Soup Kitchen

By DAVID PHILLIPS

Herb recovers from a broken marriage and a life on the street and spends his spare time serving stews and soups at a city kitchen. He gets to know the men of the street as friends and becomes involved in their lives.

 

When Albert disappears, Herb feels he must go looking for him and this opens a can of worms.

 

How does a soup kitchen get mixed up with the mob and a biker gang as the battle for control of the drug business escalates?

 

Murders in the past are part of the fabric of present tensions. The police are involved as they try to work out where the drug war is heading while Herb stays on the job of trying to find Albert.

Will finding Albert unravel some of the unsolved questions faced by police and the men who stand in line for their daily feed of stew and fleeting social contact?

• Language: English
• Publisher: DavidRPhillips
• Release date: Aug 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393081906

DAVID PHILLIPS

David Phillips, FCPA (ret.) is in his mid-seventies and lives just out of Melbourne, Australia. He began writing in his early seventies and found an enjoyment in putting ideas together with research to come up with stories, often linked to historical events of interest. He finds writing a labour of love and spends time at the keyboard every day.

Book preview

Prologue

The two detectives stooped under the police tape surrounding the arc-lit kill zone.

Detective Inspector Stephen Warner turned to his Detective Sergeant, Ian James.

‘I’ve seen it like this before.’

A biker, stripped to the waist, sat on a black Harley Davidson. The rope around

his neck stretched to the top of the streetlamp, holding him in position. There

was a hole in the middle of the biker’s forehead.

Blood spilled over the front of his jacket from the gash in his throat.

DS James turned from the ugly scene to respond to his boss.

‘Who would stage a scene like this?’

‘Someone making a point, sending a warning.’

DS James waited.

‘One man. A bastard of a man. Enrico Valenti.’

*

Chapter One

The line stretched from the front of the servery counter, out through the front door and a few yards down the unswept, untidy laneway. Herb Jeffries sweated as he served the ‘stew and veggies’ to the shuffling, dishevelled line of men who matched the lane, all wearing the signs of acute hunger and the odour of the unwashed. He looked at the men as he raised his eyes from the steaming pot and remembered his worst days – the days when his guts were screaming for a free meal.

There was a disturbance about a dozen spots back.

‘Geddout, ya bastard.’ A high-pitched voice.

‘Aw, shuddup, yer little whinger.’ A deeper response. A taller man.

Herb yelled at them.

‘Cut it out or I’ll close down until you two are out of here.’

‘He tried ter pinch me place in line, Herb.’ It was Denny Pearce. Every night he accused someone of trying to take an advantage.

‘Yeah right, Denny. Just settle down and you’ll all get served.’

‘He’s full of crap, Herb. I wasn’t trying ter pinch the silly little bugger’s posse.’

‘Yeah, right, Albert. Just let it go, both of you.’

‘I’ll kill the little whinger one day.’

‘Not before I slit your guts, ya mongrel.’

‘All right’, Herb called at them, ‘One more peep and you two don’t get served.’

The threat was real, and they kept their mouths shut until they had their feed for the night. The sweet and savoury smell of the hot meal and the generosity of the serving kept them quiet for the rest of the time they hung around the kitchen.

As he served the last of his customers for the evening and began to help with cleaning up the counter and stuffing used plates and cutlery into the dishwashers, Herb’s memory drifted back to his days in the line. He shuddered as he recalled the days before he became a street bum. He sat down at a table with his meal and a mug of coffee– both were the same as he served the men in the line – and let his mind run back over a life of ups and downs.

He had worked for a tyre and radiator service company in the back streets of the city of Melbourne. It was hard work but satisfying when customers were pleased with the job. His wife, Jasmine, had an office job. She was an accounts payable clerk for a supermarket chain. They had a boy and a girl at school, and all was well with the family until the wheels fell off and Herb started his downhill run. Jasmine had an affair with one of her bosses and Herb found out. During the ensuing argument, she decided there was no point in pretending any more, and she said she was leaving him. Because he worried about the children, Herb said he would leave and that she could have the house. At the time, he was prepared to pay her whatever was needed to help pay the bills.

Herb left with nothing that did not fit into a large suitcase. He found cheap lodgings near his work and settled into his new life. Jasmine kept calling him and asking for money and he obliged until, one day, he had none to spare.

‘So, living high on the hog, eh Herb, now you’ve got rid of the family.’

‘Hang on, Jasmine, you were the one who broke our marriage and caused all this.’

‘And now you can take advantage, right? I suppose there’s a new woman.’

‘No, there is nothing going on in my life now. Just work and a seedy couple of rooms with the oldest TV still in working order.’

‘Well, Herb, you are a no-good bloody loser.’

And that was the push that made a certainty of the downhill run.

In his heart, he knew Jasmine was right. He was weak-willed and had never done anything to prove otherwise. He had let people walk over him and, in his marriage, had exerted little influence on outcomes. It was, at least to some extent, his fault that Jasmine had looked for excitement elsewhere. Herb could see no likelihood of a change. He would simply drift from one situation to another, never to be the one to take any sort of risk.

He took the money he did not give Jasmine to the nearest hotel and found a warmth he had not known for some time. There were people relaxing and having a good time and a 75-inch television showing the latest night football match. It seemed a way to spend any spare cash rather than hand it to his ex-wife for her enjoyment. There was never anything left over for Jasmine’s needs once Herb found his new bunch of ‘friends’ and the big colour TV.

Eventually, there was no money for the landlord of the two seedy rooms, which led to the night when two burly men stood at his front door and gave him five minutes to pack his bags and get out. With nowhere to go, he bought a bottle of cheap wine, found an empty doorway, and fell asleep on his suitcase. After a few nights of being told to move on by the police, he headed downtown. He knew there were places where the desperate people hung out and he was desperate. He found a tiny alcove behind some older shops not far from the Victoria Market. After he checked around the place, he took up ‘residence’ and hoped for the best. The line at the soup kitchen kept him alive.

His reverie was interrupted. A volunteer took his plate, cutlery and coffee mug, oblivious to the racket he made as the items were dropped into a metal pan. Herb did not recall eating the meal or drinking the coffee and realised he had been deep in thought. He looked at his watch. It had been about twenty minutes.

Charlie Hayne came over.

‘Are you okay Herb? You’ve been quiet for a while – looked like you had something on your mind.’

‘I did, Charlie, but I’m okay. Thanks for asking.’

‘No worries. Between mates, all right?’

‘Yes, mate, all right. Are we all cleaned up for the night?’

‘Yep. All good, Herb. We’re all heading off in a few minutes.’

‘Okay. I’ll be right behind you.’

Herb was not on the street these days. He was back in a seedy couple of rooms, with a decent TV for a change. He was sober, and responsible, and useful. He kept the rent up to date through a job with a tyre repair shop. The wheel had turned half-circle back from the brink and he was comfortable with the conditions in which he lived, and with himself. He had no contact with Jasmine or his children. That required further degrees of return. He knew he was not ready.

*

Evie Jones came in, loaded with garbage bags full of leftovers from two of the local bistros. She was her usual bright and breezy self as she bustled by him.

‘G’day Herb, how are you? Where do you want these?’

He walked to the bank of refrigerators garnered at no cost from commercial re-fits, as were the dishwashers. Evie followed him as he took some of the bags from her shoulders.

‘Jeez, Evie, you could have called me. That’s too much for you to be lugging over here.’

‘Ah, it’s okay, Herb. Keeps me fit, you know, chasing about the city getting this stuff that could’ve gone into the rubbish bin. And I do check everything before I bag it, as I’m sure you know and believe.’

‘I do believe. I see the evidence when I set up to cook the meals. It helps a lot, Evie. Donations only go so far.’

‘Yair. Not too many of our citizens care about the poorest people in the city.’

They loaded the bags into the refrigerators. Evie had labelled each bag with details of item, date collected, use by date and the name of the food outlet.

‘Can I get you a coffee?’ Herb was happy to stay back for her.

‘I reckon I will have a brew with you, Herb. It’s been a long day.’

Evie sat on a chair and watched him set up the cups. She knew he was still a married man, long separated from a bitch wife, and she cared for him and wanted him. Evie’s story was little different to those of the people who were served at the kitchen. She walked out of a broken marriage the day she decided she had been battered around long enough. She told the cops about it, showed them the cuts and bruises, and left it to the boys in blue to talk to the drunkard bastard and tell him to never try to find her.

Evie lived alone in similar lodgings to those occupied by Herb. She had moved on from the past horrors, reckoned she was happy enough these days and didn’t need much she didn’t have. She had a job at one of the city delis and this had opened the opportunity for her to help others a lot worse off than herself.

Herb sat down with the two cups and the sugar bowl.

They raised their cups.

‘Here’s to us’, they chorused.

‘We’ve done that toast a few times’, Evie said with a smile.

‘We have’, Herb responded.

They were friends, brought together by circumstance and associated by mutual understanding and respect.

‘Denny and Albert were at it again, tonight. Those two spend most of their time together and, as soon as they get in line in the kitchen, they find a way to have a blue.’

‘They are nuts, the pair of them. One day, one of them is going to try to kill the other. It’s an even money bet as to which one it will be. And, Herb, I’m not joking.’

‘I know. When they get started there is violence in the air.’

They sat quietly for a minute or so, drinking their coffees. Evie was first to break the silence.

‘Hey Herb, got anything special on tonight?’

‘No, nothing. You know what it’s like, Evie.’

‘Well, how about keeping me company for the night. You know how it is, Herb.’

‘Yes, I do, and yes, it is a good offer and is appreciated.’

‘Then it is a yes?’

‘It is, Evie.’

‘Good. We are good for each other, from time to time.’

‘We are.’

Herb saw an attractive woman despite the wear and tear of a hard life, mid-forties he reckoned, saw the blue eyes and unruly blond hair and the well-rounded figure he knew all about from previous nights of keeping company. He also saw a woman with a good heart, someone who gave more than she ever received. He liked Evie Jones, liked her a lot.

He washed the cups and left them to dry and they left together, walked arm in arm to the bus station, and waited. The bus came and they sat together, chatting quietly, until they came to her stop. It was not too late for another coffee and another chat before her bed beckoned and they came together to give to each other and to themselves in a searching, tender interlude.

*

Denny and Albert were close mates and continual antagonists. They were always together yet regularly engaged in vicious argument. That one might kill the other was a probability despite the apparent need each had for the other as mates enduring a hard life.

Dennis (Denny) Pearce was a latecomer to the world of the unwashed and unloved street dweller society. His marriage to Elsie Bennett began with a bun in the oven and harsh words from her father, flavoured with coarse use of the language and given weight with threats against Denny’s manhood. A shot gun was mentioned during the harangue. Elsie’s father was a big, brutish man with a reputation for brawling, and Denny was barely five feet six inches in his shoes and socks and his hair piled up in a brush-back. It was no contest.

Denny was prevailed upon to do the right thing and make an honest woman of the lass who had given of her treasures to many of the lads in the neighbourhood. It was never a happy union. Elsie was prone to continue to offer her favours when Denny was not around. He caught her at it on a few occasions and, eventually, saved himself from belting her by packing a bag and clearing out of the house, leaving her to go home to the loving embrace of her dead-beat parents.

He had nowhere to go and not much in his pocket and he finished up in the city and, through circumstance, camped on a street corner with a bunch of drunks and ne’er-do-well types. At first, he hated it, but one can get used to things when there are no obvious alternatives. It did not take long before the street was Denny’s home and the soup kitchen an early port of call. When your guts are empty you find out where you can get a feed.

It was also the hub of Denny’s social life. He got to know the men he lined up with each night, had words with them, made some friends. He met Albert. They became friends, then inseparable mates, who disagreed on almost everything and fought like cat and dog over matters of little importance.

Albert Hermann was a long-time resident on the street of shattered dreams. None of the customers or the volunteers at the soup kitchen knew how long he had been around because he was there before any of them. Those who first came to the kitchen