Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas (28 page)

Back in his house Les didn't know what he wanted
to do. It was too nice a day to be inside, but he didn't feel like going to the beach and being around people. Yet he didn't feel like his own company either. He didn't want silence, but he didn't want the TV or the radio on either. He put the kettle on to make a cup of coffee. While it was heating, another old saying went through his mind. You make your bed, you have to lay in it. Yes. Let's just hope I don't have to wear the bloody thing as well. Before the kettle boiled he abruptly switched it off.

‘Ahh fuck this!' he cursed out loud.

He walked back down to Six-Ways and put some more bets on, then came home, got into a pair of shorts and his Nikes and went for a run in Centennial Park.

While Les was doing his best to enjoy his run the work at Aquila Street continued. The stage made of pallets began to take shape, ending up about six by three metres, and about two metres off the ground. They'd managed to scrounge up a roll of grey Axminister which, when it was laid over the top, almost looked as if it was tailor-made for the job. The night was certainly shaping up to be a success.

While all this movement was going on, nobody seemed to notice two beefy, dark-haired men carrying small overnight bags and wearing blue overalls with Otto Bins stencilled across the back. One was carrying a small aluminium stepladder he'd taken from the boot of a blue Mercedes which they had parked several hundred metres away. The two men had a quick but thorough look around, then moved inside the old block of flats; once inside the foyer, both men appeared to know exactly what they were doing. Moving straight up to the roof, they took what could almost pass for large tubes of toothpaste from their overnight bags and began squirting lines of what could also pass for Stripe toothpaste all over the place except that instead of being red and white, these lines, around four inches long, were black and grey. They squeezed plenty of the resinous smelling
‘toothpaste' on to the tarred roof, methodically working their way down the stairs and around the fuse box to the laundry. Using the small stepladder they squeezed more lines of ‘toothpaste' up onto the ceiling. As one tube would run out, they would put the empty into an overnight bag and get out another one.

Once inside the laundry, the swarthier of the two men produced two small packages about the same size as an oblong shaped tub of margarine. He removed the greaseproof paper and kneaded the light, green puttylike substance until it was a little flatter, then jammed it behind one of the meter boxes above the coppers in the laundry. Satisfied that it was secure, he worked two small devices consisting of a hearing aid battery and what looked like a transistor into the mixture. Happy with the first one, he jammed the other into a niche in the wall at the other end of the laundry and worked another device into that also. While he was doing this, the other man took two small squares of blue, puttylike substance from his ovemight-bag. He jammed one above the laundry window where it faced the street and worked one of the electrical devices into it, then did exactly the same behind the fuse box at the foot of the stairs.

Satisfied everything was in order the two men picked up the stepladder and their overnight bags and walked slowly, even casually back to their car, leaving the people working outside the old block of flats to carry on absolutely none the wiser.

Back in Cox Avenue Bondi Norton had showered after his run and grilled himself a steak plus salad and vegetables. No matter what his innermost feelings were, nerves, anxiety, whatever, he still hadn't lost his appetite and he knew there was no way he'd eat anything in that restaurant. He knocked that over pretty smartly, had a mug of coffee then settled down to watch the Wide World of Sport and listen to the races. It was a beautiful day outside and, around four-thirty, Norton besides his nervousness, was almost cursing his good
luck. His straight out bets and his doubles had done no good, but an All Up Parlay in Brisbane had won him just over six hundred dollars. Work that out, he thought, shaking his head. I'm another six hundred in front, there's nearly seventy grand in my wardrobe and I'm going to work for seven hours in a stinken hot, cockroach-infested kitchen where I have to put up with two of the greatest drop kicks I've ever met in my life. Norton shook his head again. I think George Brennan was right when he said my brains were in my arse. Before Les knew it, it was getting on for five. He changed into his daggiest jeans and an old blue T-shirt, tossed a white sweatband into his overnight bag and headed for the restaurant.

Quigley wasn't in the kitchen when Norton arrived at work. The back door was open, there was an open bottle of beer on the table and the demi-glace was bubbling away on the stove, but no Quigley. The back door was open, Les let himself in, stowed his bag, had a quick look in the dining room and waited. Oh well. A few minutes later Quigley appeared from the direction of the toilets, blowing his nose, his eyes red and runny and spinning around in his head like two Ferris wheels. He saw Norton, blinked and tried to act cool.

‘Hello, Les,' he said, then fumbled around lighting a cigarette and taking a mouthful of beer.

‘G'day, Bob,' answered Les, putting on his sweatband. One look at Quigley's sallow face and watery red eyes told him he'd been throwing more up his nose in the toilets than Vicks Sinex. At least he'd changed his T-shirt. ‘So, what do you want me to do? Chop up some vegetables?'

‘Yeah. And a few herbs. But don't do a real lot. There's not that many bookings.'

That's understandable, mused Norton. But I imagine there'll be a few bookings at the back door. Well then, I wonder what filthy, low job you've got lined up for me tonight?

It took Norton twenty minutes to find out what it was because that's how long it took him to finish the vegetables. Quigley got him to clean out the three deep-freezers. He switched them off then told Les what to do. First he had to get rid of what was in them. As usual it was more accumulated filth and garbage. There were plastic bags of different fish, mainly niggers and what had to be shark, plus the half-rotten bream Les had cleaned the night before. There were about twenty blue swimmer crabs that had now turned into brown swimmer crabs tinged with green. Pieces of meat, chickens, ducks, things that were entirely unidentifiable. A solitary lobster, cartons of ice cream, pieces of crab shell, prawn heads, matches and just rubbish in general. It was filthy and neglected just like the stove had been, but instead of being covered in rotten grease it was frozen solid.

Knowing he was just getting used up, and on top of his already edginess, Norton's temper began to rise. He pulled out a frozen beef fillet and was seriously thinking of letting Quigley have it right between the eyes, but he somehow managed to cool down. Just a few hours more Les, that's all now and it will all be over. Once he had all the food out Les then had to smash the accumulated ice away with a meat cleaver before he could start on the freezers with a bucket of hot, soapy water. How long since they'd been cleaned was anybody's guess — the ice, now turned a dirty grey, was over a foot thick in parts. Norton wouldn't have been surprised if there was a mastodon or a Neanderthal man still clutching a spear frozen in there. Cursing inwardly, Norton hacked away at the ice. His hands, even with rubber gloves on, were stinging and numb from the cold. While Norton was working, Quigley turned the radio on and pottered around at the table drinking piss and smoking cigarettes as Gene Pitney's ‘Only Love Can Break A Heart' seeped out of the speakers like a weeping cut.

Norton was still working on the freezers when waitress
number one arrived in her usual jangling of car keys, booze and an encompassing cloud of cigarette smoke. Tonight she was wearing a black mini and her legs looked like two white tomato stakes that could have done with a shave. As usual Norton could have been invisible bent over the freezers. It was. ‘Hello Robert.' A few more words then she disappeared into the dining room.

After much scrubbing, smashing and silent cursing Les got the third freezer finished as waitress number two arrived, also wearing a black mini. She too ignored Les, said ‘Hello Robert', lit a cigarette, threw a triple Scotch down her throat and joined Olive Oyle in the dining room. Apart from saying hello when he got to work, Norton had scarcely uttered a dozen words all night. His mind was working overtime however, and what was going through it didn't give Les a great deal to smile about. His next few words didn't bring him any joy either.

‘Okay, Bob,' he said through gritted teeth, as he wiped his hands on a tea towel. ‘What do you want me to do now?'

‘You see all those plates in the corner cupboard?'

Quigley got Les to get every plate out of the ‘dope' cupboard near the sink and scrub the bottoms of them from where they were blackened from Quigley putting them straight on the stove to heat up. Norton spent another pleasant hour or so bent over the sink with a pot scourer and a can of Ajax, scrubbing charred soot from the bottoms of about a hundred plates and soup bowls. The only thing that kept him sane was the pleasant thought of coming back the following week and breaking both Quigley's and his mate Layton's jaws. By the time he finished scouring the plates, a few customers began to trickle in and it was back to the normal grind of washing dishes and scrubbing pots. The only difference tonight was watching the clock tick round and wondering how things were going up at Blue Seas Apartments. But he need not have worried. While Les was having a complete bummer
at the Devlin, things were going swimmingly up in Aquila Street.

It was almost nine and there was a crowd of about a hundred, which was increasing steadily. All the speakers and instruments were up on stage and the sign Gwen had painted in green and gold saying The Prince Charles Birthday Bash was hung up as a backdrop. All the neighbours were cool and they'd been in touch with the cops who weren't all that interested. There were three heavy metal bands playing at Selina's at Coogee, so they knew they'd have plenty on their plate there, rather than worry about a street party in what was little more than an overwide alley about a hundred metres long.

Everybody from the flats across the road was there with their eskys and friends; friends of the band were there, so was Burt, Rosie, and Sandra and all the hippies were helping the girls in the band. It was carnival atmosphere on an absolutely delightful night with the mob from the pub across the road now starting to show a little curiosity.

As the girls got up on stage all the men's ‘curiosity' turned to pure lust. The girls were wearing much the same gear they had on when Les saw them out the front the morning they got back from Canberra. Alastrina's tits were just about hanging out of her string top. Isla looked better than ever in her crutch-tight jeans full of razor slashes that had been doubled up, round the backside. Riona's behind looked sensational and her crumpet was just about bulging right out of her black leggings and through her cut off jeans. Even Gwendoline, fussing around at the mixer as she got a cassette together to record the night's performance, looked extra homy in her school uniform complete with a straw hat. But it was Franulka who stole the show. She looked almost unbelievable in her Elvira gown with the cut-away top and the huge split up the front, where if you were down the front of the crowd you could get a glimpse of a sensational pair of purple knickers trimmed with pink.
Larry Dapto was onto it like he had Clark Kent's X-ray vision and told his two-man camera crew that at one stage of the night they were to zero in on Franulka, even to the extent of sticking the camera lens right up her dress.

Gwen had a bit of Top Forty music playing softly through the speakers as the girls began moving around on stage and getting behind their instruments. At a nod from Franulka she turned it off, then the sexy lead singer adjusted the mike and gave it a couple of taps ‘toe toe' with her finger.

‘Hello, there,' she breathed huskily into the microphone, throwing in a lascivious grin for all the men including poor Syd in his neck brace. ‘We're The Heathen Harlots and we'd like to welcome you to the Prince Charles Birthday Bash. We hope you have a good time. This first song's a bit laid back. But we just want to tune our instruments.'

Franulka tapped her foot a couple of times, and smoother than Yellow Box honey, the girls slipped easily into the Rolling Stones' ‘Terrifying'.

They were spot on. Evocative and crystal clear at the same time with just the right acoustics echoing off the surrounding flats. A hush went through the crowd as the girls moved lazily around on stage, each taking a turn at the lyrics while they checked their instruments, got their ‘sea legs' and the nod from Gwen on the mixer. This one song drifting across the street was enough for the drinkers in the hotel; it emptied out in about two minutes. By the time the girls finished the first song the crowd had almost doubled and was increasing steadily.

‘Thank you,' said Franulka, as the last chord echoed off the surrounding buildings and blended in with the muted applause from the crowd. She ran her eyes over the crowd and saw Dapto and his camera crew filming steadily. The other girls saw him too and Franulka gave them a wink and a nod. ‘Like I said,' she continued, ‘we're The Heathen Harlots, doing our bit for Charlie
boy on his birthday. And we think we've now got our instruments tuned.' Franulka caught the eye of a male punter ogling her. ‘Is your instrument tuned, big boy?' The punter, grinned, yelled and waved his can of beer. ‘Good. Okay, that last song was nice. But let's... let's have a bit of rock V roll.'

There was silence for a moment, then Franulka nodded to the other girls and literally screamed into the mike. ‘
My man is red hot
.'

The girls yelled back. ‘
Your man ain't diddly squat
.'

‘
Well, I got a guy, he's six feet four. Sleeps in the kitchen with his head in the hall. My man is red hot
.'