Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas (3 page)

‘Ximena's got a girlfriend — an aerobics instructor. She's a good sort too.'

‘I couldn't give a fuck if she was Victoria Principal and her old man owned a brewery. I'm staying home. I'm rooted.'

‘Please yourself, you miserable big prick.'

‘Mr Miserable Big Prick to you, soupbones.' Norton grinned at Warren. ‘Jesus, am I ever looking forward
to the next few months. Plenty of exercise, plenty of early nights and plenty of keeping an eye on you. There's gonna be plenty of changes coming up at Maison Norton in the next few months. Guaranteed, old fellah.'

Warren nodded over his coffee. ‘I can imagine. But I bet it still won't be your underwear.'

Wearing designer jeans, a blue striped shirt and reeking of expensive aftershave lotion Warren said goodbye and left about eight-thirty. The same time as the movie came on — Charles Bronson in
The Streetfighter
.

This'll do me thought Les, placing a cushion from the lounge under his head as he heard the front door close. For the next five years. Fuck the money.

The movie ended around ten-thirty and Les was in bed not long afterwards. This time he didn't piss all over the bathroom floor and he didn't leave any lights on. He also slept like a log; not hearing Warren stagger in alone some time after two.

When Les rose around seven on Monday morning, he still wasn't one hundred per cent but, compared to Sunday's effort, he felt like the bionic man. Sipping a mug of coffee on the back verandah it was a carbon copy of the previous day; sunny and warm with just a slight northerly wind; a good day to be out and about and do a bit of training. Norton did just that. He threw on an old pair of shorts and headed for North Bondi Surf Club.

He had no trouble parking his car and was in a fairly good mood as he strolled down to the club, nodding to the regulars and a few old-timers who still, almost religiously came down for their early morning swim. He left his gear in the club, wrapped a sweatband round his head and, after a bit of limbering up, set off for a lazy eight laps of the beach.

It was more than pleasant trotting along the water's edge. Sometimes the waves would surge up round his ankles as he weaved around the other joggers or people just out having a stroll; a surfer would leave the water and head back to his car on the promenade.

The surf crashed pleasantly against the shore and the city could have been a million miles away. It was the ideal situation for an early morning jog. It was also an ideal situation to do a bit of thinking, especially about Saturday night at the Kelly Club. This thing could go either way. Either he'd be back there in a month, or he'd be looking at a new life style. Sooner or later though, the Kelly Club was going to close: if not this year, the next — it was inevitable. The good old days — or bad old days — take your pick were coming to an end. It was like the man said in the song, ‘And the times they are a'changing'. And Price had had a better run than anyone.

No matter what happened, Norton wouldn't starve. He had money snookered away in bank accounts and fixed term deposits all over the place; he even had some buried. The earns that had fallen in while he was working at the Kelly Club had mounted up and it was debatable if Les had ever spent his wages the whole time he worked there. He owned the house in Cox Avenue. He'd missed out on the giant earn with Peregrine and that painting but it was comforting to know that Peregrine, although not quite all right, wasn't dead. The army had eventually fished him out of the loch in Scotland. And not long after Les had received a letter from Peregrine's father saying that, although badly burnt and suffering brain damage, his son was alive and now in a clinic in the South of France where he would probably stay for quite some time. The Van Gogh was destroyed in the blast; thanks for your help anyway, Les. Or as Warren had so succinctly put it, the painting went west and Peregrine went south.

Norton jogged steadily on with another two things slowly turning over in his mind. One was what he had said to George on Saturday night about how his accountant, Desmond Whittle, had him down as a public relations consultant. That was something he was definitely going to have to do now that he had some time to himself: sort out his financial affairs with Whittle.

Norton didn't know too many accountants but Whittle had to be the best in Sydney — he could get Les claims on things that were almost unthinkable. He'd even advised Les to put an old typewriter in the spare room in his house and got him a rebate on it as office space. George had tipped Norton into Whittle and it was the best thing that could have happened to Les as far as making his money legal went, and on top of that Whittle was a pretty good bloke all round. Yet Norton absolutely loathed going over to his office in his unit at Double Bay and talking to him. It wasn't that he disliked Whittle, it was just that Les abhorred anything to do with figures, book-keeping, numbers, adding and subtracting and just plain arithmetic in general. It almost gave him a migraine. Norton was flat out writing down the date and handling money was simple. You just put it in the bank and left it there. Why spend it if you don't have to? Coming last in arithmetic in every class he was ever in at school didn't help much and he always felt embarrassed when he confronted Whittle, which was another reason he saw him as little as possible. Good little bloke that he was, Norton still regarded him as a dentist with a degree in economics.

But Whittle had been ringing him fairly often over the last few months, saying it was time again to get his affairs in order. There was also something important he had to discuss with Les that he didn't wish to talk about over the phone. Norton had a good idea what that was too. The second thing that had been turning over in his mind.

Norton's big investment. Blue Seas Apartments. About three years previous Les had been talked into buying an old block of flats in Randwick not far from the Prince of Wales Hospital. It was an old run-down block of five flats with a resident caretaker and the whole thing was managed by a real estate agency in Randwick Junction. Norton didn't particularly want to buy the block, but Price had lined it up for him, a deceased estate, the same as the house he lined up in Cox Avenue.
Price along with George Brennan had kept berating him he'd be a mug not to buy the old block of flats. All he had to do was put down a deposit, the rents would pay off the balance, and the land value alone would treble in three years. Price would have snaffled it up himself but he wanted to do a favour for Les, if Les would have a go. So rather than be a mug that wouldn't have a go, Les had forked out seventy-five thousand dollars, which nearly killed him, borrowed another seventy-five and the next thing between Price, Whittle and the estate agency in Randwick Junction Les Norton was the new landlord of Blue Seas Apartments.

But that was as far as it went for the big Queenslander. He was not the slightest bit interested in collecting rents, doing maintenance or meeting his tenants. Everything was in the hands of Whittle and the estate agency. Apart from driving past now and again or having the odd beer at the Royal Hotel in Randwick, Norton kept away from Blue Seas Apartments, much the same way he kept away from his accountant. He never told anybody he owned them — the only people who knew were the inner core at the Kelly Club, and even there it rarely if ever, came up in conversation. Which at times did seem a little curious to Les, seeing how Price had pestered him to buy them. He at times thought his boss might be interested to know how his big investment was coming along. Then on the other hand this suited Les. Talking about high finances and ways of making money bored him shitless and he was still in a way sorry he'd bought them.

Then on the other hand again, there should be a bit of a whippy in hand. It had been almost three years since he'd checked on the old block of flats with Whittle. By some devious means, the money involved with Blue Seas Apartments was kept separate from Norton's other finances. The place could be worth anything by now; maybe that's what Whittle was ringing him about. He'd had an offer from a Hong Kong syndicate or some Americans. The Japanese? The property boom was on and Les Norton, property tycoon, was right in the middle
of it. Donald Trump, eat your heart out. Grasshopper, it was time to sell.

So who really needs the bloody Kelly Club? thought Norton, as he jogged the final lap back to the surf club. I can do all right. Les had to laugh to himself — it was money for old rope though, and you couldn't ask for a better boss or a better bunch of blokes to work with.

He had a work-out on the heavy bag, did a bit of weights and sit-ups and after topping this off with a swim and shower went home where Warren was in the kitchen, looking almost as bad as Les had the day before.

‘Well, if it isn't the party-time kid.' Norton stood in the doorway glowing with health from his run, his hair still wet from the shower. ‘And how was the party?'

‘Good,' croaked Warren. His eyes were closed and he didn't look up from his coffee.

‘Yeah. It sounds it.' Les moved across to the sink and poured himself a glass of water. ‘You look like the portrait of Dorian Gray,' he grinned. ‘How come you got so pissed? And where's the fiancde?'

‘The bitch gave me the arse at the party.'

‘She what!?'

Warren winced. ‘Please, Les, not so loud.' He took a deep breath and sighed. ‘An old boyfriend turned up so I got dropped to reserves.'

‘The filthy, low moll.'

‘That's what I said.'

‘So, crushed with remorse, you pitched for every other tart at the turn, they all gave you the arse as well, so you hit the piss.'

Warren nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘Five bottles of champagne. Christ, I'm crook.'

Despite himself, Norton couldn't help but sympathise with his flatmate. ‘I know just how you feel. You goin' to work?'

‘Got to. There's a heap on today — of all fuckin' days.' He downed his coffee and rose unsteadily from the table. ‘In fact, I'd better have a shower and get going.'

‘Have a nice day,' smiled Les.

Warren had a shower then stumbled around a bit more while Les had breakfast and read the paper. He mumbled something about seeing Les tonight, the door closed and Warren was gone.

Norton shook his head and thought about his condition yesterday and Warren's this morning. This getting pissed out of your head was fast becoming a no-result. And now that he had a lot more time to himself, and knowing how much he loved a drink, he was going to have to watch it. He drummed his fingers on the table. What I should do is go on the wagon for a month. All I'd do is save money and brain cells. He drummed a bit more. Yeah, I might even give it a bit of serious thought. I wasted a whole fuckin' day yesterday. In the meantime; I've got to make a phone call.

Les expected to get Whittle's answering service. Instead he couldn't miss his accountant's well modulated and measured voice.

‘Hello. Desmond Whittle.'

‘Hello Des. It's Les Norton.'

‘Oh hello Les. How are you?'

‘Good mate. I've been meaning to ring you, but I've been busy at work. That and other things.'

‘That's all right Les.'

‘You said you wanted to see me about something.'

‘Yes. Yes I do. When's a good time for you?'

Norton shrugged. ‘Today. Tomorrow. Whenever.'

‘Today I have to go into the city. How about tomorrow morning? Say ten-thirty.'

‘Yeah righto. Ten-thirty tomorrow.'

‘Don't forget to bring all your receipts.'

‘No worries. See you tomorrow Des.'

Well that was short and sweet thought Les, looking absently at the phone. Now what am I going to do for the rest of the day? He grinned to himself. How about sweet fuck all? How about I go down the beach, sit on my arse and read a book in the sun? That's what I'll do. This could be the start of a whole new exciting life style for me. Why rush into it?

Norton did just that. He got a couple of magazines out of Warren's room, drove back down to North Bondi, propped on his banana chair and spent the rest of the day reading, swimming and ogling the girls sunbaking topless. He went for a couple of strolls along the beach, bumped into some people he knew for a bit of a chitchat and it was an extremely pleasant day all around. He was almost tempted to have a couple of beers in the afternoon, but didn't bother. He got some pork schnitzels and came straight home instead. Les was in the kitchen getting tea together with the TV tuned to the news in the lounge room when Warren arrived home around six.

‘So how are you feeling now?' he asked when Warren walked into the kitchen.

‘Still pretty bloody seedy.'

‘You hungry?'

‘Starving. I've been flat out all day. Hardly had a chance even for a sandwich.' Warren poured himself a glass of milk from the fridge and looked at what Les was doing. ‘What's for tea?'

‘New fashioned pork. Just like the ad says on TV.'

‘Sounds good,' Warren took some money from his pocket and handed it to Les. ‘Here's your rent, Shylock.'

Norton counted the money several times, held one bill up to the light and pulled it around a bit then folded it up with the rest and put it in his pocket. ‘Yes, that all seems satisfactory. Thank you, Mr Edwards.'

While Les was fiddling around with the schnitzels he told Warren about his proposal to go on the wagon for a month, did Warren want to join him. Warren said that didn't sound like a bad idea at all. He'd certainly give it some thought. He poured himself another glass of milk then had a shower while Les cooked tea.

The pork schnitzels and vegies turned out delicious. Les even had a go at making a garlic and mushroom sauce; which didn't turn out too bad either. One thing Warren mused to himself, Les hanging around all the time, might be a bit of a pain in the arse after being
used to having the place to myself most of the time, but at least 111 eat well. They finished with coffee, then after cleaning up watched the Monday night movie.
Ghostbusters
. Warren was yawning and in bed by ten-thirty; Les wasn't long behind him.