Free High Season by Jim Hearn

that not enough people were walking down the street at the right time of day—but if you were twenty-two and had your ear to the ground, you could hear the traffic coming. And I jumped at the chance.

10
    It’s not unusual for chefs to use a whole lot of drugs, drink like alcoholics and smoke a pack a day. Commercial kitchens are the last bastions of I don’t give a fuck when it comes to the random, hedonistic consumption of legal and illegal intoxicants. And because chefs work so many hours over such a broad sweep of the week, particularly during times when others are letting their hair down, most chefs see it as their responsibility to roster on having a few beverages or joints or lines during work hours. And I’m fine with that; I don’t do it myself any more, but I’m hardly in a position to instruct others not to. Which is just as well because Choc, who Vinnie spoke to me about earlier in the day, has disappeared for longer than his requested two-minute piss-break.
    There was the briefest of lulls in the kitchen ten minutes ago and Choc, sensing an opportunity, grabbed his balls and pointed to the bathrooms.
    â€˜Two minutes,’ I yelled after him as he walked out of the kitchen, past the bar and down the tunnel towards the toilets. The problem is that beyond the toilets and the coolroom and the pool there is a gate that opens onto a small patch of bushland. And for Choc, there are mermaids singing out there. It’s a quiet and damp and silent place where a weary chef or a bush turkey might rest awhile before rejoining the madness that exists inside Rae’s rendered pink walls.
    Jesse has moved his car and is talking in hushed tones to Soda about what the police told him. Byron Bay is a small town, so if you happen to meet the police at some point, you quickly become known to them. Both Soda and Jesse are on first-name terms with most of the officers.
    â€˜Did they let you keep the keys, Jesse?’ I enquire.
    â€˜Yes, Chef. Everything’s all right. They just wanted me to move the car.’
    â€˜Where did you get a park?’
    â€˜Got the glory park right out front, Chef.’ Jesse smiles.
    â€˜Lucky,’ I reply. ‘Listen, I’m going to go drag Choc back inside. You two clear the dishes off the waiters’ station and make a little bench space. You’re about to get smashed with the rest of the dessert orders.’
    â€˜Yes, Chef,’ they chorus, getting on with the job straight away.
    Jesse and Soda are more animated than they have been for days and no doubt it’s because they can sense an impending drama that involves the law. Whatever they’re up to—and I really would prefer not to know—will require me to try to limit the fallout. And I must do this if I am going to physically survive the next few days because I simply cannot have one of them not turn up to work.
    The irony of me being, in the boys’ eyes, the old straight dude down by the stove who couldn’t possibly understand the extent of their debauchery and evil ways . . . well, it’s bittersweet. I certainly never planned to be that guy. In fact my whole life can probably be described as a failure to plan, but time gets away from us all.
    Walking from the kitchen out to the coolroom at Rae’s requires walking through the back of the restaurant. It’s something I haven’t had to do during lunch service today, and it’s refreshing to see all the guests having a good time. You can sometimes forget that people are relaxing and enjoying themselves just a few metres from where you’re stressing out and fending off chaos. Paris and Nicky and the rest of the girls at their table seem to be genuinely happy as they finish up their desserts. The two security guys, who are sitting at a table next to the girls, shoot me a wink and half raise their beer glasses. Scotty is hovering, picking off empty glasses and finished plates. The sun is arching back