Free The Punjabi Pappadum by Robert Newton

thing.
    â€œMullet!” croaked Veejay.
    â€œNot necessarily,” said Ron. “Could be we’re out of range.”
    â€œMaybe we should ring the police,” suggested Travis. “This is getting out of hand.”
    â€œYou’re right,” admitted Ron, “there’s a service station about fifteen minutes up the highway.”
    Behind the steering wheel, Ron crunched up and dipped his head down low like a cyclist, as if doing so might make them go that little bit faster. Ridiculously, the boys followed suit. Like four hunchbacks they were, eyes peeled, counting red reflectors on the side of the road. The fifteen minutes seemed like a lifetime.
    Finally, their headlights lit a blue “ROAD-HOUSE” sign.
    â€œHere we go,” said Ron, veering off to the left.
    Up the driveway they hurtled and pulled up at a pump.
    â€œYou can all straighten up now,” said Ron. “We’ve stopped.”
    Slowly the boys lifted their heads.
    â€œIt’s the ute!” shrieked Dexter.
    Sure enough, pulling out of the restaurant car park was the hotted-up ute. A dopey-looking Mullet was finger-tapping a tune on the steering wheel.
    Slowly he cruised passed the bowsers with an idiot grin looking for an audience. Besotted, he was, like a new father in a maternity ward. He let the tyres spin then disappeared in a puff of black smoke.
    Ron opened his door and checked his pockets for coins.
    â€œQuick lads, who’s got some change?”
    Desperately the boys went for their wallets, ignoring the rat-a-tat-tat on the front windscreen.
    â€œCan I fill her up for you, fellas?”
    The figure moved into view beside the Morris, breathing words smooth like river stones.
    â€œWhat about the windscreen, it looks filthy?”
    It was the voice of an angel.
    â€œSam!”
    Inside the roadhouse, Ron took care of the orders while the gang cut through tables crammed with noisy truckers. Very carefully, they moved towards a vacant spot in the corner, past tattooed forearms lifting cups of steaming coffee to appreciative lips.
    â€œAllow me,” said Dexter, sliding a chair out for Sam.
    â€œWow,” she squealed. “A girl could get used to that sort of treatment, you know.”
    Before long, Ron returned with a tray loaded with milkshakes and an assortment of deep-fried roadhouse fare.
    Sam noticed her fellow crime fighters waiting politely for her to start.
    â€œKnock it off, you lot, I’m not the bloody Queen. Dig in.”
    And they did.
    Ron steadied himself with a mouthful, white and one.
    â€œI’m really sorry, Sam,” he said. “That goes for all of you, actually. I don’t know what I was thinking getting you kids involved in all this. Maybe it’s time I put my name down for Happy Valley. I think I’ve lost me marbles.”
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous,” said Sam, patting his hand. “That was the most fun I’ve had in years.”
    â€œWhat happened back there?” said Travis. “Why’d you get in the ute?”
    â€œCall it a hunch,” explained Sam. “When I heard Grubby and Mullet talking I decided to run with Plan B.”
    â€œPlan B?” protested Veejay. “How come no one briefed me about Plan B.”
    â€œI made it up,” said Sam.
    â€œAnd the two-way?” asked Dexter. “What happened?”
    â€œI had to kill it when Mullet pulled in to the service station and parked the ute.”
    â€œWell, at least no one got hurt,” said Ron. “And I suppose there’s still the photos.”
    â€œI think you’d better pour yourself a fresh cuppa, Ron,” said Sam, beaming.
    â€œWhy, what’s up?”
    Slowly Sam ruffled through her jeans pocket, straightened out a wad of hundred-dollar notes then placed them on the tray next to a bowl of dim sims.
    â€œThat’s what’s up.”
    â€œCripes!”
    Shocked, the boys stared at the green notes in