Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas (22 page)

Norton stood there nodding his head slowly. The girls continued to ignore him; the hippies avoided his eyes. ‘That's lovely, isn't it?' he said. ‘Just lovely. So I've cost you a gig worth a lousy fifteen hundred bucks? Big deal. How would you like one for five thousand bucks? And you don't have to go any further than the front of these flats.'

The girls exchanged glances, then Franulka turned down the ghetto blaster and looked at Les from over the top of her sunglasses.

‘Did you say five thousand dollars, Les?'

‘Yep. Exactly. Maybe even more.' Les fished into the pocket of his jeans, took out three thousand dollars and tossed it to Franulka. ‘And there's three up front if you don't believe me. Go on, count it.'

The girls' eyes were rivetted onto the wad of money. The hippies' eyes stuck out like boiled eggs.

Franulka flicked through the money like a Mississippi riverboat gambler. ‘Hey! He's right. There's three fuckin' grand here.' She gave Les a sugary, sweet smile. ‘Why don't you tell us what's going on, Les?'

Riona snapped her finger. ‘You know,' she said, ‘when I come to think of it, Syd can be a bit headstrong at times.'

‘Would you like a beer, Les?' beamed Isla.

‘Yeah,' nodded Les. ‘I wouldn't mind one at all.'

You rotten, low, mercenary bitches, he thought. There was a milk crate next to the hippies. Les brought it over, got a bottle of Tooheys Dry from the esky, opened it and sat down.

‘You know what this Saturday is?' The girls shook their heads. ‘It's November the fourteenth. Sandra in flat three's birthday — and Prince Charles's as well.'

‘That big-eared wombat?' said Alastrina. ‘What's he got to do with it? He talks about the environment and him and his old man go out and shoot about a hundred pheasants of a weekend.'

‘Yeah, well, he's an upper-class pom. What do you expect?' Norton took a swig of beer. ‘Anyway, forget that. The thing is, Sandra's got a rich admirer and he wants to throw a surprise birthday party for her this weekend.'

‘Sandy's got a few rich admirers,' said Gwen.

Norton shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, I wouldn't know about that. Anyway, the thing is, he wants you to throw a street party out the front.'

‘A street party?'

‘Yeah. Evidently this bloke's got a mate with a film company who wants to video it.' The girls exchanged quick glances at the mention of the film company and video. ‘The people in the flats across the road are all friends of Sandra's — you could organise it with them and block the street off.'

Gwen looked thoughtful. ‘It wouldn't be hard. Aquila Street's only a little dead end as it is.'

‘That's right,' agreed Les. ‘It'd be as easy as shit.'

Alastrina looked quizzically at Les, then at the money in Franulka's hands. ‘It all seems too good to be true. How do you figure in all this, anyway, Les?'

Norton took a sip of beer and made an open-handed gesture. ‘I was out the front doing a bit of sweeping and this old bloke just come up to me and started magging to me about it and his mate with the film company. Being the caretaker, he probably thought I was in charge or something and he asked me if it'd be all right. He sounded like a Yank. And when he asked me how much the girls would want, I just said the first number that came into my head. Five grand.'

‘Christ! You should be our agent,' said Riona.

‘I also said you'd probably need another thousand for expenses with the council and that. And he didn't even blink. Just gave me the money — and Bob's your uncle.'

‘You're kidding?' said Isla.

Norton shook his head and smiled. ‘So, there you have it, girls. All you've got to do is put on a turn
right out the front. No travelling, no nothing. And no agent's fees. Call it the Prince Charles Birthday Bash.'

‘For that kind of dough we'll call it the Second Coming of fuckin' Elvis,' said Alastrina.

‘Just make sure Sandra's there. And old Burt and Rosie. And everybody else in the flats. Have a good time, get pissed and get paid for it.'

‘How long do you reckon we'd have to play for?' asked Gwen.

Norton shrugged again. ‘I dunno. Kick off, say, at nine and go till midnight. Whatever suits you. I can't see any hassle with the coppers if everyone in the street's involved. I won't be able to help you with your stuff. I start work at the ah... markets tomorrow unloading trucks and I'll be working late Saturday. But I'll be able to help you pack up.' Les nodded towards the four hippies who still hadn't said anything. ‘But why don't you get the boys to give you a hand? Here's another five hundred towards expenses. Give them a drink out of that.' He fished in his jeans and came up with the appropriate amount and gave that to Franulka as well. ‘He told me to give you the rest on Sunday morning.'

Norton grinned at the five flummoxed Heathen Harlots. ‘Well, what do you reckon girls? Is it on or what?'

Franulka shook her head in disbelief. ‘It's on, man. It's on like you wouldn't believe. Thank you, Les baby.'

‘Yeah. Good on you. Thanks, Les,'was the general chorus.

Norton reflected sadly into his bottle of beer. ‘And to think you girls called me a drop kick and told me to piss off.'

‘Oh well, we didn't really mean it,' said Riona.

‘No, of course you didn't,' answered Norton. He finished his beer, dropped the empty in the esky and stood up. ‘Well, I've got a bit of running around to do, so I'd best get going. But I'll see you before Saturday. Okay?'

‘Yeah, okay,' said Gwen. ‘And thanks again, Les.'

Norton smiled and headed for the doorway.

Franulka called out just as he got there, ‘Hey, Les! You're all right, you know.'

Norton turned round, gave her a wink and one of his best grins. ‘There's heaps worse blokes round than me, Franulka. Don't worry about that.'

On the way down the stairs, Les stopped at flat five and removed the cardboard cutout and the piece of pipe from the window. Then he went back inside the caretaker's flat and got his overnight bag from beneath the old night-and-day.

Out in the street Les couldn't help turning around and smiling at the old block of flats. He stopped for a moment before he walked back to his car. You know, he thought to himself, all that lying's bloody hard work. I think I might have to go and shout myself another beer. Whistling softly, he strolled up to the Royal Hotel.

Norton ordered a middy of White Old and found another table out the front again; about halfway through his beer he was starting to feel reasonably pleased with himself. The dicey scam with the bikies had gone over as smooth as a billiard table and he was now seventy grand in front. The Heathen Harlots had come in like the proverbial Botany Bay mullets when he came up with that preposterous idea for the street party. It was an absolutely outrageous story and they fell for it; though Norton mused that for five grand those sheilas would fall for anything, and, no doubt, their pants with it. But the party should get everybody out of the flats, so he could now give Grigor the go-ahead to blow the place to smithereens and not make a dill of himself in front of the Ciotsa brothers.

Yes, he mused, taking another nice, cold sip of beer, I think I might just about have this thing by the nuts. Phases one and two of Operation Blue Seas are going swimmingly and according to the battle plan, I've got the money and I've cleared the beachhead. All I need now is an alibi, just in case being the owner of the said block of sumptuous apartments some flak should come back on me. Les took another thoughtful sip of beer and gazed absently at the few other drinkers out on the footpath. By rights, he shouldn't be anywhere near the place
when it goes up; in fact, the further away the better. Like somewhere up the north coast. On the other hand, if I'm miles away at the time it could look just a little too... too obvious. What I need is to be somewhere doing something with witnesses around. It's a pity I'm not working. Les snapped his fingers. I'll swap a night with Billy at the club. No, that'd look just a little fishy because I told Billy he could have it all on his own. Norton was silently pondering this small, yet vital loose end, when his ‘alibi' walked up to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down.

‘Hello, Les. What are you doing over this way?'

It was another bloke from the Eastern Suburbs Norton had got to know since his arrival in Sydney: Bob Quigley, the proprietor and chef of a small restaurant in Coogee called The Devlin Dining Room. Quigley was a lean, sallow-faced man of about thirty. He was roughly the same height as Les, with brown hair combed straight back off his forehead, a bony chin that always looked like it needed a shave and dull, brown eyes set in a grainy face that had definitely seen better days. He lived somewhere near Coogee but spent most of his time swimming or surfing at either North or South Bondi which was where Norton had met him and had somehow been talked into going to his restaurant with a bit of a side one night. The food was so-so but the service was even more ordinary — the waitress, Les remembered, was scruffy, half-pissed and stank of cigarette smoke. Norton never bothered going back. Quigley had been up to the club a few times and always struck Les as being a bit of a smartarse, much like the team he ran with. For the sake of being called a snob, Les always gave Quigley a friendly ‘g'day' and ‘how are you'. And if Quigley wanted to tell Les how good his restaurant was, and how great he was going and how many sheilas he was rooting, Les would also give Quigley his ear for a couple of minutes.

Still lost in thought, Norton stared for a moment or two at the figure, wearing a T-shirt and jeans pretty much like himself, who had just sat down opposite him. ‘Oh. G'day, Bob. How's things?' he said.

‘Not bad,' replied Quigley, taking a sip on his schooner. ‘So what brings you over this way? This isn't your regular drinking hole.'

‘No. No, you're right,' answered Norton, trying to think of an excuse. ‘I've ah... I've just been over the hospital having a chest X-ray.'

‘All those late nights at the Kelly Club and hanging around the Cross starting to get to you, eh?'

‘Yeah,' laughed Les. ‘something like that. Anyway, I got the all clear so I thought I'd have a quick beer. It's warm enough.'

‘Yeah. It is.' Quigley looked evenly at Les. ‘I hear the cops closed the joint up,' he said, making the Kelly Club sound like a bit of a low dive.

‘Yeah. Saturday before last,' nodded Les, already wishing that Quigley would piss off and leave him alone.

‘So you're out of work?'

‘Yeah. It sure looks that way.'

‘What do you reckon you'll do?'

Norton shook his head. ‘Dunno. See if I can get a bit of labourin'. If there's nothing around I'll probably have to go on the jam roll.'

Quigley looked smugly at Les for a moment or two and a shitty sort of smile flickered around his eyes. ‘I'll give you a job if you like.'

‘What?' replied Les.

‘You want a job? I'll give you one. Kitchen hand.'

‘What? At your joint?'

‘Yeah. You ever done any kitchen work, Les?'

‘Yeah,' nodded Norton slowly. ‘At Easts Leagues Club when I was playing football.' Which was true. When Les had just come down from Queensland and signed up, the club offered him the world and put him in the kitchens, scrubbing pots and emptying garbage tins. Norton lasted about a month.

‘All right,' said Quigley. ‘You can start at my place tomorrow night. The bloke I had working for me, he, ah... he got another job.'

Norton stared at Quigley and immediately realised
what was going on. The smartarse wasn't offering him a job as a favour. He was doing it to put Les down. He'd be able to go and skite to all his smartarse mates about how he had the big mug from the door at the Kelly Club working in his kitchen. It was all the dopey big goose was good for.

Norton couldn't believe his luck. ‘Okay, Bob,' he said enthusiastically. ‘I'll be in that. When do you want me to start?'

‘Are you fair dinkum?'

‘Bloody oath! I need the work.'

‘Okay. Tomorrow night, five-thirty. You know where the place is?'

‘Yeah, Devlin Place, Coogee. Just up from the beach. I had a meal there once. It was tops.'

‘Okay. Work this Thursday, Friday and Saturday night. See how you go.'

‘All right. Thanks a lot, Bob.'

Quigley suddenly finished his beer in a bit of a hurry, stood up and looked around him then looked down on Norton as if he'd just had a big victory. ‘Anyway, I have to get going. I'll see you tomorrow night, Les.'

‘For sure,' answered Les. ‘And thanks again, Bob. I really appreciate it.'

Quigley had another look around, nodded at Les then hurried off in the direction of the hospital, where he more than likely had his car.

Well, I'll be stuffed, thought Norton, as he watched him walk away. I can't believe it. That's the perfect alibi. I'll work in his shitty, stinken restaurant for the next three nights — he can laugh his head off, for all I care. It's a low job, but three nights ain't the Burma railway. I'll just put my head down, keep my mouth shut, and nothing can go wrong. When I finish on Saturday night, this'll all be over. And I just won't be there the following week. Thank you, Bob Quigley. Another Eastern Suburbs smarty done me a favour trying to dud me. Norton grinned to himself and had another mouthful of beer. I wonder what the smartarse would have thought if he'd
got a little glimpse inside this overnight bag? Then Norton's grin faded and a frown crept over his face. The cunt never mentioned anything about money. Wonder what's he going to pay me?

It had been a very profitable and enjoyable day and Les was feeling more pleased with himself than ever as he stashed the bag of money behind the wardrobe in his bedroom. Satisfied it was secure Les made himself some sandwiches for lunch and a nice pot of tea.