was at the inside door when he turned and came back. ‘Next week we’re launchin this little cookbook we’ve knocked out, Jack.
The Green Hill Food
it’s called. Lots of the legal brotherhood comin. And the sisterhood, mind you. Your presence is required. Got a card on you?’
    On the way out, I waved goodbye to Dieter. He was standing at a hatch talking to a young woman on the other side. They were both looking at me. He waved back, a polite wave.
    Outside, in the rain, the meter had long expired and the Stud had a note under the driver’s wiper. Itread: ‘If you ever consider selling this, ring me.’ There was a name and a number and, after it, in parentheses, the words Traffic Inspector. Such is luck.

‘Kashboli?’ I said, studying the menu. ‘What does Kashboli mean?’
    ‘Where have you been, Jack?’ asked Andrew Greer, my former law partner and friend since law school. ‘Kashmiri plus Bolivian. Two interesting cuisines.’
    I loosened my tie. ‘With absolutely fuck-all in common.’
    ‘Exactly. Until united by fusion cuisine.’
    We were sitting in the window of Kashboli, an eating and drinking place on lower Lygon Street whose premises had previously housed a famous Carlton dry-cleaning establishment. Where a bar with a mosaic top now stood, garments were once handed over, precious garments, mainly Italian men’s items handed over by Italian women – dinner jackets the men had proposed in, wedding suits, good linen trousers, dark single-vent jackets, many let out a bit at the seams by the skilled fingers of loved ones. It had been my dry-cleaner when I was a five-suit man practising criminal law with Andrew in nearby Drummond Street.
    ‘Hello, young lovers, wherever you are.’
    A seriously big man, big and fat man, in loose white garments, shaven skull, no neck, head like a nipple with features, had appeared behind the bar, sang the line in a singing pose, chin raised, hands up, palms outwards.
    Andrew gave him a wave. So did all the other patrons, late-working trade unionists from headquarters down the road by the grim and dedicated look of them.
    ‘Our host, Ronnie Krumm,’ said Drew.
    ‘Is that Kashmiri Ronnie Krumm or Bolivian Ronnie Krumm?’
    ‘Neither. Ronnie’s from Perth, travelled widely in search of the new. I understand the family’s in hardware, very big in the hardware.’
    ‘Hardware, software, Ronnie’s big all over. What’s the fat content of Kashboli tucker?’
    Drew was intent on the menu. ‘Excessive but only good fats. Premium, I’m told. No finer fats available. Well, what’s your fancy or will you be guided?’
    ‘Be my trained labrador.’
    Drew ordered what appeared to be a form of fish stew. It came in