I Am the Messenger

What? he asks. No chips tonight?

"Sorry, mate. I'll bring you back something, I promise."

He seems happy enough by the time I leave because I've fixed him a coffee and thrown some ice cream in it as well. He almost jumps from paw to paw as I'm putting it down for him.

Nice, he tells me in the kitchen. We're still friends.

I must admit, I even miss him a little as I walk to Clown Street and Melusso's. It feels like we were in this one together, and now I have to finish it alone and take all the glory.

That is.

If there is glory.

I've almost forgotten that things can go wrong and be difficult. Exhibit A for that was Edgar Street. Exhibit B, the Rose boys.

Now I wonder what I'll deliver this time round as I walk through the door of Melusso's restaurant into the all-consuming smell and warmth of spaghetti sauce, pasta, and garlic. I've kept my eyes open for anyone following me, but I haven't seen a soul who looks interested. There are just people going about what they always do.

Talking. Parking crooked.

Swearing. Telling their kids to hurry up and stop fighting.

All that kind of thing.

Now, in the restaurant, I ask the plump waitress to put me in the darkest corner.

"Over there?" she asks in amazement. "Near the kitchen?"

"Yes please."

"No one's ever asked to be seated there," she claims. "You sure, mate?"

"Positive."

What a strange fellow, I see her think, but she takes me over.

"Wine list?"

"Sorry?"

"Would you like some wine?"

"No, thanks."

She lashes the wine list from the table and tells me the specials. I order spaghetti and meatballs and lasagna.

"You expecting someone?"

I shake my head. "No."

"So you're going to eat both?"

"Oh, no," I answer. "The lasagna's for my dog--I promised to bring him home something."

This time she gives me a look that says, What a poor, pathetic, lonely bastard, which is understandable, I suppose. But she says, "I'll bring you that just before you go, okay?"

"Thanks."

"Any drinks?"