Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas (27 page)

‘I'll get you to take that garbage out, Les,' said the owner. ‘Those ahh... fish heads are starting to go through the kitchen.'

‘Yeah, righto, Bob,' replied Les, happy anyway to be able to get out of the cigarette smoke for a few minutes.

Norton pulled the garbage bag out, tied the top and headed for the dump-bin at the rear of the motel. As he rounded the corner from the toilets, Les stopped and looked back. Quigley and Layton were once again in the corner doing their hustle. Les shook his head, spat on the ground and continued on down the drive.

Back in the kitchen he put his head down as he scrubbed some pots in the sink and told himself to be cool while he waited for Layton to start mouthing off. Only one more night to go, Les. One more, that's all. After a few minutes talking with Quigley, Layton went over to the urn and made a cup of coffee. He looked at Quigley, then at Norton and smiled.

‘I see you're wearing your white headband tonight, Les,' he said, adding his giggly laugh. ‘Is that the go with all the poofters up the Cross, is it? Pink ones
Thursday. White ones Friday. It matches your T-shirt this time though.'

Norton stared ahead and gritted his teeth. Only one more night, Les. Just one. That's all.

‘I suppose you're missing your mates up the Cross tonight, Les.' Layton turned to the others. ‘Friday night's the big night for all the poofters. Especially if you've got a white headband and a matching T-shirt.' This was accompanied by another burst of giggling laughter. The two half-pissed waitresses must have thought this amusing; they gave a bit of a titter as they took some more meals out to the dining room. Then Layton started sniffing the air. He turned from Quigley to Les. ‘Hey, Les, I thought you took all those fish heads out? Something still stinks in here.' He moved over and began sniffing Norton. ‘Oh, it's only you, Les. Is that your last boyfriend's aftershave?' Les was seething.

Then Layton picked a piece of stove grease from Norton's hair. ‘Hey what's this? Did he blow in your hair, Les?' He gave a great giggle of laughter. ‘I reckon you'd give a good head job, Les. You'd have the experience.'

That was it for Norton. Fuck waiting till next week. He picked up a pan from the sink and was just about to backhand Layton with it right in the mouth when the phone near the pantry rang. The two girls were in the dining room, Quigley had his hands full and Norton of course, wasn't expected to have brains enough to be able to talk over the phone.

‘Hey, will you grab that, Layton?' said Quigley.

‘Yeah, righto, Bob.' Layton took his coffee, walked over and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello. Devlin.' Then he smiled over at Quigley. ‘It's for me, Bob.'

Quigley nodded his head, Les put the pan back in the sink and let out a massive lungful of pent-up rage.

Layton talked and giggled on the phone for a while then hung up and got a plate of food. He slung off at Norton a couple more times but kept his hands off him, seeming more content to swan around in front of
the two waitresses. Eventually he left, saying goodbye to everyone but Norton and once again leaving his plate for Les to scrape off and clean.

Norton was now filthier on himself than ever for taking on this job. He had over sixty grand sitting in his wardrobe and could have been out somewhere, anywhere in Australia, having a ball. Instead, he was in a smoke-filled dump putting up with idiots and taking shit from two penny-ante dope dealers. The only semblance of a pat on the back he could give himself was the amount of restraint he'd shown. But he swore to himself that, even if Quigley laid him off tomorrow night, he was coming back next Thursday and kicking Layton from one end of the restaurant to the other. And Quigley too, if he put his head in. Then he was ringing a bloke he knew in the drug squad.

The night dragged on. Quigley and his two waitresses smoked about two hundred cigarettes while they all got drunk and the radio churned out all the worst possible pop music from the sixties and seventies. Norton couldn't ever remember being so down in the dumps and dirty on himself. In fact, he was starting to get dirty on the world. But the night had to end sooner or later, and it did; just after twelve. Quigley paid Les from a little black cash-box near the pantry, slinging him an extra five dollars and making a big man of himself for doing it, then he pissed Les off without once again the offer of a beer or a thank you but a ‘be here at five thirty tomorrow'. Norton left the three of them to carry on with what ever they did, more than glad to be out of the stinken joint.

Oh well, thought Les, sitting behind the wheel of his car. Only one more night to go. Then it'll be my turn to have a laugh. And a big one. And as for restraint, I'd better not kid myself. If that phone hadn't rung I'd have wrapped that dirty black frying pan right around that dope-dealing arsehole's head. Again Les felt tired, drawn and dirtier than ever and was looking forward to a shower and a good night's sleep. Then it dawned
on him that Blue Seas was just up the road and this was about its last night on earth. He looked at his watch, twenty past twelve, and smiled to himself. I might go up and just have one last look at the old block of flats and see who's around.

He pulled up in Soudan Street, down from and opposite to the garage on the corner, switched off the engine, and sat in the car listening to the radio while he stared ahead in a bemused sort of way at Blue Seas Apartments. There was scarcely any moon and in the streetlight the old block of flats seemed to look even more decrepit than ever. Sandra's utility was out the front and so was the hippies' kombi-van. It was almost sad in a way. The old block of flats probably had its share of memories in its day and it was hard to believe it was once a clean, modern block of flats and that the suburb running down to Coogee, with its trams and aquarium, was almost a holiday resort area. Christ, I wonder what will be here tomorrow night? thought Les. Fire engines, police, people running around everywhere. And a dirty great pile of glowing ashes where the old flats used to be. I just hope no one gets hurt. That's all.

He glanced at his watch again just as the grey BMW swung into Aquila Street and pulled up not far from Sandra's old white utility. Well, what do you know, mused Norton, the hint of a smile flickering round the comers of his eyes. Right on time. The familiar spritely figure in the trench coat and hat got out, had a quick, furtive look around, then walked briskly into the foyer. Well, I'll say one thing. Whoever you are mate, you sure don't mind a bit of a late night root. Then Les chuckled out loud. But I'd make this one a good one, if I were you. I reckon it might be your last for a while. In my block of flats, anyway. Still chuckling to himself, Norton started the car and headed home, looking forward more than ever to having a shower and going straight to bed.

Norton was up the following morning around eight-thirty, not sure whether he was pleased to find it almost
a perfect, sunny day or not. One thing he did know. After seven-odd hours in that smelly kitchen he had no trouble getting to sleep. The heat from the oven left him dried out and drained and the fumes from the others' non-stop cigarette smoking made the air outside the Kelly Club in Kings Cross seem like a walk through a pine forest in the Snowy Mountains. He made a cup of coffee and sipped it on the back verandah as he gazed out into the back yard. Oh well, one thing's for sure. It'll be a good night for a party. The papers were out the front; he brought them in and was flicking through them at the kitchen table when Warren surfaced around nine. He was sort of smiling at Norton in his blue velour shave-coat and for a Saturday morning, after his customary Friday night on the piss, he hadn't brushed up too bad.

‘Do you have to make so much fuckin' noise out here, Les? You know I like to have a sleep in on Saturday morning.'

‘Sorry, Warren,' replied Norton. ‘I didn't realise my reading was disturbing you. Next time I'll put the fuckin' TV on.'

‘Inconsiderate bastard.'

Norton kept reading but found his eyes following Warren around the kitchen as he fossicked around, making himself a cup of coffee.

‘So, how was it last night, Bogdan? Have a nice time in the Devlin incurable diseases ward?'

‘Yeah,' replied Norton. ‘It was great. Just like the night before. Seven hours in a Bombay toilet block surrounded by cunts. I can't wait to get back.'

‘I don't know why you just don't tell him to stick it in his arse. You're mad.'

‘Because that's not how I operate Warren. I said I'd help him three nights and I'm going to. Quigley ain't that bad a bloke.'

‘Quigley not a bad bloke!! You're kidding. He's a cunt. He thinks he's God's gift to women and he's killed more people than road accidents with his cooking.' Warren
poured a cup of coffee and peered suspiciously at Norton over the rim. ‘Something doesn't quite gel here. I know you too well, Les. I reckon you're up to something.'

‘Up to something?' Norton glared at Warren. ‘What in the fuck could I be up to working in a shitpot restaurant? All I'm doing is trying to earn a quid to keep this roof over our heads. And you treat me like a criminal. Jesus, you're good.'

‘Yeah, I dunno. You couldn't possibly need the money that bad. Something's definitely going on.'

‘Ohh, go and get fucked. Anyway, leave me alone, Woz. I'm trying to read the papers.'

Warren slipped the
Sydney Morning Herald
across the table as Les pulled the Positions Vacant section out and began going through it. He decided it might be an idea to change the subject before he gave himself away.

‘So what did you do last night, Tom Cruise? You don't look too bad for a Saturday morning. Generally you look like you've been shot out of a cannon.'

‘Not much. Had a few drinks back at the office after work. Went for a bit of dinner at a German place near Taylor Square. Then cruised round a couple of bars. I took it easy on the piss. I'm saving myself for a big one tonight.'

‘You still taking that bag out, are you?'

‘Melissa? Yes. And she's not a bag. She's quite a good sort.'

‘The run you've been having lately ratboy, anything'd be a good sort to you now.'

‘Hardy-ha-ha-fuckin'-ha!'

Les and his flatmate exchanged a few more pleasantries as they breakfasted and read the papers. After a while Warren made a fresh cup of coffee and walked out into the backyard.

‘Hey, it's not a bad day outside,' he said, when he came back in. ‘I'm going to go up to the Paddington Bazaar. Why don't you come up?'

Yeah, that would be all I need, thought Les. Go
walking round the Paddington Bazaar and bump into Sandra. Hello, Les. Looking forward to the party tonight? Haven't seen you cleaning up round the flats lately.

‘No, I promised Billy I'd have a run with him later,' he lied. ‘Why don't you come and have a run with us? Then we'll do a few rounds down the surf club.'

‘Yeah,' nodded Warren. ‘That doesn't sound like a bad idea. I'd have no trouble keeping up with you and your punch-drunk mate.' He sipped his coffee and gazed back out into the yard. ‘No, it's too nice a day. I'll go to the bazaar. But I'll make it next week for sure.'

‘I'll tell Billy when I see him. Hell be estatic. Warren Edwards, the human dynamo. Couldn't pull a wet tampon out of a sloppy drop kick.'

Around eleven Warren got changed and headed off to Paddington, leaving Les alone in the house wondering what to do with himself. Sitting around on his own, Norton soon found that, despite the banter and wisecracking with Warren earlier, he was now starting to get a bit edgy. He told himself nothing could go wrong; he'd covered every conceivable angle and he had two professionals on the job. But somehow he just couldn't control the feeling in the pit of his stomach. Christ, I'm blowing up a block of flats in front of God knows how many people dancing and having a party. Shit, if you took something like that for granted, there'd have to be something wrong with you. He made some more coffee and found himself pacing around the house. At midday his curiosity got the better of him. He strolled down to the TAB at Sixways and put some bets on, then drove over to Blue Seas Apartments.

Aquila Street wasn't quite what what you would call a hive of activity, but there were a number of people roaming about getting things together. Les parked just down from the garage opposite and sat in the car for a while sussing things out while he figured out whether he should show his face or not. The thing that did surprise Norton was a small fork-lift truck stacking pallets up
in the middle of the street from a stack almost in front of the old block of flats. So, that's going to be your stage, is it? mused Les. Clever little devils, aren't you? Wonder how you managed to organise that? But then knowing you loveable, little lot, you'd just flash your ample pussies around and I imagine you'd be able to score just about anything. Sandra's utility wasn't there; she was obviously at the Paddington Bazaar. But the hippies' old kombi was there, and so was the purple wagon with Heathen Harlots on the side. Norton had just spotted it when who should come from inside, helping two of the hippies with a speaker, but Syd, the group's roadie and minder. He still had his neck in a brace and he was moving a little gingerly, but he was certainly up and about.

Franulka appeared from somewhere in an old pair of jeans and a sloppy grey sweatshirt. There was no missing her; even in that daggy gear she still looked disgustingly homy. She said something to Syd then went over to the bloke driving the fork-lift, pointed and said something to him also. It wasn't hard to see who was organising the show. The other girls in the band appeared with more people coming and going from the flats opposite — everybody seemed to be pitching in and doing their bit. Gwen was at the rear painting something on a big sheet of canvas or tarpaulin. Well, girls, smiled Norton, I've got to give it to you. You've sure got your shit together for this one. He sat there watching them for a few minutes more still wondering whether to put his head in or not. No, I don't think I'll bother. What's that old saying? Out of sight, out of mind. Besides, if I do go over, they'll only find me something to do. And I don't particularly feel like lumping speakers and other junk around — it's too nice a day. And I don't feel like talking to Syd all that much either. No, I think they can get on quite admirably without me. He watched the proceedings for a minute or two more then drove home.