Guns 'n' Rose (17 page)

‘Open it up.'

‘Ohh, mate.' Les took the whip into the loungeroom and carefully uncoiled it across the carpet. It was about five metres long, counting the handle and the lash, beautifully crafted and bound in heavily oiled red and black leather. The way the thin strips of leather were bound and plaited tightly into each other made it more a work of art than just a stockwhip. ‘Jesus, Jimmy, where did you get this?'

‘Off a whip maker up in Charters Towers. The cove's made from tanned Argentinian cow hide, moulded round a belly of one and a half millimetre lead pickle shot.'

‘Yeah,' said Les, gently turning the handle. ‘Give it a finer balance and slow the action.'

‘Right on, Les baby. Give it that extra craaccckkkk.'

‘Reckon,' said Les, carefully rippling the whip across the carpet.

‘The belly's wrapped in solid kangaroo hide and plaited over with another four plaits of kangaroo hide then wrapped in split pigskin. The final overlay is one piece of A-grade kangaroo hide so it's got a double layer keeper.'

‘What a fuckin' pisser.'

‘Check the tapered, lawyer-cane handle, Les. It's plaited over in one piece of kangaroo hide, split into thirty-two strands with a double thickness keeper.'

Les shook his head in admiration. ‘This is the best whip I've ever seen, Jimmy. Bar none. What are you doing with it?'

‘I got it for a bloke.'

‘Not the same bloke you got the vest for?'

Jimmy shook his head. ‘This bloke's still around.'

‘Is that who you're going to see now?'

‘No, I don't have to meet him till the weekend. So I was just going down to see if the thing still works.'

‘Whereabouts?'

A strange smile appeared on Jimmy's face. ‘I was thinking of on the promenade at Terrigal.'

An even stranger grin spread across Norton's. ‘Sounds fuckin' good to me, Jimmy. Let's go.'

Les carefully coiled the whip up, Jimmy put it back in his bag and they walked out to the car. Jimmy hardly said a word on the way down. But he had this enigmatic look on his face and Norton surmised that George's nephew was up to something. Les found a parking spot outside the resort opposite the butcher
shop; he zapped the car doors and they walked across to the park. People were either walking about or sitting around eating their lunch and sipping drinks.

It seemed to be mid-tide. But as there wasn't much beach left, what swimmers or sunbathers there were, were sitting in a fairly tight group on the short strip of sand in front of the surf club. The happy-faced bloke wearing glasses that Les had seen on the microphone the day before was still working at the canteen serving a woman and two kids with ice-creams and drinks. About half-a-dozen tanned, fit-looking men in Speedos, and going a bit thin on top, were sitting in front of the firstaid room. One man with a moustache had a cigar, a sponge, a bottle of iodine and a packet of Band-aids. Another bloke with dark hair going a bit in the front was sitting in front of him with his arm out. Les recognised him as the bloke he saw walking up from the water with the surf ski. As he watched, the bloke with the cigar stubbed it on the other man's arm, let it sizzle for a moment, then wiped it with the sponge, tipped some iodine onto the burn before covering it with a Band-aid. The other bloke never flinched. He just sat there talking with the others while they all listened to the songs playing on the radio in the first-aid room.

‘What the fuck's he doing?' asked Les.

‘Burning off melanomas,' answered Jimmy.

‘Skin cancers? Why doesn't the cunt go to a doctor?'

‘The bloke with the cigar is a doctor. You're not back with your arty-farty friends in Bondi now, Les. Anyway, hang on, I got to go and see a mate of mine.'

Jimmy walked over to the man in glasses who had just finished serving the mother and her two kids. He
looked surprised when he saw Jimmy and made a quick, almost nervous gesture with his hands.

‘Jimmy? What are you doing here? You don't have to come round till Monday, Tuesday. Whenever.'

‘I just couldn't wait till then, Reg.'

‘Oh, Christ!'

‘So, how's the zurfglub going, Reg?'

‘The zurfglub's going great, Jimmy. It's all sweet. Don't worry about it.'

‘What about the gandeen?'

‘The gandeen's going great guns, too. Everything's … cool, Jimmy.'

‘No, it's not. It's going bad. You know what you need, Reg?'

‘Not you, Jimmy. Go away.'

‘Advertising.'

Before the man in glasses had a chance to do or say anything, Jimmy had darted behind the counter, got hold of the microphone and was back out the front uncoiling the whip.

‘Righto, you lazy bastards down there on the beach, listen up and pay attention.' Jimmy's soft voice boomed out of the speakers and across the sand. The group of people on the beach stopped whatever they were doing and turned towards the promenade. Even the people swimming and in the park looked around. ‘You've been bludging off us lifesavers for too long and you give us nothing in return. Not even bloody thanks. We ought to let you all drown, you ungrateful pricks. Anyway, the surf club needs your help. So on behalf of myself and Reg at the gandeen, Terrigal Surf Club is now having … a whip round.'

‘Jimmy, please. No.' The man in glasses was too late.

Jimmy put the microphone down, ran the whip out in front of him then started twirling it anti-clockwise above his head. He spun it round three times then brought it down hard in front of him. Instead of a craaacckkk, like Jimmy said earlier, there was more like a BANG! As if someone had fired a gun. Except the sound was more beautiful, crisp and clear. It had the desired effect. The people on the beach nearly jumped a foot in the air and the ones in the park almost dropped whatever they were eating or drinking. Even the bloke getting the skin cancers burnt off looked up when the doctor dropped his cigar. Jimmy started twirling the whip once more, then cracked it again. And again, and again; each one sounding louder than the first. Jimmy wasn't all that big, but he knew what he was doing and the whip was so beautifully weighted and balanced he couldn't go wrong. He cracked it another couple of times then picked up the microphone.

‘Okay, you bastards. Reg from the gandeen will now be passing the hat round. So dig deep. And talking about hats …'

Sitting wide-eyed at the foot of the steps was a small group of Asquith Annies and Roseville Rogers—all staying at their parents' weekender and having like a really, incredible, totally, just-so-good day at the beach, like you know, wow. One dork in a pair of John Lennon sunglasses and a pair of monstrously baggy shorts had a multi-coloured, peaked cap on his head with a tiny propeller on it. Jimmy moved across to the
top step, whirled the whip round his head twice then bent slightly and cracked it sideways over the dork's cap with a neat, sharp bang! The propeller flicked slightly up in the air then spiralled slowly down onto the sand in front of him like a dying moth. Jimmy ran the whip out in front of him then turned to the man in glasses.

‘Righto, Reg, what are you waiting for? Unless you want me to try for a cigarette in your mouth.'

Reg shook his head. ‘You're right, Jimmy. What am I waiting for?' The man in glasses slapped a red and yellow beanie on his head, grabbed a plastic bucket and headed towards the stunned people on the beach who were now digging frantically in their pockets.

‘If I'm not here on Monday, Jimmy, just stick a note under the door. Anything you like, mate.'

‘See you later, Reg.' Jimmy put the stockwhip back in his overnight bag, gave Les the nod and they started walking back across the park. ‘I've always wanted to do that,' he smiled at Norton.

‘Well, you certainly got your wish,' replied Les. ‘Who's the bloke in the glasses?'

‘That's Reg. He's a retired magistrate and the surf club's social secretary. He's a top bloke. If anyone's on weekend detention, he gives them jobs. Like cleaning up the surf club or painting the church or whatever. I'm supposed to report to him while I'm out. Me and Reg are good mates.'

‘Yeah, I could see that. The poor bludger was terrified of you.'

‘Get out, you cunt. He loves me. They all love me.'

‘Hey, Jimmy,' said Les, ‘fair crack of the whip, mate.'

‘That's precisely what I gave him, Les.'

Norton could see this line of conversation was going nowhere. ‘All right, so what do you want to do now?' ‘Nothing. I wouldn't mind just hanging at home round the pool. Have a few cool ones, listen to some music I got. Maybe have a read.'

‘Sounds good to me. You like prawns?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Well, I might get some at that place where I got the fish and chips. You want to grab a bottle of plonk? Or do you want to drink what I got at home?'

Jimmy thought for a moment. ‘I might get a nice white. Then have a few Bacardis later. You got any money on you?'

‘Yeah, and while you're there, get a bag of crushed ice.'

Les gave Jimmy a hundred dollars and said he'd see him back at the car. By the time Les got two kilograms of Myall Lakes prawns off ‘Big Elvis' at the Flathead Spot, Jimmy had the bag of ice plus two bottles of Lindeman's Hunter River Porphyry and they drove home.

Les had noticed an esky in the garage earlier. After changing into an old pair of shorts and organising a towel, sunblock and his book, he packed the esky with ice, booze, orange juice and prawns. Then he strolled down to the pool and made himself comfortable on a banana-lounge. Jimmy came out of the house not long after with a book also, plus a small bag of CDs, an extension lead and a fairly hefty ghetto-blaster.

‘You didn't have that in your bag, too, did you? said Les. Jimmy nodded. ‘Christ. What haven't you got in there?'

‘You'd be surprised, Les,' Jimmy said, looking evenly at Norton. He opened a bottle of wine and poured himself a glass, then plugged the ghetto-blaster into the nearest power point and sat it down next to the cabana so the noise would bounce off the wall and the tiles round the pool. Les watched and wondered just what Jimmy had in store for him as he got a CD from his bag, slipped it into the ghetto-blaster, adjusted the graphic equaliser and pressed the button.

‘All right, Les,' he said, settling back on another banana-lounge with his glass of wine. ‘Tell me if you like this. And if you don't, too fuckin' bad.'

The ghetto-blaster had a great sound; especially positioned where Jimmy had put it. Les sipped his Bacardi, OJ and strawberry vodka as the sounds of a calypso, mardi-gras band, whistles blowing, maracas rattling, came bouncing out of the speakers. The music quickly faded away then this cool, soft American voice said, ‘Hey, Jimmy, do you know somebody in Miami that can get me a passport real quick?'

‘Oh no.' Norton threw back his head nearly spilling his drink. ‘Don't tell me, Jimmy, you're a fuckin parrot-head.'

‘Hey, right on, baby.' Jimmy was ecstatic. ‘I don't believe it, Les. You're into Jimmy Buffett, too?'

‘Yeah, sort of. Warren's got some of his CDs, so I get a bit of it at home.' Les gave Jimmy a half-smile. ‘Whether I like him or not, it looks like I'm going to get it all afternoon anyway.'

‘That,' replied Jimmy, ‘and I might have something else snookered away in there, too.'

Les raised his glass as ‘Everybody's Got a Cousin in
Miami' cruised easily out of the speakers. ‘Whatever suits you suits me, Jimmy. There's heaps worse things I could be doing than sitting round a pool drinking piss, eating prawns, and being a parrot-head for the afternoon.'

‘Fruit Cakes' went into ‘Barometer Soup'. Norton read his book, peeled prawns, got a pleasant glow sipping Bacardi and every now and again fell in the pool to cool off and freshen up. Jimmy sipped wine and did much the same. Like Norton said, there could be worse ways to put in a day. Some Jimmy Buffett CD cut out. Jimmy put it back in his bag and took out something else.

‘Righto, Les,' he said, settling back with another glass of wine, ‘tell me if you like this.'

‘What have we got now?'

‘Pale Riders.'

‘Never heard of them.'

‘There's a lot of good Aussie music around you don't get to hear on radio,' said Jimmy.

‘That's true,' nodded Les.

‘They live in Sydney but they come from a place in Tasmania called Penguin and they're starting to get a big cult following. They're good.'

‘If you say so, Jimmy.' Norton sipped another Bacardi and listened. The music was a mixture of blue grass, country, folk-rock and boogie. Crystal clear harmonies, great guitar licks and heaps of energy. Les gave Jimmy the thumbs-up and made a mental note to buy the CD when he got back to Sydney. Jimmy was in a good mood from the wine and Norton enjoying his music was making his mood even better. He put Pale Riders away and pulled out another CD.

‘You reckon you like rock 'n' roll, Les?'

‘Sure do, James.'

‘Okay. Try this. The Headhunters' “Outlaw Boogie”. This belongs to Wade and Peirce. They don't know I got it. If they did they'd bloody kill me.'

The next CD was full tilt, kick-down-the-door rock with some great ballads. Some red hot covers of ‘Cadillac Walk', ‘Roadhouse Blues' and others and on one track the singer sounded just like Bob Seger of old. Norton made another Bacardi and another mental note. If Jimmy stole this off Wade and Peirce—whoever they were—then they certainly wouldn't know if he stole it off Jimmy. Don't leave that CD lying around before you go back inside, young master James, Les smiled to himself. ‘Outlaw Boogie' boogied out. Jimmy slipped in some more parrot-head music, then said he was going inside to have a leak and make a couple of phone calls. As Jimmy walked off, Les placed his book down and thought he might strain the potatoes too. Running alongside the fence were some oleander trees and a couple of flowering frangipannis. Les started hosing away near an oleander when he heard some commotion. It was the elderly bloke with the beard abusing someone or something.