Page 12 of Ticket Out

She was pleasantly surprised to find the bus was a little quicker than her usual one, dropping her in a parallel street to her usual stop. She got home around the same time as usual, and washed up and was ready to knock on Mr. Rodney’s door at six on the dot.

“Ms. Gabby.” He pulled the door open as if he’d been waiting just in the hallway.

“Ready to rumba?” She admired his carefully pressed suit and the jaunty angle of his hat.

“Not at my age.” He held out an arm, and she slipped her own through his. “But I hope you are.”

She helped him down the stairs, and they took the walk to the club slowly.

It was a small building that had been painted with beautiful murals depicting Trinidad and Tobago, and the sound of calypso met them before they stepped through the door.

The musicians were up on a stage, and women worked at the tables set along the far wall, getting the supper ready.

A small desk was placed near the door, behind which sat a thin, young man who Mr. Rodney greeted as Jerome.

“Solomon here yet?” Mr. Rodney asked Jerome as he wrote his name in the book.

Gabriella handed over her supper fee and looked around the room.

A lot of the usuals were here, as well as a small group of white boys in the corner, shooting looks at everyone and whispering to themselves.

“Dopeheads,” Mr. Rodney said. “Or that’s what they want to be. Thinking the Calypso Club is the place to score some dope.”

He sat down, angry and upset.

Gabriella shot the boys a dirty look and sat so that she blocked Mr. Rodney’s view of them. “They’ll learn their lesson.”

Solomon would not like these boys pointing anyone in the direction of the Calypso Club. It was where the elders of the community came for companionship and to keep the ties of family strong.

Solomon was probably a strongman on the streets, but here, he was protective and patient, generous and thoughtful.

She’d seen it in the Italian Clubs in Melbourne where she’d grown up. Men who ran smuggling operations from the old country to the new, who would cut a stranger on the street but protect their own with their lives.

A flurry from the back, where the small, old-fashion kitchen was situated, had her turning her head.

Solomon stepped out, a friend on either side of him. He approached the table with the white boys, greeting them with friendly handshakes. Gabriella twisted in her chair, saw him lean down to talk softly to one of the boys.

She saw the boy’s face freeze, and then he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He rose to his feet, his gaze going to his mates, and he jerked his head, to get them to stand up.

Solomon’s smile never slipped. He kept hold of the boy’s hand, as if he’d forgotten he still had it clasped in his own. When he eventually let it go, the boy flexed it, and they left, amid jocular shoulder slaps and friendly goodbyes from Solomon and his friends.

Gabriella turned back to Mr. Rodney, saw his nod of approval.

“Now we can relax,” he said. He got to his feet as Solomon came up to them.

“Uncle Eric.” Solomon held out both arms and enveloped his uncle in a hug. “And Gabby. How are things at?”

“Doing fine, Solomon.” She’d felt herself relax as she’d walked with Mr. Rodney to the club. There hadn’t been a green jag in sight.

“Good, good. I have to make it a quick one tonight. I’ve got to work.”

“Overtime pay?” Mr. Rodney asked.

Solomon nodded. “We’ll make good money tonight.”

Gabriella heard the laughter in his voice and glanced at him, saw him looking at her. It was a thoughtful look, nothing she would call alarming.

She tipped her head at him in response, and he went off to get them each a plate of food before he left.

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