The romance had gone out of his life. Not, of course, the
rumpy-pumpy, at-it-like-rabbits style of romance. Oh, no. That he could always
get, although hopefully without having to pay for it next time. Lifting his
chins slightly, Lester smiled at his reflection in the thick glass window alongside
the digital film projector. Chicks dig guys in the entertainment industry. Prime
example: the woman who stacked zucchinis so provocatively at the Big Bear
supermarket. He could tell she was gagging for it by the way she became slightly
nervous when he pushed his shopping trolley purposefully down her aisle. But,
frankly, women could wait, he had other priorities. Rubbing his tummy in a
circular motion, he stifled a belch. Priorities like dessert. Plucking a
choc-top from the small freezer at the rear of the projection room, he pivoted,
took aim and kicked a Digital Cinema Package carrying case across the floor. Limping
forward, he checked his watch. It was time to plug the DCP’s hard drive containing
tonight’s film into the server. That’s where the romance had gone, into a damn
server.
When the cinema’s management recently mothballed his cherished
movie projectors, he was told digital was the future. Really? Gone was the
almost erotic rhythm of his work: spooling out the end of a 35mm film, lacing it
onto sprockets, checking the magazines were firmly in place. Now he was a mouse
clicker.
Through the projection room’s soundproof window, he could see
dark shapes in the cinema seats, jostling with buckets of popcorn, syrupy carbonated
drinks and mobile phones. Few seemed to be watching the movie. Philistines. Although
to be fair on the original Philistines, they may have warred with the
Israelites but they never had to sit through a Russell Crowe movie.
All that collective restlessness in the theatre was distracting.
Once again, the audience needed to be taught a sharp, pungent lesson.
Collecting sachets of Movicol laxative from his locker, Lester crept down the gloomy
cinema’s carpeted steps, pausing to sprinkle powder into drink containers.
Despite a stab of regret for the extra overnight work for the cinema’s toilet
cleaners, he pressed on. Sprinkle, sprinkle.
At the rear of the theatre, he watched, waited. Within 20
minutes, the laxative had managed to clear out, if that’s the term, at least a
dozen misbehaving patrons. Those remaining continued to crunch, slurp and text.
Bugger.
Then he saw two silhouettes in the back row. The men – one
bulky, the other petite – appeared to be
playing pass-the-parcel, shunting a paper-wrapped object backwards and forwards
between themselves.
“Take it,” Lester heard the little man hiss. “It’s cursed.”
“Nonsense,” said his companion, settling back in his chair. “It’ll
be over soon, I hope.”
The smaller man gripped the parcel. “What? The fear and
loathing engendered by this Medieval figure of a bird?”
“No, this ghastly Crowe epic.”
On cue, the end titles appeared on the screen. For a man with
a fuller figure, the larger of the two was nimble. Leaping to his feet and
sending a shower of popcorn onto the couple in front, he headed for the door.
The other man followed.
Lester, no stranger to Film Noir, recognised trouble when he
saw it, and he liked what he saw. He had a lot in common with his idol Humphrey
Bogart, screen detective, laydees
man, brawler. Both were 5’ 8” and blessed with panther-like grace, although Lester
grudgingly admitted Bogart was unlikely to have also worn Hush Puppies. He
breathed deeply. Cometh the hour, cometh the man: Lester Tebbutt, Private
Investigator.
He trailed the nattily-dressed men until they reached the cinema
toilets. In the corridor outside, a long line of pale-faced patrons stepped
gingerly from one foot to the other.
“We need to get in,” the little man whined.
Barely acknowledging obscenities from those in the queue, his
companion took the smaller man’s elbow, steering him towards the main exit. “Too
late, Mr Cairo. The rendezvous with the mystery buyer in the end cubicle must be
abandoned. Perhaps another night. Come, join me at my apartment. I’ll fix us a
drink.”
Lester kept pace as the pair trekked down the Boulevard of
Broken Dreams – aka Military Road, Cremorne. In a side street, the two men entered
an Art Deco apartment block. Moments later, Lester’s toe cap shot out, stopping
the front door shutting. In the lobby, he heard the big man’s deep, fruity
voice behind him. “Don’t be a stranger. Join us.”
Warily, Lester stepped into a sumptuously decorated, ground
floor apartment.
“I’m Kasper Gutman,” said his host. “This is my business
associate, Joel Cairo. And you are obviously the secretive buyer of The Maltese
Falcon. I admire the way you’ve coped with the overcrowded loo issue.”
They stood in an awkward semi-circle, with Cairo stroking a bird
of prey statuette encrusted with jewels from beak to claw.
As Gutman poured a large whisky, Lester stared speechless at
the glass.
“Better and better,” said Gutman. “I distrust a man who says
‘when’. If he's got to be careful not to drink too much, it's because he's not
to be trusted when he does. And now to business, do you have the agreed amount
for this Maltese treasure created for the Knights Templar?”
The whisky burnt Lester’s throat. He was more of an Aperol
Spritz kinda guy. He was about to say: “There appears to have been some sort of
misunderstanding …” when he noticed
Cairo was cleaning his fingernails with the tip of a switchblade knife.
“Potentially,” Lester said instead. “First, could you remind me of the price?” In
his wallet, he had $15 and an Opal card. It might be enough.
Drink in hand, Gutman suddenly lent into Lester’s face: “Five
million Euros.”
What was the Euro exchange rate? Lester asked himself. He
needed time to Google the answer. Stall, stall. He beckoned for Cairo to give
him the bird. It felt lighter than he imagined. The facets of each jewel
reflected the overhead chandelier. Lester recognised quality: “A masterpiece.”
Gutman reached for the artefact. The big man’s sweaty finger
tips touched it for only a second before it slipped, shattering on the floor. A
dozen cracked paste jewels popped free from the plaster of Paris model.
“A fake!” the trio chorused.
“We’ve been swindled,” added Cairo.
Sighing, Gutman refreshed Lester’s glass. “It appears we
won’t be taking your five million Euros tonight. Please, have a seat. I’ve a
proposition. You strike me as a man of the world. Someone who can handle
himself in dangerous situations. Come with us to Malta to track down the real
falcon and the scoundrel who switched it for that fake. Adventure awaits.”
Tilting his head back, Lester finished his whisky. “Count me
in,” he rasped.
Gutman smiled approvingly. “Excellent. And now, if you don’t
mind me asking, where did you buy those elegant shoes - Milan or Madrid?”
“Grace Brothers Chatswood,” replied Lester, glancing down. Perhaps
Bogart did wear them after all.
# # #
* The copyright infringements are, yet again, too numerous to list ... nevertheless ... Copyright 2018 GREG FLYNN
