Foodge had a strong sense that there was trouble brewing in the rough diamond part of the Emerald City.  There many unanswered questions, like “How many unanswered questions are there ?”  Plus one, apparently.

Foodge was used to eating up the miles in Emmjay’s Zephyr and it was a pity that miles were in short supply since metrification.  Foodge understood that he could get a fair exchange rate and these days he was getting 60% more kilometres per gallon than he used to get in miles.  “Win-win”, thought Foodge.

“Thai beef salad” thought Foodge.  “The tang of tamarind sauce”.

Ed’s Note:  Wait a minute.  This is you, isn’t it Emmjay ?  What did I tell you last time you wrote a chapter of Foodge at lunchtime ?  “You said to focus, sir.  On Foodge.  Keep the self out of it. “  OK, I’ll let you have a mocha coffee, but only if you get back on topic.”

There was no parking in Inner West Cyberia.  But there was especially no parking within cooee of Rosie’s Tattoo Emporium and House of Pain (no charge for extra pain).  Foodge managed to find an amazingly free spot in the Council Car Park.  In fact there was only one other car.  It was a BMW.  Or what was left of a BMW.  It was pretty much a B.  Foodge wondered where the wheels had gone. “Nice car”, said a curiously attired young man who had borrowed his big brother – or possibly his Dad’s ’s basketball clothes – addressing Foodge.  Something equivalent to a decimal currency penny dropped for Foodge.  He thought better of parking the Zephyr in the Council Carpark.  He drove it back to the Pig’s Arms and strode out in the general direction of Rosie’s.  He was becoming really hungry.

Ed:  Don’t provoke me, Emmjay.

But Foodge knew he was on a mission larger than his appetite.  He made Rosie’s by two in the afternoon, ravenous.  It was a Tattooery unlike all others.  It was clean.  It was tidy – viewed from across the road, but like all its ilk, it was clearly painful.  Foodge pressed the buzzer on the door.  Thankfully, it buzzed.  And a Voice said on the intercom “Come in Foodge.  I’ve been expecting you.  The door opened and Foodge stood aside to allow a weeping man clutching his arm to slip past.  The chap’s girlfriend was clearly unimpressed with his attempt at unity, preferring to have her name spelled with all the vowels in the right positions. “It’s not Juno, is it Tarzan ?”  “No, Jane” said the sobbing man “Sorry”.  “You’ll be bloody sorry all right” she said whacking him on the arm with a fulsome noogie if ever there was one.

The décor in Rosie’s was vaguely Chinese – if you call red and gold with dragons everywhere “Vague”.

“Hi Miss Rosie”.  “Hello Foodge.  How do things sit with you?” Foodge’s mind flitted off his stomach and settled briefly like a butterfly on his tattooed bum cheek, before making the return trip. “Some tea, a snack maybe?” said Rosie.  She was nothing if not a woman who new the way to a man’s wallet. “Love a bite to eat” said Foodge, scouting around to see whether Emmjay’s editor was listening.

“We have some Thai beef salad” said Rosie.  “Perfect” said Foodge who had, on the odd occasion, a way of getting his way.  Rosie gave one of those wordless signals that henchmen and minions understand intuitively to help the action keep rolling on.

“What brings you to the House of Pain, Foodge ?”  “I seem to be in a spot of bother, Miss Rosie”.  “Bummer” said Rosie.  “More than you realise, probably” said Foodge, drawing a faded Instamatic photograph from his jacket pocket.  “Do you know this bloke ?” said Foodge.  “It’s a child, Foodge”.  “Yes, I know.  Kind of looks like Emmjay when he was young and in his choko and dirt-eating phase.  Sorry.  I don’t have anything more recent”.  “Looks a bit like a guy we had working here about 32 episodes ago” said Rosie.  “ He was a wizard on zodiac tattoos”.  “Can you hear any mariachis ?” said Foodge. “Check” said Rosie “Good clue.  His name was Dorito or Honcho or some such”. “Pancho” said Foodge. “Pancho Headin”.

The Thai beef salad was delivered by a diminutive Chinese man, Foodge recognised as Shorty Chen.  He spoke with a tangelo accent – traces of Mandarin but lacking seeds.  Foodge treated him with kid gloves, aware that he was thin skinned and bearing the scars of the siege of cartoon, the Jaffa Navel incident and the Boxer Rebellion where he picked up his nickname – Boxer Shorty.  Foodge had him pegged as a pithy type with a zest for life and the juice to go with it.  He was clearly a man who would give no quarter but was Seville in his fruit salad days.

Shorty’s gaze settled on Foodge for a moment longer than Foodge felt comfortable about.  Merv had warned Foodge about smooth-skinned men with loose loafers showing more interest than was usual.

Foodge was about to offer Rosie a share of his repast but Shorty cut in “Mr Rosie regrets she’s unable to dine today”. “I’ve already had lunch, Foodge” said Rosie and with the formalities out of the way, Foodge tucked into his Thai beef salad.

What business do you have with Pancho Headin, Foodge ? Rosie was more than likely playing dumb thought Foodge.  She must know that Pancho is sleeping with the fish fingers.  But why ?

“Delicious tucker, Miss Rosie” said Foodge, buying himself just enough time to allow the unicorn to cross the room.  Foodge was not used to indoor rainbows.  Feeling pleasantly tired, Foodge decided that it must be time for an afternoon kip.  Rosie didn’t seem to mind.  She was looking at him from the wrong end of a telescope.  Tiny.  Foodge could hear Mark Knopfler singing “So far away from me”.   Magic fream arng away sin garmf…… weeeee.