Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas (2 page)

‘Law and order,' butted in Eddie.

‘That's right,' nodded Price. ‘Just like they've been doing lately. Which comes straight back on...' He made a helpless gesture with his hands.

‘Can't you get to them though?' asked Billy. ‘And the coppers?'

‘I already have, Billy,' replied Price. ‘And they don't particularly want to close me down. But they're just gonna have to. I mean, they're only out to get whatever earn they can while they're in. But you can't get to everyone. I mean, I've done my best. I've corrupted more than my share. But there's just some cops out there too fuckin' dumb to take a sling. The dopey pricks.'

‘What?' said Les, blinking over the top of his stubbie. ‘You mean to tell me there's actually some honest cops in NSW?'

‘Yeah,' nodded Price, trying not to laugh. ‘Not very many. But they're out there. Like a fuckin' cancer, eating away at the decent ones I can get to. Bastards.'

‘Christ?'joked Les. ‘An honest cop in NSW.' He shook his head. ‘I never thought I'd see the day.'

‘You'd need to be Sherlock Holmes to find them,' chuckled George. ‘But they are out there.'

Norton shook his head again. He finished his beer and rose to get another one. ‘So what do you reckon you'll do, Price?' he asked from behind the bar. ‘If — and it's a big if — if this does mean the end?'

‘Probably take a well-earned rest,' smiled his boss. ‘Just concentrate on my horses. To tell you the truth I'm sick of looking at coppers and politicians and sick of giving them half my hard-earned money just for not doing their job. The pricks. And I'm getting sick of gambling too. I've been at it over twenty years. One thing's for sure,' he added, nodding his drink for emphasis. ‘I'm not gonna start playing Russian Poker. They can stick that in their arse.'

A collective shudder ran round the room. The boys had seen Russian Poker in some of the places that had changed over to it. It was a cross between Manilla, baccarat and poker and was played predominantly by Asians, most of whom were suffering Vietnamese refugees down to their last quarter of a million dollars worth of gold bars and diamonds they'd managed to escape with when they fled oppression. The places stayed open twenty-four hours a day; and the Asian punters, who all hated each other's particular nationality, chased one big bundle of money that changed hands every week. You won it and you were Jack the lad or Trang the lad, as the case might be, till you did it all back and the bundle went round again.

In the meantime they'd break into a house in their own community, rip the owners off to get a stake to get going again. The people whose houses got broken into were mostly shonks themselves, and rarely called the police. There was no glamour attached and guns,
knives and drug money were the order of the day. The Russian Poker joints stayed open only because of some flimsy loophole in the gaming act. Villain and all that he was, Price would have no part of it.

‘Anyway,' smiled Price, ‘I've managed to put a few miserable shillings aside over the years, so I'll survive somehow. If I go bad I can always get another milk run. I might even sell hot dogs outside Souths Juniors on fight nights.' He chuckled as he took another sip of his drink. ‘Anyway, who gives a stuff about a poor old mug like me?' he said, glancing around the room. ‘At least I don't think anybody here'll starve.' Price caught Norton's eye. ‘What about you, old fella? What are you gonna do now that we've all fallen on tough times? You reckon you can survive without old Uncle Price to look after you?'

‘Look after me?' snorted Les. ‘Hah! I'm lucky I'm still fuckin' alive after working here.' He took a drink and looked directly at George Brennan. ‘No, I'll go up to the CES, get on the jam-roll. Let them find me a job.'

‘You would too, you miserable drop kick,' George Brennan almost shouted. ‘You
would
have the hide to apply for the fuckin' dole. And blow up if they didn't give it to you.'

‘And why not?' Norton looked defiant. ‘I'm a worker being laid off. I pay my taxes. I'm entitled to it.'

‘Entitled to it?' snorted George. ‘What have you got your occupation down as. Head-crusher?'

‘No. Public relations. My accountant over at Double Bay has got me a tax file number and I'm listed as working in public relations. Same as Billy. Ain't that right, old mate?' said Les, turning to his workmate.

‘Yep,' nodded Billy Dunne sagely. ‘That's us. Meeters and greeters — as in public relations.'

‘Meeters and greeters,' sniggered Eddie Salita. ‘Between the two of you, you've made more work for the nurses and interns in the casualty ward at St Vincents than twenty years of natural disasters. Johnson and Johnson should give you a medal each.'

‘About the same amount of work as you've supplied for the local funeral trade, Edward,' replied Norton evenly.

Eddie grinned and pointed a finger at Les. He was going to say something but he didn't bother.

From then on it was non-stop bagging and everybody copped it, as more bottles of booze went steadily down and the level of laughter went steadily up. It was well after six and the sun was bright in the sky when they all fell roaring out of the Kelly Club, mule, stinking drunk. And it was closer to seven when Les got out of the taxi he and Billy had somehow managed to catch between them.

And it was close to two when Les got out of bed on Sunday, barely able to open his eyes, his tongue feeling like you could strike matches on it and a hangover that big you would have been flat out fitting it inside an aircraft hangar.

Jesus bloody Christ!, thought Norton, holding his head as he stumbled from his bedroom to the bathroom and out to the back verandah. How sick do you have to be to die?

The sun was beating down from a beautiful clear blue sky. It was a perfect summer's day — perfect for going to the beach, picnicking or just being outside. Four seconds of it was enough for Les. With the sunlight coming at his eyes like a First World War bayonet charge, he retreated back into the kitchen and put the kettle on. There was no sign of Warren, but an ‘office memo' next to the fruit bowl on the kitchen table told of his feelings:
Do you have to make so much fuckin' noise when you come home in the morning. You fuckin' big goose. It's like sharing a house with Frankenstein
.

Norton laughed as he screwed up the note and tossed it into the bin. But even a few seconds of laughter made the pain in his head worse. He beat another retreat into the bathroom and rummaged round until he found Warren's packet of Panadol Fortes. Shit, how many of these do you take again? I reckon three ought to
do. He got them down with a glass of water, thought for a moment they were going to come straight back up, but when they didn't, went back to the kitchen to make a mug of coffee with plenty of honey in it.

Now what happened again last night, and why am I so bloody crook? he reflected into his coffee. It was an easy enough night out the front; there were no stinks. The staff all went home early, along with the punters. Then it started to come back. Ohh yeah, that's right. I ended up drinking every bottle of Fourex in the office then me and Billy finished off that first bottle of Old Grandad and another one. That Coca Cola's got a lot to do with it too.

Half an hour later, the Panadols had started to work, the coffee stayed down and although Les still felt tired and completely shithouse, at least the pain had gone. He decided to walk down to the beach and have a swim. The walk might do him good and it'd be useless trying to find a parking spot on Sunday afternoon. He climbed gingerly into a pair of shorts, T-shirt and thongs and set off, still squinting uncomfortably through a pair of dark sun-glasses.

Bondi Beach wasn't all that crowded but there were plenty of people sitting on the grass or walking around the shops. Norton found a spot on the sand just up from the south end next to the wall with a little shade. He had intended going down the north end where he knew a few people in the surf club but decided at the last minute that conversation might not quite be on the agenda this particular Sunday.

The water didn't look too polluted. The nor'easter seemed to be blowing most of the ‘murk' into Bronte and Tamarama. Oh well, Les thought, walking down to the water's edge, legionnaire's disease, anthrax, even bubonic plague couldn't make me feel any worse than I did earlier. He made a mental sign of the cross and plunged in. Despite the germs, industrial waste and pollution, the water still felt good. He flopped around for a while and even caught a few small swells onto the
beach. After a while he lay on the water's edge checking out the punters and perving on the girls sunbathing topless. But his heart wasn't really in it and he still felt tired and hungover. What he needed was a feed, a rest, then a good night's sleep; it was getting late anyway. He had a shower, got some takeaway Chinese and two litres of orange juice and headed for the cool, darkened sanctity of Maison Norton in Cox Avenue. It was a day completely wasted.

The soya sauce chicken and fried rice went down well, as did the orange juice. All I need now, thought Les, feeling a little better, is a nice early night. Shit, I'll be getting plenty of those from now on he mused, as he watched some travel documentary about the Himalayas on Channel Two. The gravity of what last night was all about and some of the things Price had said were starting to come back to him. He was thinking heavily on this when the sound of the front door opening told him Warren had come home.

‘G'day, mate,' he said, as Warren walked into the lounge. ‘I got your note. Thanks.'

Warren stood there staring at him. ‘You know what time it was when you got home this morning?'

Norton nodded. ‘Roughly.'

‘It sounded like Jesse the elephant coming through the front door.'

‘Wouldn't surprise me.'

‘You fell over in the hall. You nearly slammed the front door off its hinges. You knocked over the bowl of fruit in the kitchen; plus all the dishes draining next to the sink. You left every light in the house on. And you pissed all over the floor in the bathroom. You've certainly got some style, haven't you? Even for a fuckin' bush Queenslander.' Norton's face coloured and he gave a self conscious smile. ‘You were still snoring and farting your head off when I left here at one o'clock. The girl I was with said she'd never seen anything quite like it. And she used to work on a pig farm up on the Darling Downs.'

‘Thanks, Woz. You're a real pal.'

Warren continued to stare at Norton, then wrinkled up his nose. ‘You still smell of stale piss too.' He continued to stare at him as Les tried to concentrate on the TV to try and hide his embarrassment. ‘So what was the big occasion? You win the lottery or something?'

Norton kept staring at the TV. ‘I'm out of work.'

‘Out of work?' Warren's eyebrows knitted for a second. ‘What do you mean? Out of work?'

‘The Kelly Club's closing down for a month. Probably for good. And I'm out of a job. We all are. That's why we all got so pissed.'

Les told Warren about the previous night and what Price had said. Warren stared at him in disbelief. He was still staring at him after Les had finished. But it wasn't a look of sympathy; it was more like trepidation, bordering on shock-horror.

‘That doesn't mean you're gonna be home here all the time now, does it?'

Les grinned and nodded.

‘In other words, I'm going to be constantly seeing your big boofhead around the place. Including Friday and Saturday nights when I like to play chasings with the girls.'

‘They don't call you lucky Warren for nothing.'

‘Ohh, shit!' Warren looked up at the ceiling then back at Les. ‘Can't you get another job? You'll have to. Your money'll run out before long.'

‘Don't worry. I've thought of that already,' enthused Les. ‘I'm getting another three boarders in. I'm putting two in the spare room, and you're going to share yours. I've lined up three footballers. They've all come down from Queensland to play for Easts. You'll love 'em. Plus the rent's going up. Don't worry about old Uncle Les, mate. He'll survive, all right.'

Warren looked at Norton for a moment, then went into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. He came back out into the lounge room, sat down and continued to stare at Les who continued to stare at the TV.

‘No, fair dinkum, Les. What are you gonna do? You can't sit around here all day and night, mate. You'll start to veg out.'

‘Warren,' replied Les, ‘the only thing that would make me veg out is being near you — 'cause you're a half-baked little fruit. Mate, I'll have plenty to do. Cleaning up after four boarders is going to take up a heap of my time — beds to make, garbage to empty, rents to collect.' Norton looked directly at Warren. ‘Which reminds me: yours is overdue — again. And me out of work too. You rotten little cunt.'

Warren sipped his coffee and started to laugh. He could see just where he was getting with Les on this particular topic of conversation. Nowhere.

‘So what are you doing tonight?' he enquired. ‘You going out?'

Norton shook his head. ‘No, mate. I'm too fucked. Besides, I couldn't look a beer in the face at the moment.'

‘I've got a good party to go to.'

‘Yeah?' replied Les, disinterestedly.

‘Yeah. It's only up at Bondi Junction too.'

‘Sounds terrific. Who're you taking? Whatever scrubber it was you dragged back here last night?'

Warren nodded over his coffee. ‘She's no scrubber, she's a good sort. Her name's Ximena. She works for a publisher.'

Les turned to Warren. ‘That's one good thing about me being home more often now. I get to keep an eye on some of these dogs you keep dragging in here behind my back. Make sure they're not old crackers full of hookworm and various forms of STDs.'