Free Sharp Turn by Marianne Delacourt

for her; try ‘tough and resourceful with attitude’. She’d helped me out a couple of times when I was chasing a lead in the Bunkas and I hadn’t forgotten.
    Nor had she.
    Whatever happened at home must have been bad. I’d bet anything that Cass had a high tolerance for dysfunction.
    I took the coast road up towards Karinyup. White-topped ocean waves and glancing sun; air clean and cool. Perth was the most beautiful city in the world and the best-kept secret.
    The food-van owner lived in a salmon-brick duplex not far from Observation City in Scarborough. The rest of the street was full of mansions. He was tinkering under the hood of the van when we pulled up, and straightened up with difficulty, hands pressing into his lower back.
    ‘I’m Tara Sharp. Bolo Ignatius asked me to run your van while you’re recuperating this week. This is my . . . err . . . assistant, Cass.’
    ‘Jim,’ said the sandwich man. ‘Thanks fer doin’ this. Bolo says you’ve bin in caterin’.’
    ‘Ahh. Yeah. Sure.’
    ‘Jus’ bring her back here when you’ve finished. I’ll restock each day and the missus will clean her down.’
    That sounded like a good deal.
    He opened the van door and beckoned us in. ‘She’s got everything you need. Grill runs on gas, so don’t forget to turn the valve off when you’ve finished. Menu and price list here.’
    I stared at the well-scrubbed hot plate and deep fryer alongside. How did that work, I wondered.
    Jim’s forehead creased with doubt as he saw my expression. ‘There’re two five-kilo bags of chips in the freezer, above the meat patties and the dooper dogs.’
    My stomach heaved at the thought of battered sausages.
    No such problem for Cass. ‘Cool,’ she said. ‘Milkshakes?’
    Jim pointed to an appliance with a silver swizzle. ‘Three flavours. Choc, vanilla and strawberry. Ice-cream’s an extra fifty cents.’
    Cass nodded, casting a critical eye over everything. ‘Looks simple enough. Sandwich filling in the fridge?’
    ‘Yep.’ Jim seemed happier then. ‘The security guard at the gate’ll show you where to park and hook up to the mains power. There’s a list of instructions in the drawer under the cutlery. Call me if you need to know anything else.’
    He handed me a bright yellow card with a tiny image of a BLT in one corner and his name and number in the middle.
    ‘Thanks.’
    He dangled the keys in front of me. ‘Look after my girl.’ He clearly didn’t mean his wife.
    I summoned some assurance in my smile. ‘Of course.
    What time do you normally close?’
    ‘Around 2 pm. Unless a late order comes in.’
    ‘Then we’ll see you about 2.45. Mind if I leave my car parked here?’
    Jim stared at Mona. ‘I guess so. What’s the story with the paintwork?’
    Damn flames! I’d got a cheap paint job from a majorly dodgy spray painter named Bog in the Bunkas. The colour had been bad enough – orange – but he’d gotten creative and thrown in some black flame transfers for free. I now officially drove the she-beast from hell. ‘Friend did it.’
    ‘Okay, well pull her into the driveway when you drive the van out.’
    ‘Cheers.’
    I did the car manoeuvring, then jumped back into the van. With only a minor gear-crunch we were off and headed up the coast road again.
    Wanneroo Raceway was nestled amongst the coastal dunes fifty clicks north of the city. In the late seventies it was renamed Barbagallo Raceway but most people still called it Wanneroo Raceway or Wanneroo Park. I’d been there a few times before on V8 race day, but never for the bikes. Despite the thought of frying chips and buttering bread rolls all morning, I felt excited. The smell of two-stroke fuel had the same effect on me as the leather seats in the Reventon.
    We pulled into the visitors car park thirty minutes later without a speeding ticket, and I left Cass unpacking Styrofoam containers while I went for a reccy.
    The place was pretty much how I remembered it, apart from the new clubhouse