Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas (9 page)

He went to his room and pulled the insurance policy from the pile of papers. Sure enough, Des was right. But at the end of the N in ERINA was a speck of fly shit or something and it did look like a full stop. Though if he hadn't been in such a shitty mood and had taken his time to read through the rest of the form he would have got his facts right. However Norton being Norton, he picked up the phone and dialled long distance.

‘Hello, Erina Insurance,' came a girl's soft voice.

‘Yes, hello. My name is Marvin Ringblum from Steinberg and Ringblum Real Estate in Randwick, Sydney. I'm just ringing to see if the insurance on one of our blocks of flats, Blue Seas Apartments in Aquila Street, Randwick, is ah...up to date.'

‘Could you give me the policy number, Mr Ringblum?'

‘Certainly. H1009845DA.'

‘Just one moment.'

Norton could just picture her staring at a computer screen after she'd pushed the appropriate keys.

‘Yes. That policy is valid until March the twentieth next year. For a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.'

‘Thank you very much, miss.'

‘You're welcome.'

Well, what do you know? mused Les. The old dump's insured after all. Les shook his head and stared at the phone. But it still doesn't get me out of the shit I'm in. He returned the policy to the file in his room and continued packing.

With what he thought was enough to keep him going
for a while, Les was at Blue Seas around ten; parking behind Sandra's utility which was behind the old blue kombi. He put the stuff in the flat, made a cup of coffee and had a think about things. The main thing he was thinking about was across the hall. Well, he thought, gazing from the gloomy old kitchen into the back yard, I won't find her sitting in here; her car's out the front so she's got to be around somewhere. So he rinsed his cup, got the broom out of the storeroom and went outside to do a bit of caretaking.

Norton figured she'd have to come out to her car sooner or later so he stuffed about in the small front yard then swept it till the front of Blue Seas Apartments almost shone. After a while there was movement; but it wasn't Sandra.

The four hippies Les had met on the roof the day before came out, accompanied by what must have been their girlfriends or wives or whatever. The men, still scraggly and unkempt, looked more like Neil out of The Young Ones than ever, the girls were just as scraggly and had earth mother, hunza pies and bean sprouts written all over them. If they noticed Les they didn't let on and seemed to play him pretty wide. I must have upset the children of the rainbow on the roof yesterday, mused Norton. I wasn't that awful to them, was I? The Manson Family clambered into the old kombi, which started after about the fifteenth time and spluttered off, destination unknown. Peace, love and tofu, thought Les and continued sweeping.

There was still no sign of the artist and Norton was thinking of continuing the charade in the back yard when a car backfired in the street like a gun going off. Momentarily startled, Les looked up as a fair sized, transit van swung into the street, backfired again, then did a U-turn and parked where the hippies had just pulled out. The van was a bilious green; painted down the side in black, Apocalypse Now type of writing, edged with orange and purple was:
The Harlots
. No need to guess who this is, mused Norton.

The driver switched off the motor and got out. He was about six foot six, lean, and very wiry, with thick black hair pulled back into a ponytail. He wore black jeans, red, ten-hole Doc Martens boots and a sleeveless, Violent Femmes T-shirt. There was a look of anguish on his already gaunt face. Steve Hoy's ‘Break Up Fallout' was howling from somewhere inside the van, abruptly cutting out as the driver swung the side door open. Norton leant on his broom and double and triple blinked as what was inside stumbled out and whoever or whatever they were, their cup of happiness was nowhere near running over and the object of their avalanche of abuse was the driver.

First out was a tall, sexy, leggy thing with flowing black hair, wearing a low-cut gown that barely covered a massive cleavage and a split up the front that showed plenty of a sensational pair of legs. She wore thick, blue lipstick, blue nail polish, blue eye shadow — and if she couldn't have got a run in an el-cheapo vampire movie, she could have been Elvira's stand in, right down to the tassels hanging from the elbows of her gown. She stretched her legs and ripped into the driver.

Next out, refusing the driver's hand, was another tall, leggy piece only with a shock of teased, blonde hair, tinged with purple, green and red that matched her makeup. A pair of faded, frayed cut-off denim jeans ate into her crotch over a pair of thick, black stockings; pieces of metal flashed from a pair of black Doc Martens. Clinging to a pair of healthy white boobs was a black cotton singlet with a white cobweb design all over it. She immediately joined in abusing the driver.

Following her was another tall, dark-haired girl in thick, black stockings and red high-heels wearing a black leather, micromini covered in pockets with about the same number of thin, studded belts wound around her slim waist. Her hair was long and straight pulled beneath a red beret covered in badges, pretty much like a New York Guardian Angel. Like the others, she wasn't badly stacked either and all that covered her boobs was a purple
top that looked like it had been made from an old string shopping bag. Two nice, pink nipples poked through the holes and somehow she'd managed to pin a James Dean badge to the top without doing herself too much damage. That made three abusing the driver as another got out. Christ, thought Norton. What next?

Next was taller than the others with an explosion of copper-coloured hair tinged with red, white and blue that matched her make-up and silver glitter around her eyes. Somehow she'd managed to get into an incredibly tight pair of faded jeans that had been given the death of a thousand cuts with a razor blade and sat nicely over a pair of red stiletto heels. What remained of her jeans was held up by a pair of wide, red braces covered in badges and other odds and ends, over a loose white T-shirt with Marilyn Monroe on the front. As soon as she'd finished stretching her legs she too joined in the payout on the driver.

Last out was a dumpy, short blonde in a school tunic, white shirt and school tie, school hat, black stockings and white Adidas running shoes. For some reason she didn't join in abusing the driver.

‘Look, Fran, I'm really sorry,' pleaded the driver to the Elvira lookalike.

‘Get fucked, Syd,' was the blunt reply. ‘You're a dead-set fuckin' goose. Hand me my bass and piss off.'

‘Okay, Fran. But I am —'

‘Ohh, blow it out your arse, Syd,' said red beret. ‘Just hand us our gear and fuck off.'

‘All right, all right.' The driver got inside the van and began handing out various instruments, including a slide trombone.

‘Running out of petrol,' cursed the one in shorts. ‘We should've been home six fuckin' hours ago. I'm fucked.'

‘That gig was a mother, too,' said the one in the lacerated jeans. ‘Now this on top of it. You cunt, Syd!' she yelled into the van.

‘I said I was sorry, Riona,' came a voice from inside the van.

‘In your arse.'

‘This is fucked. Absolutely fucked,' said the one in the shorts, as she took a guitar. ‘And so am I. I'm going to bed for about five days. And don't come around before I wake up, Syd,' she howled into the van, ‘or 111 take you to Taronga Park and feed you to the fuckin' yak! You cunt!'

‘Don't worry, Isla. I won't,' answered the voice in the van.

The girls picked up their various instruments and, except for the one in the school uniform, gave the driver another last torrent of abuse before storming past Les into the flats. If they took any notice of Norton they didn't show it. Somehow they managed to glare at him and ignore him at the same time. Norton leant on his broom and watched in amusement and amazement as they click-clacked past him and up the stairs in their high heeled shoes.

‘Don't worry about it, Syd,' said the one in the school uniform who had remained behind. ‘The girls are just tired.'

‘Yeah, but Franulka's really upset,' replied the driver. ‘I've never seen her like that.'

‘She'll be okay. See you, Syd.'

‘Okay, Gwen. See you. And I'm sorry about what happened.'

The one in the school uniform smiled over her shoulder at the driver, gave Les a brief one as she went past and followed the others up the stairs. The door slammed and that was that.

After the avalanche of abuse that still hung in the air, it was uncannily silent out in the street. Norton watched the dejected driver light a cigarette, then run a hand across his face and through his hair. Curiosity got the better of him and still holding the broom he walked across to the van.

‘So, how's show biz treating you, mate?' he asked, with half a smile.

The driver gave Les a disinterested once up and down
and took a drag on his smoke. ‘Unreal, man,' he said tightly, ‘Un-fuckin'-real.'

Norton made a bit of shuffle with the broom. ‘Well, you know the old saying, mate: it's a long way to the shop if you want a sausage roll.'

The driver didn't seem too impressed at all with Norton's weak attempt at a joke and continued to drag away at his cigarette. Les had met a few roadies over the years and knew they were a tough bunch in general, not used to taking much shit. Up closer, this one was even wirier, and dangling off his long, sinewy arms were a pair of hands that looked like two baseball mitts. Christ, thought Les, I wouldn't fancy getting those wrapped round my throat. Yet somehow he seemed to have ‘mug' written all over him.

‘Anyway, mate. I'm Les. I'm the new caretaker.' Norton offered the driver his hand. ‘I only just started this week.'

The driver looked at it for a second then took another drag on his cigarette. ‘Syd. Good to meet you, Les.' Syd's grip was like sticking your hand in a wool press.

‘So what's your story, Syd? Are you the band's driver, or roadie, sort of thing?'

‘That's me. And Mr Fixit and bouncer thrown in.'

Norton made another little shuffle with the broom. ‘If you don't mind me saying so, Syd, that wasn't a bad blast they just gave you. You could hear it down at Coogee. What did you do? Get caught with your hand up the schoolgirl's dress?'

Syd looked at Norton and almost smiled. Apart from the one in the school tunic he'd copped nothing but abuse. Here was someone, a bit of a battler like himself, who didn't seem like too bad a bloke and maybe a shoulder to cry on. He took another drag then flicked the butt into the gutter.

‘We've just been touring Canberra. Five full-on gigs in five days. Last night's was a complete bummer. Brawls, drunks... I had five fights keeping the pissheads away from the girls. It finished up an all-in with the bouncers
all getting into it. The pigs came and closed it down; which suited us. We were paid and out by one-thirty and would have been home by four.' Syd made a helpless gesture with his hands. ‘But in all the confusion I forgot to fill the tank and we ran out of juice six ks past Goulburn. I had to thumb it back to Goulbum with a can. Thumb it back to the van. Then drive back to Goulburn and fill up. The carbie got full of shit and we've been spluttering and farting all the way back to Sydney. The girls have been stuck in the back for nearly ten hours, so you can imagine how they feel. And on top of five shit gigs.'

Norton took a peek in the back of the van. There were speakers, amps, mixers, a drum kit, tools, wires and more junk. Even allowing for three girls in the front and the stuff they'd just taken out, Hitler would have given the Jews more room on a train to Auschwitz in 1942.

‘So what's doing, Syd?' asked Les. ‘You want a hand with the rest of this stuff?'

‘No, that's all right, thanks, Les. I live with me brother over at Maroubra; he's got a big double garage and I leave it all there.' Syd looked evenly at Les for a moment. ‘But I'll probably come over tomorrow and see how the girls are. Take Franulka out somewhere.'

‘Franulka?'

‘Yeah. The one in the black gown with the blue makeup. Fran's my girl.' The way Syd looked at Les as he spoke it could possibly be interpreted as a hint for Les to keep his eyes off her.

‘Okay,' smiled Norton. ‘I'll more than likely be here. Call in and we might have a beer or something. I'm in flat one.'

‘Righto, Les. I might even do that.' Syd gave Les a goofy sort of smile. ‘You don't seem like a bad bloke.'

‘Ohh, don't worry, Syd. There's heaps of blokes round worse than me.' Norton couldn't help but grin. ‘This time I might even tell you my troubles.'

Syd's goofy smile matched Norton's grin. ‘Fair enough.'

Les watched Syd slam the door and then get behind the wheel. After a bit of coaxing the motor started and the van backfired and sputtered down Perouse Road, through The Spot and in the direction of Maroubra. Well, how about that, he mused. I've finally got to meet all my tenants. I wouldn't mind rooting any of those tarts in the band. Especially that one in the leather mini. As for Elvira? Syd's just a little on the large, strong side; he can keep her to himself. I'd stick it up that one in the mini, though. Les continued to fiddle around in the front yard and again his thoughts returned to Sandy, clouded slightly by thoughts of sex with those homy members of the band. He was concentrating on this when he felt something soft and wet gently probing around his backside. Les turned round to find Rosie with her nose fair up his date. Standing behind her, holding the lead and wearing the same clothes he had on the day before, was Burt.

‘Is that you there, Les?' he said.

Norton felt like giving Rosie a quick backhander, but she looked up at him with such an affectionate, sloppy grin he patted the old girl's head instead. ‘Yeah, how are you, Burt?'