Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas (8 page)

Christ! What a time to be going off the piss, he thought to himself as he watched the old blue kombi putter smokily around the hotel corner.

The Royal Hotel, Randwick, was one of the best hotels in the Eastern Suburbs and the food and beer there was always the grouse. He squinted at the sun and wiped some sweat from his brow; it was getting bloody hot now and he could just about taste a schooner from where he stood. Oh, well, he sighed, well just see what eventuates. He finished the front yard and put the mower back in the storeroom. Seeing as I'm in an outdoors mood, he smiled to himself, I may as well go out and do a bit of gardening in that magnificent landscaped area at the back. Might see about putting a fountain or a couple of marble statues out there.

She had to be one of the best sorts Les had ever seen in his life, hanging out pairs of jeans on the small clothesline. She was about five feet nine, somewhere in her twenties, with long, reddish blonde hair done in a plait that hung halfway down her back and wearing tight, black bicycle shorts, Reeboks and a white T-shirt with a leo-pardskin print singlet over the top. She had great boobs, great legs, a sensational backside, and her only make-up was some bright red lipstick on a wide, full mouth full of perfect white teeth. There was nothing around her eyes but a healthy glow and pure sex appeal. Bloody hell thought Les, almost falling in the garden. Who the fuck's this?

She caught Norton's eye and gave him a quick, confident smile.

Les smiled back and began to make a pretence of being interested in what there was of the garden. ‘Not a bad day,' he said tentatively.

‘Yeah. It's getting nice now,' replied the girl taking a peg from her mouth.

Fuck the garden, thought Norton. He stood up and just ogled her till she turned around. ‘I'm Les, anyway,' he said. ‘I'm the new caretaker.'

‘Oh,' replied the girl. ‘What happened to old Hoppy?'

‘He's gone up to Newcastle to live with his sister.'

‘Oh.' The girl seemed to reflect for a moment or two. ‘I liked old Hoppy. He wasn't a bad little bloke.'

‘No. He was all right.'

The girl looked at Les and seemed to be quickly sussing him out. ‘I'm Sandy,' she said. ‘I live in flat three.'

Ahh, so you're Sandra Jean Garrett, the famous artist, eh? mused Les. Wouldn't I like to get my hand on your palette! ‘Nice to meet you, Sandy,' he said, throwing in his number one smile.

‘You too, Les,' she replied brightly.

Norton watched her peg out another pair of jeans as he went back to making a pretence at gardening. ‘How long have you been living here, Sandy?'

‘About three or four years.'

Four years? Christ! Why would a doll like you want to spend four years of your life in a dump like this? ‘You must like it here?'

Sandy shrugged. ‘It's okay. It was better. But it's cheap, plus I've got a lot of friends are artists who live across the road and... a friend who's a doctor at the hospital.'

‘Hoppy told me you were an artist.'

‘Did he?' smiled Sandy. ‘What else did he tell you?'

Norton shrugged. ‘Not much. Just you were an artist, that's all. And he told me a bit about old Burt and the others who live here. I only spoke to him for a while before I drove him to the station.' Norton watched her peg out the last pair of jeans. ‘So how is the art world? You doing okay?'

‘I get by.' She flashed Norton a smile of pure ivory that made him feel like smashing up all the bricks holding Blue Seas' excuse for a back garden together. ‘I also sell T-shirts and things up at the Paddington Markets on Saturday.'

Hello, another bloody dropout from the Paddo stalls. ‘So between the two you're not starving, Sandy.'

‘No, I'm not starving. What about you, Les? How come you finished up here?'

Norton looked at the tall, sexy redhead for a moment. Sandy, he thought, you've got to be one of the best sorts I've come across, but somehow at this stage of the game I don't think I should be telling you too much.
‘I've only been down from Queensland a little while and this came up. It's free rent with a few bucks thrown in and... well, it ain't actually the Burma railway.'

‘So it looks like you'll be the live-in caretaker for a while Les?'

Live here in this cockroach castle? thought Les. Not fuckin' likely. But then again, with a honey like you living just across the hall, why not? ‘Yeah,' he drawled easily, ‘it sure looks that way. I reckon I might even get to like it.'

‘You'll love it, Les. This place has got character.'

Norton reflected on the two million or so cockroaches he'd just killed and the blood-spattered walls of flat five. ‘It's sure got something,' he answered.

Sandy hung up the last pair of jeans and straightened them out.

‘Okay, Les,' she smiled. ‘It's been nice talking to you, but I have to be off. I'll probably see you again.'

‘Sure, Sandy. Anytime you need something, just give me a yell. You know which flat it is.'

She gave Norton another smile that made the Macleans girl's teeth look like a row of bombed-out houses, then walked out the front. Les watched her climb into an old white Holden utility and drive off in the same direction as the blue kombi. Sandy bloody baby, where did they find you? He watched the old ute disappear around the hotel comer and shook his head. Cockroaches, bed bugs, giant rats — I don't give a stuff. I'm gonna move into that shithouse of a flat. For a while anyway — until about the first night I get into your tight-fitting pants. Then, Cinderella, I'll let you know it's really Prince Charming in flat one come to take you away from all this. He pottered around a bit longer, trying to get interested in what he was doing but the main thing on Les's mind was what was living just across the hall in flat three. After a while he locked up the storeroom and his flat and headed back to Bondi, stopping to get a barbecued chicken on the way.

Warren was still looking all bright eyed and bushy-tailed
that night, when they got into the chicken with a bit of salad and baked potatoes. He was going on about how he could stay off the piss forever and wondering whether Les could do the same. He made a big deal of drinking another glass of mineral water with a slice of lime in it and looked up from his plate at Les.

‘So, what have you been up to today, landlord?' he asked.

‘Not much,' replied Les. ‘Put the car in for a grease. Had lunch with a couple of old mates. Went for a walk around town. Just enjoyed my leisure time. What about yourself? How was the pickle factory?'

‘Flat out. We're up to our necks in a big promotion for a travel company at the moment.'

‘You're not looking for a male model, are you? I could do with a quid. I am out of work, you know.'

Warren took another sip of mineral water. ‘Male models, yes. Semi-housetrained orang-utans — no.'

Norton smiled. ‘You going out tonight?'

‘No. What about you?'

Les shook his head. ‘To tell you the truth, I'm just starting to enjoy these early nights. I feel tops.'

‘Me too. In fact while I'm off the piss, I might stay celibate too.'

‘You may as well. All the sheilas have been giving you the arse lately. The word's finally got out that you're a dud bash.'

‘Pig's arse,' snorted Warren. ‘I am known throughout the advertising industry in Sydney as “the man”.'

‘Yeah. The man who can't get it up. Listen, mate, I've seen you on the nest in there some mornings and you're hopeless. It's like watching a pigeon trying to fuck a paper aeroplane.'

‘Bollocks! At least I do bring a few good sorts home. Better than those cheesy old mutts you drag through the door.'

Les smiled and conceded Warren the point. You won't be saying that when I bring Miss Picasso back for coffee and ted at chez Norton, you little shit, he thought.

Again they watched another video of Warren's choice and again they were in bed around midnight. Warren had a big day at the office the next day and had to make an early start. Norton had other plans.

Their paths crossed briefly in the morning with Warren wishing that he didn't have to go to work seeing it was such a nice day. Les just said stiff shit and went for another run in Centennial Park. When he returned home his flatmate was long gone.

Naturally Norton had been reflecting on Blue Seas Apartments during his training session, not so much about the predicament he was in, more about who was in flat three. Sandra Jean Garrett, unbelievably spunky artist. To have any chance with her, he was going to have to be pretty cool about it. He'd also have to be Johnny on the spot, and that meant moving his swag into Blue Seas, which he could handle for a few days until he gained her confidence. But winning the fair maiden's hand and then taking her back somewhere decent to get her pants off without letting her know he was the landlord was going to be a tricky business to say the least.

Les was pondering on this as he sorted out some blankets, pillows, shaving gear and other odds and ends after he'd showered and had breakfast, when the phone rang. It was Billy Dunne.

‘Billy! What's doing, mate?' said Les brightly.

‘Not much,' replied Billy. ‘What about yourself? What have you been up to?'

‘Not a great deal, William, to tell you the truth. In fact I've been rooting around with that old block of flats I own over at Randwick.'

‘The Waldorf Astoria,' chuckled Billy.

‘You got it, mate. Hey, while you're there, do me a favour, Billy? Don't mention anything about the place to anybody. About me working there and that. Not even to Price.'

‘Sure, mate. No worries.'

Billy understood. He and Les were very close now
and there were certain things they said and did that were strictly between them and nobody else. Nobody. Though Billy did think it a little curious that Les didn't want Price to know, particularly as it was Price who had talked him into buying the old block of flats in the first place.

‘Have you seen Price lately?' asked Les. ‘I rang a couple of times but all I got was the answering service. And I've been out during the day.'

‘That's what I'm ringing you about,' said Billy. ‘He's opened up the club again.'

‘What!!'

Billy laughed. ‘He hasn't actually opened it. He's just up there playing cards at night with a bit of a team. You know the blokes I mean. They talk shit, drink piss and play five hundred all night for a hundred bucks a point.'

‘Jesus! He can't help himself, can he?'

‘You're not wrong. A fair bit of money changes hands and they're all half pissed so he's got me up there just to keep an eye on things. You don't need two of us. But I thought I'd ring you and tell you what's going on and see if you want to do it night about? It's money for old rope and I'm out of the place by one, one-thirty.'

Norton smiled and shook his head; there was no doubting Billy's honesty. ‘No, don't worry about it, mate. You do it on your own. Get yourself a few extra bucks. But if ever you want a night off or need a hand, give us a yell.'

‘Righto, mate. As a bean.'

They yarned for a while about different things; what they'd both been up to and that. Les reiterated that Billy wasn't to say anything about Blue Seas to anyone then he hung up saying they'd have to get together over the weekend sometime for a good training session.

After he'd hung up, Norton stared at the phone for a moment. While I'm here, he thought. I may as well ring Whittle. Leave a message that I'm stuck with those flats and to get his finger out with my tax return. He
again expected the answering service but was surprised to hear the polite, measured voice of his accountant.

‘Hello, Des. It's Les Norton.'

‘Oh, hello, Les. How are you?'

‘All right. How's my tax return going?'

‘Very good. I've almost got it completed. I think I should be able to get you back almost two thousand dollars.'

‘Just enough to cover how much I'm in the red over that stinking block of flats.'

‘Well, I imagine that is one way of looking at it, Les.'

‘I pissed that caretaker off. I'm looking after the place myself now.'

‘That's very good, Les.'

‘Hey, did you know the fuckin'joint's not even insured?'

‘I beg your pardon, Les?'

Norton quickly explained how he'd gone through the documents and found the bogus insurance policy. ‘So that arsehole of a fuckin' lawyer's got a bodgie insurance rort going as well.'

By the tone in his accountant's voice Norton could almost sense him shaking his head in despair as he replied. ‘No, Les,' said Whittle, slowly and methodically. ‘It's not like that at all. The property is fully insured until March next year. For a hundred and fifty thousand, I think.'

‘Oh!'

‘If you had just taken the blood — if you had just examined the document a little more closely, you'd have found it's not ERIN.
A
Insurance Company. It's ERINA. They're an insurance company on the Central Coast. I do quite a lot of business for my clients with them. They're a very scrupulous and honest firm.'

‘Erina, you say, Des?'

‘That's right, Les.'

‘Oh!'

‘Anyway, look, Les. I have to leave for the city now. I should have your tax return completed by next week. Why don't you call me then?'

‘Yeah, righto.'

‘And in the future, Les, do examine any documents or papers appertaining to this a little more meticulously.'

‘Yeah, righto, Des. See you later.'

This time as he stared at the phone, Norton felt like a prize wally. Due to his usual impetuosity and bullin-a-china-shop approach to things he'd completely missed that detail. Funny, though. It didn't look like it. But in the state he was in at the time it could have looked like anything.