by Peter Temple
‘The one on the other side,’ I said. ‘The tiny Quaker.’
I tried the starter again. It whined and nothing happened.
I waited, tried again. Reluctantly, the engine came to life.
‘Saturday?’ Vella said. ‘Come and eat. With a knife and fork. Remember?’ He mimed eating with a knife and fork. ‘That’s provided we don’t have some pressing murder in Wangaratta or fucking Moe.’
I mimed gnawing on a bone. ‘Real men eat with their hands,’ I said. ‘Kill it and eat it.’
Vella shook his head. ‘Kill a home-delivery pizza,’ he said. ‘Stalk a pizza and take it out with your bare hands. Eight, around then.’
I gave him the thumbs up and took off. Slowly. Five minutes from the college, at an intersection, ahead of me a class and then a date with the teacher, the mobile made its mad-bird noise, changed my plans, changed many things.
