Shakespeare on the Roof

by Anthony E Thorogood

  ***

  Twenty One: Stan the Man

  We decided to wait until nightfall when most of the Black Shirts would be off duty. First item on the agenda was to gets Bruce's ankle sorted out. It took a while but I found some wood to make a couple of splints, it wasn't pretty but he was much more comfortable. Then we sat back and relaxed, as the afternoon wore on my mind began wandering, what the hell am I doing here again, I thought. If only I hadn't answered the phone.

  The eighteen twelve overture had gone off as per usual.

  'Jack Hamma at your service, private detective extraordinaire.'

  'Jack?'

  'Is that you Stan?'

  'Jack I need talk to you.'

  'Go ahead.'

  'No, I need you to come here, to my place.'

  'The last time I did that you tried to shoot me.'

  'I no shoot you.'

  'I don't think it's a good idea Stan.'

  'I promise, I no shoot.'

  'Look, I've been wanting to catch up with you, about your grandsons, I'm sorry…'

  'No not those boys, I know, I know what happen.'

  'Then why do you need to see me?'

  'You come here, we talk.'

  'Can't we discuss it now?'

  'No, I no hurt you, come, I need talk with you, come quick.'

  I really liked old Stan but as he had tried to shoot me the last time I had seen him, I didn't completely trust him. Liking him is one thing, trusting him, well that's another thing all together. But as it was highly likely I might bump into a certain someone while I was there I bit the bullet and drove round to his house, it was along the River Torrens close to the sea.

  I rang the doorbell and Stan answered the door.

  'You family, next time you come round back,' he said.

  'How are you?'

  'Come,' he said and he walked through the house and into the back garden I followed him. 'You see my cave,' he said and he took me into what can only be described as a cave. It was a large pit dug out from under his house, dug into the earth, with a big heavy door. I was a bit dubious about entering but I was ready for all eventualities. From the ceiling of the cave hung salami, the walls were lined with bottles of wine, there were fifty litre wicker covered demijohns of wine on the floor, there was an old hand operated wine press, there were great cheeses stacked on racks, jars of pickled olives and demijohns full of olive oil. Stan grabbed one of the clusters of salami and cut a thick pinkie, grey with white spots sausage from the bunch, then he cut a thick slice from the sausage and handed it to me. 'Eat.'

  'Thank you,' I said and bit into the salami, it was very meaty and spicy, with something like a big fennel hit.

  'My recipe, from my village, I mix the herbs, Kashmere help, good no?'

  'Good yes.' I said.

  'Good with wine, I make my wine,' said Stan proudly and he pointed to rows and rows of bottled red wine. 'Kashmere she help.' He pulled a bottle from the rack, uncorked it with a corkscrew on the end of his knife, poured out a glassful and handed it to me, then he cut me some more salami.

  'Thank you,' I said.

  'Eat drink,' he said.

  I took a bite of salami and washed it down with the thin sour Italian red wine, it was delicious.

  'I make myself,' he said and he swept the cave with his right arm.

  'Is Kashmere around?' I said.

  Stan picked up a big round cheese.

  'Cheese hard,' he said and he cut a wedge and handed it to me.

  'Eat! Good yes?'

  'Good,' I said, as I tasted the salty hard Italian style cheese. I washed it down with more wine.

  'Wine good?'

  'Yes very good but I'm sure you didn't get me here to talk about food and wine.'

  'No headache with this,' he said waving the bottle in the air, 'maybe a little rough but no chemicals.' He pulled a ham down from where it hung to cure and cut a slice, then he picked up a loaf of rye bread, cut a wedge and handed it to me while topping up my glass of wine. 'Eat, drink!'

  I bit into the home cured ham thinking that if he had got me here to drug me, it would be a very nice way to go.

  'You like?'

  'I like.'

  'You good boy, you honorary Italian.'

  'Stan,' I said, 'is Kashmere here?'

  'These I make,' he said and pulled out a jar of olives, opened it and held it to me. 'Try, you try.'

  I took an olive and tried it.

  'More, you take more.'

  I grabbed more olives, tried them and washed them down with wine. I was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable, why did Stan want me here, unless he was going to ask what my intentions were towards his granddaughter. Either that or he was going to shoot me after all for what happened to his grandsons.

  'Jumbo olives, I cure myself.'

  'So what's this all about?' I said.

  'I like you, you good boy, come I make food, I fry you egg.'

  'Stan I didn't mean for the boys to get killed.'

  'I know this.'

  'I tried not to hurt them.'

  'I know all this, very bad, you come I make you egg.'

  We made our way to the kitchen, it wasn't what I expected, it was a big modern kitchen with a huge island bench for rolling out pastry to make pasta. Stan cracked a couple of eggs into a frying pan, covered them with olive oil and then kept spooning the olive oil over them. He cut a great wedge of rye bread, ladled the eggs onto a plate, handed it to me and poured me another glass of red wine.

  'Those boys, they were no good,' said Stan.

  'It was out of my control.'

  'You good man, I get you to help make salami, help pick grapes, help make tomato sauce,' he said as he splodged some of his home made tomato sauce on the eggs. I started eating, mopping it all up with the bread and washing it down with the red wine.

  'Good?' said Stan.

  'Very good,' I said and it was.

  'My fault them no good boys, I too soft. Kashmere she good girl, she get everything when I gone. Those boys they like their mother, no good, now they gone. Kashmere she everything to me.'

  'Stan, where is Kashmere?'

  'Tomato sauce good?'

  'Yes good.'

  'You good boy, you make good Italian boy, you treat my Kashmere well then maybe we have big Italian wedding. No grabbing money first, you get hands dirty, you work, then I see what I see but you good boy, you come Stan and ask me, then I make up my mind, then you ask Kashmere, she good girl.'

  'Stan you are way ahead of me here, Kashmir and I are not like that and after what happened to her brothers...'

  'That was bad business. I no cook for anybody only few old cronies from Sicily. You good boy Jack.'

  'Look Stan,' I said, 'it's great seeing you again but what the hell is going on? You're talking in riddles, what exactly do you want? Are you planning to shoot me or marry me off? Or is this just a social chat? What's it all about?'

  'You good boy, I want good boy for Kashmere.'

  'I'm sure Kashmere will have something to say about it.'

  'Kashmere no, she say nothing. Kashmere she say Grandpa I just file papers, make reports, she lie, she big soldier boy, she commando, she no tell me. She in reserves now and she go, she go fighting and she captured, she hostage now. You big fighting man, you go get my Kashmere back, all my family dead, only Kashmere left, you go get her back, she all I have, you help me. I make you more egg, you hungry? I cut you salami, anything you want, you help me Jack, save my Kashmere.'