CHAPTER NINE

Nestor was drowning a mix of chopped onion and potato in a whirlpool of vegetable oil. He glanced up as Emmanuel approached but kept working. The early Saturday evening crowd of sailors, sugar girls and dockworkers crowded in under the awning and fuelled up for the long party ahead. Legitimate Durban may shut down at 11.30 p.m. but Nestor's Night Owl clients belonged to the world between midnight to dawn when illegal pool halls, all-hours liquor joints and adult-only cinema lounges operated under the paternal eyes of the police.

'The Flying Dutchman,' Emmanuel asked the Greek cook. 'Is he around?'

Nestor shovelled a glistening mountain of fried potato onto a chipped plate and handed it to a tarty brunette with purple bruises on her arms.

'Haven't seen him,' Nestor said. 'Maybe he's not working today.'

'He takes Saturdays off?' That had to be a lie. It was seven twenty-five on the busiest night of the week.

Nestor scratched an unshaven cheek. 'Normally he is here looking for clients. Not tonight.'

'Know where I can find him?'

'No.'

The cook loaded up a second plate and pushed it over the counter to a tall woman in a lace dress brightened with pink crochet flowers. Emmanuel pushed the order back across the counter before the customer could touch it and smiled. 'Really?' He kept his fingers lightly against the side of the plate and made sure Nestor got the message: I can do this all night.

'Check the passenger quay,' Nestor said. 'That's where he normally parks when there's a liner in port.'

'What am I looking for?' If Nestor was wasting his time then he'd be back within an hour and they'd celebrate in true Greek fashion with the smashing of plates.

'Tall man in a blue suit. Drives a white DeSoto convertible with silver chrome along the side and white wheel hubs. You can't miss it.'

Emmanuel picked the plate off the counter and handed it to the woman in the lace dress, who, at close quarters, had the muscled bulk of a longshoreman. Dark stubble bristled through her white powder and rouge. To Emmanuel, the beauty mark positioned over her top lip was a step too far.

'Miss . . .' He handed the food over and was rewarded with a wink and a smile.

'Kind thanks, sailor.' The strapping she-male dropped a curtsy and strutted over to a side table where a small white man in dirty work overalls waited.

Port towns, Emmanuel thought. You can find anything if you know where to look.