Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas (10 page)

‘Good.' Burt gave a little chuckle. ‘Rosie must have recognised you.

‘Yeah,' agreed Les. ‘She's certainly got a good nose for faces.'

‘That's my girl all right.' Burt again peered oddly through his sunglasses at Norton for a moment or two. ‘Anyway, we have to do a bit more shopping. Come along, Rosie. See you later, Les.'

‘Yeah. See you, Burt. Have a good day.'

Norton leant on his broom for a while as he watched them disappear round the hotel corner then went back to sweeping the front of the flats. Well, I'm fucked if I know where the artist is he pondered. I've been hanging around here all morning like a stale bottle of piss and all I've met is some Dubbo roadie and had a dog stick its nose up my Khyber. I could be here all fuckin' day.
Norton's stomach suddenly rumbled and somehow he instinctively turned towards the hotel. He knew what was inside: cold beer, juicy steaks and crisp, fresh salads. There was still no sign of Sandra. Ahh, fuck this. I'm gonna go and have a steak.

There were a number of people seated on the white, plastic chairs and tables outside the hotel, taking advantage of the shade offered by the old colonial style verandah edged with iron lattice work and hung with gas-lamps that ran around overhead. The beers on the tables looked almost irresistible and walking past after all that strenuous sweeping Norton was sorely tempted. No, fuck it, he thought. I'll have a lemon squash. He rounded the comer and went into the Saloon bar. A barmaid, in the hotel uniform of black dress and black and white striped collarless shirt caught his eye and a schooner of squash was on the bar and halfway down his throat by the time he'd got his change.

The old hotel was spacious and bright with ample chairs and tables and paintings and blown-up photos of old Coogee and Randwick on the walls. The Luminarie bar with its statue of ‘The Thinker' amongst the indoor plants wasn't what Les was looking for. Another eating area painted pink and grey with comfortable, blue wicker chairs and tables, Quacks, was. Sipping his squash, he strolled over to the counter above which, several copper plaques said Starters, Soups, Main Courses etc. He studied the menu for a moment, changed his mind about a steak, and ordered roast beef with Yorkshire pudding. This was ready straightaway and after paying Les got some salad as well from a refrigerated servery then sat down next to an old, dark grey, marble fireplace just around from the bar.

Well, this is all right, thought Norton, ripping into his roast beef and pud. I can certainly think of harder ways to put in a day. After a couple of mouthfuls of food his lemon squash was gone so he got another one. But then again, that caretaking is bloody hard yakka; not to mention all the responsibilities I've got. So I
deserve a break. He took his time eating, then leisurely checked out the clientele while he finished his second squash. Well, this establishment is very handy to my new place of employment, he mused. I shouldVe come here more often. Finally, he quietly belched into his hand, got up and headed back to the old block of flats.

A bottle shop next to the bar in Perouse Road with Royal Hotel Vintage Cellars made him hesitate and have a momentous, five-second struggle with his conscience. It was just too hard to resist. Ahh, fuck Warren, he thought. What he don't know won't hurt him. He bought a dozen cans of Fourex to put in the fridge of the old flat —just in case. On the way back he was disappointed to see the old white utility gone. Shit, he cursed. Missed her! How's my fuckin' timing?

Norton made a cup of coffee and gazed moodily out the window of his flat. Well, he thought, as Roger Miller almost put it, I've had about four hours of pushing broom, and I'm still stuck in this eight by twelve, four-bit fuckin' room. Don't know where the beautiful Miss Picasso is and it's much too good a day to be stuck in here like a battery bloody hen with the didgeridoo string quartet about ready to start up on the roof. I doubt if I'll see Elvira and the rocking vampires before midnight and I don't particularly feel like going out the front again and getting Rosie's snotty nose wedged into my blurter. No. You can stick this joint in your arse. I'm going down the beach — Coogee.

Norton did just that. He found a parking spot not far from Gales Baths and, although Coogee wasn't his favourite beach, spent the remainder of the day on his banana chair swimming, reading
Penthouse
and perving on the beach girls. For a poor, battling caretaker, trying to get over his divorce, he was doing it very cosy indeed. It was late afternoon when he went back to Blue Seas Apartments and got under flat one's dribbly, but warm enough shower.

After he'd slipped into a T-shirt, jeans and sneakers, Les decided to walk down to The Spot and get the paper
and something else to read. When he walked out the front the white Holden utility was parked near the corner and his hopes rose somewhat. But sank just as quickly when he noticed the girl of his dreams standing across the road next to a dark green Ford Fairlane with a tallish, good style of a bloke in his thirties with a neat, brown moustache. They weren't exactly locked in a ‘passionate embrace' but the way they were holding onto each other said that he and Sandra were definitely more than just good friends. Not wanting to be caught rubbernecking, Norton took a quick left in the direction of the shops, slowing up once to take a peek over his shoulder to see the bloke drive off as Sandra waved daintily but enthusiastically.

So that's what I've been hanging around for all day, he grumbled to himself. Miss Picasso appears to have herself a bloke. And not a bad style either. And I think if she had a choice between his car and the Nortonmobile I'm sure I know which one she'd take. This could be a bit trickier than I thought. I might even have to play my right bower early and let her know who the landlord is. Anyway, we'll see what happens. While he was at the shops Les got some fish and chips which he took back and ate in the luxurious surrounding of his caretaker's flat, washed down afterwards with a cold can of Fourex. It was the first one for almost a week and Les couldn't believe how good it tasted. It tasted that good he had another one almost straight after it which seemed to taste even better. In fact the taste lingered so piquantly and tantalisingly in Norton's mouth that, after sitting around reading and listening to the radio till almost nine, he decided to go over to the Royal and fill up completely.

Leaving the building, Norton was right on time to see the girl of his dreams, this time wearing an ultra-short blue minidress and an embroidered denim top. Only this time she was getting into a maroon Jaguar and the new squeeze had dark hair, no moustache and an expensive looking sports coat. She noticed Les out
of the window and gave him a smile and a wave as the Jaguar cruised easily off up Perouse Road. Norton had time to wave back before he was left standing like a shag on a rock in a wisp of expensive exhaust fumes. Christ, he thought, Sandy baby sure doesn't let too much grass grow under her feet. But see her in that mini. A top sort like her; what would you expect? And they sure ain't calling round in FJ Holdens. Shit, this certainly is going to be trickier than I thought. Thumbs jammed into the pockets of his jeans, Les strolled thoughtfully to the hotel.

The Royal was a much different place at night; more people, more noise and the crowd spilled out onto the footpath. They were all fairly well-dressed and appeared to be mostly in their mid-twenties and early thirties. The men didn't actually look like yuppies, but Les couldn't picture any of them leaning on a shovel for the local council either. The girls were attractive, well-groomed, and laughing away over their mixed drinks. Norton guessed that most of them would have been either nurses or staff from the hospital across the road. But there were no Sandra Jean Garretts amongst them. Les chose the saloon bar opposite the park and ordered a schooner of Brown Old which he drank out on the footpath while he checked out the punters and did a bit of thinking.

Two schooners later, Les switched to middies; the first beers in a week were already starting to give him more than a glow. But he was feeling good and wouldn't have minded having a mag or cracking a joke with someone, though so far he hadn't seen a soul he knew. After a while, his thoughts started drifting back to Blue Seas and the lovely Sandra Jean, but whether he'd get her in the end or not, the old block of flats was losing him money and there had to be a way of cutting costs.

He took a notebook and biro from his back pocket and, leaning against one of the wrought-iron poles out the front with his beer resting on an adjacent windowsill, Les started doing a bit of adding and subtracting. But
the more he added and subtracted, the more it came up a no result. Norton was floundering around in a morass of boring facts and figures, getting more depressed, when he noticed an attractive woman doing pretty much the same thing barely a metre or so away. She looked about thirty years of age, and was wearing a black, woollen skirt, floppy, ankle length denim boots and a loose-fitting, red drawstring cotton top. She had brown shoulder length hair parted in the middle, and a pair of inquisitive blue eyes darted around the hotel above a pert nose and a wide, sensuous mouth. She was carrying a small clipboard on which she'd scribble furiously for a few seconds, then look around, then scribble some more. Somehow she caught Norton's eyes and paused momentarily as she noticed him scribbling away too.

Revved up with beer Norton was now in a gregarious, if not cheeky, mood. ‘Are you from the gas company too?' he asked her.

‘I beg your pardon?' replied the woman.

‘I'm with the local council. I've come here to read the gas meters. I thought you might be doing the same thing.'

Norton's stupid grin brought a twinkle to the woman's eye. ‘I'm certainly not here to read the gas meters,' she said, then took a sip of her drink and placed it at the edge of a nearby table.

‘You're a health inspector then. Either that or the police.'

The woman smiled. ‘No, I'm not a health inspector. And I'm not a cop either.' She took a peek at the notebook in Norton's hand. ‘And don't give me any of that shit about reading gas meters. If anybody around here's a cop, it's you.'

Norton couldn't help but roar laughing. ‘Yeah, that'd be right,' he chortled.

‘To be honest,' said the woman. ‘I'm a writer. I'm here researching a book.'

‘Fair dinkum?' Norton was impressed. He'd never met
a writer before. A few pisshead, lowlife journalists, the odd gossip columnist and an editor or two — but no writers. Especially not a woman writer. ‘What sort of books do you write?'

‘Crime stories mainly. Murders, fraud, drugs, gambling — all that sort of thing.'

Christ, thought Les, have you ever come to the right place at the right time. ‘I thought you might have been more into romance novels. You know, trembling young virgins, torn bodices. All that sort of thing.'

The woman shook her head slowly and gave Les a tired look. ‘No, not this little black wood-duck. I leave all that sort of thing to Barbara Cartland and the other girls. Though I do throw plenty of good old-fashioned sex in my books. A decent root doesn't go astray every now and again,' she added evenly.

‘I'll drink to that,' laughed Norton and raised his glass. ‘What's your name, anyway?'

‘Nola. Nola Lloyd.'

‘I'm Les.' They shook hands briefly. ‘Where are you from Nola?'

‘Balmain.'

Hello, thought Norton. A bloody feminist writer from right in the very heart of enemy territory. I can sure bloody pick 'em. Oh well, who gives a stuff? She doesn't seem like a bad scout.

‘What about you, Les? Where are you from?'

Norton nodded towards Perouse Road. ‘Just across the road.'

‘Handy.'

‘Yeah. I suppose it is.' He finished his beer and made a gesture with the glass. ‘Can I get you a drink, Nola?'

Nola thought for a moment. ‘Yeah, okay. Scotch and lemonade. Can you make it a double?'

‘Sure,' smiled Norton.

‘You want some money?'

Les dismissed her offer with a smile and disappeared in the crowd towards the bar. He was back shortly with Nola's Scotch and another middy of old for himself.

It turned out Nola was a writer, a popular one, and she'd had four books published. Norton thought that he'd seen a couple of the girls from the club reading her books down the beach. She didn't make millions, but between her novels and other things she was doing all right and was in the process of selling the rights to one of her books for a telemovie. She shared a house in Balmain with another writer and a cartoonist for one of the newspapers. She came to the hotel on her own to do a bit of research for the book she was writing now:
Ten Milligrams of Murder
. It involved nurses, a large hospital, a murder in an old block of flats and a search for missing jewellery, amongst other things. Nola said she always researched her books meticulously no matter how trivial the subject or location involved. In fact, getting drunk and researching her books was a lot more fun than the actual writing; almost as much fun as the royalty cheques that came in twice a year.

Les couldn't help but like Nola Lloyd. She was full of chat, jokes and cheeky observations of the other drinkers, and she spoke exceptionally well with a deep, throaty chuckle thrown in. She also had the peculiar trait of letting her eyes zap around all over the place, taking in everything else as she spoke to Les, yet not diverting any of her attention away from him. It got Les in. It was almost as if she were two people in one. Others might find it annoying, but it intrigued Norton delightfully.

A few more drinks and they were getting on famously, with Les starting to roar just a little. He couldn't be bothered making up any stories and figured she'd only catch him out anyway. He told her what he did, where he worked and what he was doing here, though he didn't let on that Blue Seas was a financial lemon and he was doing his arse over it. Nola continued to scribble more notes as she spoke to him and as Les got oiled up she started to get very horny-looking somehow. Her smile seemed to get wider, her waist got thinner, her boobs bigger and her hair shinier. Getting on towards eleven
and an unknown amount of beer and Scotches later, an idea formed in Norton's half-drunk mind.