The Whole Business with Kiffo and the Pitbull

by Barry Jonsberg

  She was immediately suspicious.

  ‘Why would you want to do that?’

  ‘It’s personal, okay? I don’t want to go into it. Just an hour. That’s all.’

  ‘What do I get out of it?’

  ‘What do you mean, “What do I get out of it?” You get to sit on your fat ar— You get to relax, while I do all the work. No catches. Simple as that.’

  ‘I dunno. I could get into trouble. Mind you, the boss is away today . . .’ I could see the cogs whirring slowly. ‘Have you waited on tables before? It’s very skilled, you know.’

  ‘Are you kidding? I was employee of the month at Pizza Pizzazz four times running. What I don’t know about pizza and pasta isn’t worth knowing.’

  ‘I still dunno.’

  ‘I’ll give you twenty bucks.’

  ‘Deal! But I want it up front.’

  It was reassuring to know that Rachael’s sense of obligation to her employers was so firm in the face of temptation. I handed over the twenty bucks and she handed over the uniform, a smocky number you could lose a dugong in.

  ‘I’ll be back in an hour,’ she said, disappearing off through the outer door, probably in search of a cake shop.

  As you may have guessed by now, I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to do. However, the first step seemed simple enough. I put the uniform on. It was like a sail cloth. Doing a fair impersonation of a hot air balloon, I went out the door that Rachael had come in. Inside was a large anteroom and it was buzzing. Waiters were screaming around like dodgem cars. Chefs were yelling out orders, plates of steaming dishes were being slung onto a low aluminium counter where the waiting staff were collecting them. It looked like chaos. I didn’t know where to begin. However, there was one woman who seemed a promising point of contact, on the simple grounds that she was screaming, ‘Where the hell is that Rachael?’

  I fronted up to her.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ she enquired, without modifying the decibel count.

  ‘Rachael had to go. An emergency at home. She’ll be back in an hour. I said I would cover for her.’

  The woman looked me up and down and she didn’t seem pleased with what she saw.

  ‘Hell, hell, hell. I do not need this. I really do not need this.’

  I explained that I was an ideal replacement, but she was only half-listening. Occasionally she would yell at some poor waiter.‘Not the lasagne for table 4, you complete idiot. Table 6. And where’s the wine for table 9? What the hell have I done to deserve this?’ Finally, she turned her attention to me.

  ‘I haven’t got time to argue. You’re on tables 3, 5 and 7. There’s a carbonara ready for 5, two side orders of salad and a fettuccine special. Table 7 are just about to order. Take the wine list. Table 3 will need the dessert menu in about ten minutes. Come on. Get moving. Hell!’

  And she was off, presumably to lash a few of the scurrying minions with a bull whip. I moved to the counter and collected what looked like a carbonara and a fettuccine special. Listen, I might exist largely on a diet of microwaveable chicken offal and frozen pizza, but I watch all the cooking shows on TV! All I needed to do now was find table 7. Or was it table 5? I breezed through the swing doors into the restaurant and looked around. My Mafia man was still sitting with his cronies, but it was obvious that my order was not for them. I decided the best bet was to spot two people who weren’t eating, but looked hungry.

  It didn’t take long to find them, I can tell you. I hurried over with a look of abject apology.

  ‘The fettuccine and the carbonara? I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. Still, I can promise you that it’ll be worth the wait.’

  I plonked the plates down in front of them and was about to rush off when the man stopped me.

  ‘Excuse me! I ordered the carbonara and my wife ordered the fettuccine!’ He pointed down at the plate in front of him. It took me a while to realise what he meant. I had the plates in the wrong places. My first reaction was to tell the lazy bastard to switch them himself. I mean, how much effort does it require to swap plates? Instead, I apologised and switched things around. I was halfway back to the kitchen when I heard his voice again.

  ‘Excuse me!’

  I felt like I was attached to him with a piece of elastic. I hurried back.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Side salad?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘We ordered side salads.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I believe you did. Would you like them now?’

  ‘Well, it would be nice to have our salad with the main course, rather than with dessert!’ Part of me wanted to warn him not to get into a battle of sarcasm with me. If there were a sarcasm Olympics, I’d be first choice to represent my country. However, I gave a simpering smile and scurried off.

  ‘Excuse me!’

  Now I had excused him twice already, and my patience was starting to fray. I came back wearing one of those smiles that looks as if it has been ironed on.

  ‘The carbonara is cold.’

  ‘Would you like it hot?’

  The man’s face turned red. Under other circumstances it would have been an interesting phenomenon, but I quickly grabbed the plate and shot back to the kitchen. I had to get a replacement dish, pick up two side salads, take an order from someone somewhere in the room [pick the customers who were starting to eat the tablecloth?], find a bottle of wine, open it, give it to whoever ordered it and then take a dessert order from someone somewhere else. I decided that I could afford a small detour.

  I approached the Mafia table and hung around, hoping to pick up a little of the conversation. After a minute or two, the Ferret turned to look at me.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked. I was disappointed to notice that his accent, far from being Sicilian, was dinky-di Oz. Still, that didn’t mean a whole lot. In most of the gangster movies I had seen, they all had American accents. I couldn’t really expect him to have half a goat draped around his neck and a shotgun slung on his back. I went for a winning smile.

  ‘Are you enjoying your meal, sir?’

  ‘It’s very good. Thank you.’

  I smiled again, but he seemed to expect me to leave.

  ‘Can I get you anything, sir?’

  ‘Nothing at all, except a little privacy. That would be nice.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  I didn’t really have much choice. Plus, I still had a job to do. I went back into the kitchen and found the microwave. It was a huge, industrial-sized thing with enough dials and knobs to confuse an airline pilot. I shoved the plate in and put it on high for a minute. Then, in the recesses of Rachael’s uniform, I found a pad and a pencil and went off to take the order from table 7. Or table 5. It wasn’t difficult to find them. They were the four drumming their fingers on the table and looking around with a desperate air. I rushed up and apologised.

  ‘Never mind, never mind,’ said a middle-aged guy. ‘Just take the orders, please.’ His tone was acerbic.

  ‘We want one linguine al troppo with extra parmesan and the spinach pesto; one calamari Mediterranean with a green salad on the side, NOT on the plate, that’s with Thousand Island dressing, naturally; one alla Borghese WITHOUT the parmesan but WITH the mange tout; and a Fabrizio ravioli, provided it’s al dente. Plus, we’ll have four Campari de Sodas.’

  I nodded furiously and wrote down ‘four pepperoni pizzas’. I recognised him, you see. Mr Gray, my Maths teacher in Year 8. Frankly, I thought that screwing up his order was completely inadequate payback for a year of differential equations and a classroom management style that consisted entirely of purple-faced invective, but you have to take your chances when you can. Plus, with any luck, I’d be out of there before smelly things started to hit the fan.

  ‘And where’s the wine list?’

  ‘On its way, sir.’

  I ran back to the kitchen, slapped the order onto the table and grabbed the carbonara from the microwave. Plate was bloody hot. I did the little ‘ouch, ouch’ bit as I ran back, getting the
thing down onto the tablecloth moments before my fingers started smoking. Now, what was it next? Ah, yes, the dessert menu for someone or other. Boy, this was a tough job. My fingers were smarting and my forehead was developing a thin sheen of sweat that I confidently expected to drip onto someone’s plate. I hadn’t moved three paces before I was stopped in my tracks by an agonised scream behind me.

  The man with the carbonara had gone an interesting shade of purple and was pointing desperately at his open mouth. Thin wisps of smoke were issuing from the gaping orifice. I scuttled back.

  ‘Remarkable taste, isn’t it, sir? I trust it’s to your satisfaction.’

  For a moment, it looked like he was going to collapse onto the table. I hoped to hell I wasn’t going to have to do the Heimlich manoeuvre. That was tucked away in my brain next to the lip-reading skills. Luckily, he recovered a little and, gasping like a gaffed fish, finally found his voice.

  ‘Are you mad?’ he spluttered. ‘This thing is boiling! It’s approaching the surface temperature of the sun! It’s cauterised my lips!’

  No pleasing some people, I thought. First it’s too cold, now it’s too hot. I was about to point this out to him in my normal tactful fashion when the supervisor shot out of the swing doors like a greased torpedo and was at the table in slightly less than half a second.

  ‘Is everything okay, sir?’ she asked. Clearly a born optimist since it was apparent to everyone that the answer was unlikely to be, ‘Never been better, thanks for asking.’

  ‘No, it bloody well isn’t. First the food was stone cold and now it’s like molten lead. I have never, in my life . . .’

  The supervisor gestured for me to go. I was happy to oblige, I can tell you. To be honest I had my suspicions that I’d blown my tip from table 7. Or was it table 5? Still, it gave me an opportunity to check out the Mafia table again. I swept past the foursome with the mad mathematician and he took the opportunity to pluck at my sleeve.

  ‘Wine list?’

  ‘No thanks, sir. I’m trying to give up.’

  And then, just when I thought the whole thing was destined to remain a complete and utter disaster, a monumental waste of time, I had the biggest stroke of luck . . .

  Scene 141, take 1

  Interior: Italian restaurant. Medium shot. Don Carlo Vermicelli is sitting at a table. He has a napkin tucked into his shirt and there is a plate of pasta and meatballs in front of him. To his left is his consigliore, Michael Cornetto, wearing a sharp suit. On his right is a thickset man with dewlaps and interesting acne. This is Luigi ‘Powertool’ Scarlatti, a man whose expertise with chainsaws, drills and orbital sanders does not extend to the production of rustic outdoor furniture. Behind the group two men stand, silent, with goats slung across their shoulders and pump-action shotguns strapped to their backs. Cut to close-up of Don Carlo, who appears to have padding inside his cheeks. Or it might be a couple of errant meatballs.

  Don Carlo: He’sa not showing me respect. I needa respect. My family needsa respect. And I tell you, Michael, that I respect his family, but he don’t respect my family. There’sa no respect. So I wanna his family whacked. With respect. Then maybe he respect me, respectfully, like I respectfully respect him. Whaddya want, kid?

  Medium shot. Calma, disguised as a waiter. In one fluid movement she flings off her huge, smock uniform, exposing a charcoal grey suit and Uzi submachine gun.

  The group is stunned into immobility.

  Calma: The game’s up, Carlo. We have it all on tape. Yes, that’s right – the goats were carrying wires. You’re going down, Carlo. Down for a long time. We’ve got you cold on supplying narcotics, running the East Side numbers racket, prostitution, extortion, loan-sharking, tax evasion, laundering detergent and riding a bicycle on public roads without a helmet. It’s a federal rap and you’re all out of options. You’d better come quietly.

  Cut to close-up of Don Carlo.

  Don Carlo: Who are you, kid?

  Calma: Harrison. FBI Special Agent Calma Harrison. But my friends call me . . . FBI Special Agent Calma Harrison.

  Cut to close-up of Michael Cornetto. His eye twitches.

  Cut to Luigi Scarlatti. His hand reaches inside his jacket and grips the handle of an electric paintgun. Cut to Calma. Her eyes narrow. Slow motion. Luigi pulls out the paintgun. Calma squeezes the trigger of the Uzi and bits of goat, meatball and exterior emulsion spray all over the walls . . .

  CUT!

  Scene 141, take 2

  Interior: Italian restaurant. A top-heavy female waiter in a uniform tailored for an African elephant scuttles towards a table of four businessmen. She hovers on the fringe, in the forlorn hope that she might appear inconspicuous. She overhears a snippet of conversation.

  The Ferret: . . . we mustn’t miss this opportunity, gentlemen. There is a huge shortage of top-grade heroin on the streets at the moment . . .

  The waiter drops a carafe of water onto her toe, screams and dashes through the suddenly stilled room and out the swing doors.

  CUT! That’s a wrap!

  Chapter 14

  Reviewing the situation

  Have you ever seen that old movie Singing in the Rain? It’s pretty sad, generally, but there is this great scene where Gene Kelly dances down the street. It’s pouring with rain, but he is really happy, splashing into puddles and singing and dancing his socks off. I felt just like that. As soon as I got out of that restaurant, I felt exactly like old Gene Kelly must have done. Okay, it wasn’t pouring with rain, I didn’t have an umbrella and I wasn’t singing or dancing, but other than that it was a pretty faithful re-enactment of the whole scene. I even did a little skip around a lamppost. You know, hanging on with one hand and swinging all the way round. I couldn’t wait to tell Kiffo. I was so happy.

  Until I collided with a large woman who’d been walking a pace or two in front of me. I suppose my momentum, as I completed the lamppost circuit,must have thrust my feet into her back. It was careless of me, but I had felt so full of energy that I couldn’t contain myself. Her shopping bags went flying. There were apples and cans of stuff rolling all over the place. The woman fell to her knees. I felt really awful.

  ‘Oh God! Sorry,’ I said as I bent down to help her to her feet. She turned around and I found myself face-to-face with the Pitbull.

  ‘Miss Payne!’ I said. ‘I am so very sorry! Please forgive me.’ I tried explaining. I told her that it was a pure accident, that I had no idea whatsoever that she was walking along that street, that I had been feeling particularly excitable and had simply acted on impulse. I even tried explaining about Singing in the Rain but I think, by that time, I had lost my audience. I was scurrying around picking up cans of tuna, dusting off apples, wiping grit and traces of doggy doo off her bananas and I suppose I might have seemed just a touch hysterical. Meanwhile, she stood there like an ancient monolith, Uluru or something. Still babbling, I pressed the rather sorry and misshapen groceries into her arms.

  ‘So there you go, Miss Payne. No harm done, eh? Just a freak accident. Thousand-to-one chance really! Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than spend your Saturday morning talking to . . .’ ‘I don’t know what I have done to deserve this,’ said the Pitbull. Her voice was very quiet and there was a catch in it, like she was on the point of crying. Her lip even trembled. ‘You have followed me to my home, you have harassed and badgered me. And now, you assault me . . .’

  ‘I didn’t mean to,’ I said. ‘It was an accident. I swear I . . .’

  It was as if I hadn’t spoken.

  ‘. . . in broad daylight, you assault me. I’m sorry, Calma, but I’ve had enough. I can’t take it anymore.’

  And she turned and limped along the street. I fought the impulse to run after her and try explaining again. I knew there was nothing I could do and that talking further would probably only make the situation worse. Boy, she seemed upset! If I hadn’t known that she was up to her wrestler’s armpits in illegal stuff, I’d have felt sorry
for her. I really would. There was even a part of me that admired her performance. The trembling lip, the catch in the voice. If I didn’t know better, I’d have taken it for genuine emotion. What an actor!

  Okay, I was worried. I admit it. Frankly, the last thing you need when chasing a drug dealer is a drug dealer who knows you are chasing her. I had visions of me ending up in concrete boots at the bottom of a river or forming part of the foundations for the new shopping centre. Nevertheless, I was also feeling pretty proud of what I had achieved in the restaurant. Digging in my purse I found a dollar. Enough for the bus ride to Kiffo’s place.

  When he opened the door, he looked like he had been through the hot wash and fast spin cycle.

  ‘God, Kiffo,’ I said. ‘You look as if you’ve been ridden hard and put away wet. What on earth have you been doing?’

  ‘Staking-out the Pitbull’s place. All night, if you want to know the truth.’

  No wonder he looked exhausted. He could hardly stop yawning long enough to invite me in. I had one foot over the threshold before I remembered what his place was like. So I suggested that we go for a walk. Anyway, it looked like the only thing that would keep him awake.

  As we walked, I asked him how the stake-out had gone.

  ‘Nah, nothin’ doing. I got there about ten-thirty and she was definitely in. I could see her through the kitchen curtains. When I left, about six this morning, she hadn’t budged.’

  He was absolutely exhausted. His whole body was slumped, as if he were carrying an intolerable burden. I slipped my arm around his shoulders. I could feel his muscles tighten instinctively, but he didn’t shrug me off.

  ‘Wait ’til you hear my news!’ I said. ‘I’ve been busy, too.’

  And I filled him in on my undercover work at Giuseppe’s and my run-in with the Pitbull later. When I told him what I had heard the Ferret saying, he brightened up considerably. It was as if the news washed away his tiredness. His eyes sparkled with excitement.