Lucky and Gregor both swore gently. They felt their way around in short introspective steps, their boots scraping across the unswept concrete floor. There was one dormitory bed, one sad toilet, a light globe fixed to the wall. A golden bar of light came from under the heavy door.

‘You know, it’s bad,’ Gregor observed, ‘but is this a cell?’

‘I think indeed it is a cell.’

Gregor sat down, claiming the bed. ‘You’re supposed to be doing a concert right now!’

Lucky stood in the corner underneath an air vent—a grille cut into the brickwork, through which strained the soubrette laughter of a woman somewhere outside.

‘You scared?’ asked Gregor.

‘Sure, I’m scared.’

‘I’m not, funnily enough.’

‘That’s because you’re not smart.’

Lucky hadn’t fully appreciated how difficult the USO fraud might be, how ill conceived, how inappropriate a sidekick was Gregor, and he acknowledged such shortcomings as he floated about in the dimness of their cell. Lucky’s next idea: to appeal their detention. With the pencil he’d used to sign a Benny Goodman autograph, he composed a plea on the only paper he possessed: a folded piece of six-by-nine-inch, torn days ago from the mess kitchen pad, on which he’d meant to compile a list of songs to play. He wrote:

Dear Sirs,

We believe there has been a big misunderstanding and that our detention here is unlawful. I think that we can come to an agreement, whatever the problem may be, as soon as we are released. We hope that occurs soon.

Many regards,

Lucky

Lucky posted his note under the door and passed the night awake. Gregor slept a good eight hours, just about. In some ways the night encompassed much for Lucky: rage, regret, confusion, fear, the swearing of oaths to certain changes (for example, abandoning his childhood delusions about music). But he knew these feelings well. He knew they would soon pass. Imprisonment might be a less transient condition. Lucky and Gregor stayed in the ad hoc jail for six nights.

Chapter 4: 1913–1939

1913–1939

1.

The Cafe Achillion played a precursor role in the story of Lucky’s restaurants: it was the prototype from which Lucky worked; it was the home he corrected. His restaurant franchise reproduced the architecture of the Achillion and its colours, the style of silverware, the window displays, the oval plates and menu. Even the idea of a franchise did not begin with Lucky. That dream—a proliferation of Achillions—first belonged to Achilles Asproyerakas, whose destiny warrants description. The regulars called him ‘Mad Achilles’, though never to his face, never within earshot. To some customers, Achilles functioned as a bogeyman, a child-frightener, the devil’s substitute in the suburb of Bardwell Park, Sydney. Parents told naughty children that if their behaviour did not improve quick smart they would be sent down to the cafe, where Mad Achilles would punish them in the terrible ways that people suffered in myths and fairytales.