Guns 'n' Rose (18 page)

‘Piss off, Golden Tonsils, you bastard of a thing,' he yelled out. ‘Get away from those bloody tomatoes.'

Norton peered over the fence to see what was going on. It was a big, black brush turkey. Long neck with a yellow frill and horrible eyes set in a scruffy, half-bald, red and black head that looked like a cheap hair transplant gone wrong. It was as ugly as sin and had its eyes on a patch of choice, ripe tomatoes. Concentrating on
the tomatoes, it didn't see the man with the beard come charging down the backyard, vigorously pumping a large, yellow super-soaker. The bloke gave the supersoaker another pump then from about two metres away blasted the bush turkey in the head. For good measure he also gave it a long burst up the backside. The bush turkey gave a bit of a squawk then half ran, half shuffled and half flew back into the nature reserve surrounding the houses.

‘Bastard,' yelled the bloke, still firing the supersoaker into the bushes.

‘Mr Radio trying to get at the tomatoes again, is he?' Les heard the man's wife call out from above.

‘The rotten bludger,' answered the man. ‘I'll give him golden tonsils. I'll get a longer extension on the hose and drown the bastard next time.'

The wife said something, the man checked his tomatoes, then went back up to the house.

Les shook his head, shook Mr Wobbly, then walked back to his banana-lounge. As he went to sit down he noticed Jimmy's book and picked it up to see what he was reading.
A Short History Of The World
by H.G. Wells. Les idly flicked through it and found various paragraphs in different chapters marked with pink fluoro highlighter. King Asoka. Priests and Prophets in Judea. Primitive Neolithic Civilisations. The First True Men. The last paragraph in The First True Men was outlined, so Les thought he might see what it said.

 

It is interesting to note that less than a century ago there still survived in a remote part of the world, in Tasmania, a race of human beings at a lower
level of physical and intellectual development than any of these earliest races of mankind, who have left traces in Europe. These Tasmanian people had long ago been cut off by geographical changes from the rest of the species, and from stimulation and improvement. They seem to have degenerated rather than developed. At the time of their discovery by European explorers, they lived a base life subsisting upon shellfish and small game. They had no habitations but only squatting places. They were real men of our species, but they had neither the manual dexterity nor the artistic powers of the first true men.

Very interesting, mused Norton, putting the book down as he'd found it. I wonder if that was any of Jimmy's rellies down there in good old Tasmania? I'd better not ask him though or he might think I've been snooping. Les settled back down with his book and the music. A few minutes later Jimmy came back out, picked up his book and sat down again too.

‘Everything okay?' Les asked politely without being nosy.

‘Yeah, sweet as a nut.'

‘That's good.' Les nodded to the paperback in Jimmy's hands. ‘What's the book you're reading?'

Jimmy held it up. Les scanned the cover. ‘Any good?' Jimmy nodded. ‘Yeah. I like to read about history.' He nodded to Norton's book. ‘What's that like?'

Les held up
The Hand that Signed the Paper
. ‘I haven't finished reading it yet, but so far it's pretty good. Easy enough to read.'

‘Of course,' replied Jimmy. ‘You hate abos. It's only natural that you're anti-semitic and you hate Jews, too.'

‘Don't forget poofs and Asians. I hate them, too, you know.'

‘Sorry, Les, I forgot. It must be the wine.'

‘That's all right, Jimmy. What can I expect, talking to some abo half-pissed on cheap plonk.'

‘Lindeman's Hunter River Porphyry—cheap plonk? You're fuckin' kiddin'.'

‘Anyway, Jimmy, I don't think the book's antisemitic. It just tells things from the other side. The Ukrainians were getting a hard time from the Russians, the Jews, and everybody else. And when the Germans arrived they were no worse off. Better if anything. So they threw in with them and gave the Russians and the Jews a hard time.'

‘Like gassing and shooting them.'

‘And starving them, too. Same as they did to them.'

‘That's right,' said Jimmy. ‘Ten million Ukrainians starved to death under Stalin. I remember reading it.'

‘But you know how it is these days,' shrugged Les, ‘say anything at all about the Jews and immediately you're anti-semitic.'

‘Yo! Mah man. We dig that shit in the hood, brother.'

‘I don't particularly wish to cop one up the blurter and I think Julian Clary's about as funny as a drunk with a shotgun, so that makes me homophobic. Make even the slightest comment about aborigines, like those few minor points I wished to discuss with you in the car when I first met you, and straightaway you're a racist. You know what I mean?'

Jimmy nodded. ‘You're right, Les, it's … it's absolutely appalling.'

‘The thing is though, Jimmy. I didn't just buy this book to read episode nine hundred and seventy-eight thousand six hundred of the bloody Holocaust. I wanted to find out what the fuss was all about and how this sheila won all those literary awards. I'll admit I got caught up in all the hype and bullshit and they managed to con me out of $13.95. But it's still not a bad read. There's even a bit of porking in there.'

‘Fair dinkum? The rotten hussy.'

Les nodded. ‘In a way I feel sorry for the sheila that wrote it. All the fuckin' shit she's going through. I mean, all the poor bastard did was write a book and half put one over those turnip heads running the literary scene. Now they want to burn her at the stake. She's got to get round like that Salmon Rushdon, or whatever his name is. Not game to show her head anywhere.'

‘Yeah, I've seen all that rattle on TV and in the papers. It's disgusting. She's a blonde too, poor bludger.'

‘There you go, Jimmy—persecution of blondes. Blondism.'

‘Exactly, Les, the literati in Australia are nothing but a bunch of fascists and cunts.' Jimmy seemed to think for a moment. ‘I'll tell you what, Les, you know what I'd do if I was her?'

‘What, Jimmy? And I respect your opinion, because you're one smart dude.'

‘Instead of running away from these pricks, I'd just hang low for a while then come back bigger and better
than ever. I'd get a real dark suntan, or cover myself with instant-tan. Dye my hair black and comb it up in an afro. Buy some overalls and a pair of crutches. Then come back again as a crippled, aboriginal lesbian, and say I was writing a book about my gay, HIV-positive, muslim cousin, and how he came to terms with his sexuality before he died of AIDS during the Gulf War. All those academic woozes out there trying to get a warm inner glow wouldn't be game to knock you back with a spiel like that. You'd clean up again.'

‘Genius. I'm talking to a genius.' Norton shook his head in admiration. ‘Jimmy, how much do you reckon you could tug in with a scam like that?'

‘How much?' Jimmy peered into his wine glass for a second. ‘Say fifty from the Arts Council. The Miles Franklin and the Vogel—another forty. You'd have to take out the Nita B. Kibble. Another twelve. Book sales? Over a hundred K. Not counting overseas. Shit! I reckon you'd be looking at around quarter of a million.'

‘Quarter of a million bucks? Have you got a typewriter in that bag, Jimmy? We'll knock the fuckin' thing out before you go back in the nick.'

‘Why don't we go one better again, Les? Do another version where girl meets boy. Girl loses boy. Girl gets boy back again. Boy undoes girl's bra-strap in the last three pages and we'll flog it to Mills and Boon.'

‘Did I say genius?' Norton threw back his hands. ‘There's a biro in my bag. You fill out the application form for the Arts Council. I'll find a list of gay bars in Baghdad and start the research.'

‘Why don't we have a swim first, Les, and cool off?'

‘I think that might be a good idea, Jimmy.'

They splashed around in the pool, drank more booze, ate more prawns and listened to more Jimmy Buffett. By then the afternoon was just about shot. Les made another Bacardi and thought he'd better see what Jimmy had planned for the evening.

‘So what's on tonight, James? It's obvious by now you're the brains of the outfit.'

‘Well, naturally we'll be having a nice dinner, Les.'

‘I tipped that. Where are we going?'

‘I'm taking you to a non-smoking restaurant, Les. The Mail Drop. It used to be the old Terrigal post office.'

‘Sounds good to me. How does a non-smoker go up here, Jimmy? Those two windbag, know-alls on radio reckon if they make restaurants non-smoking it'll be the end of civilisation, big brother taking over and the restaurants'll all go broke.'

Jimmy gave Les a peeved look. ‘You don't take too much notice of them, do you? Does McDonald's look like they're going bad? I had to ring up before I got out of the nick to get us a table.'

‘Good one, mate. And what do you fancy doing afterwards?'

‘Not much. I had a late one last night and I got a nice day lined up for us tomorrow. Another surprise for you.'

‘There's an over-thirties disco on down the road. You want to have a look? You could pass for thirty with a bit of luck.'

‘Club Algiers? Yeah, I saw the sign outside the hotel.' Jimmy gave a chuckle. ‘So you want to try and hit on some more feral aunties, do you, Les?'

‘Yeah. See if I can find Aunty Megan and rekindle the spark of love between us.'

‘After Jimmy Superstud's been there? You're kidding, aren't you, Les. She wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire. Unless she was pissing kerosene.'

‘I still wouldn't mind having a look, though.'

‘Okay. But I'm not having a late one. If you want to kick on, go for your life.'

‘No. I'll stick with you. Is your man coming to get us?'

Jimmy nodded. ‘Of course. Would you like a lift? Or would you prefer to follow us down in the Berlina.'

‘No, I'll come with you. I'll even sit down the back with you. I just thought I'd slip that one in, Jimmy. Between mates.'

Jimmy drained the last of his wine. ‘Droll, Les. Verrry droll.'

They cleaned up round the pool and got rid of the prawn shells. Les took his washing in, then they watched the news over a cup of coffee and started getting their shit together. The idea of not having a late one now appealed to Les. He wasn't dog tired, but sitting in the sun all afternoon drinking cool ones had taken the edge off him just a little. And who knows what Jimmy had lined up for him tomorrow? After a relaxing shower and shave, Les changed into a pair of jeans, a crisp, white long-sleeved shirt and his spiffing new vest. No, he thought, standing in front of the mirror after daubing himself with Jamaican Island Lyme, I won't grab anything down there tonight. I'll just let them know what they missed out on. If Les looked good, Jimmy looked ten times better when Les found
him listening to the stereo and gazing out the window in the loungeroom. He was wearing a black T-shirt with a brown boomerang motif across the front, tucked into a pair of black, silk Dolce and Gabbana trousers with a crocodile-skin belt and matching crocodile-skin loafers. Sitting snugly over this was a soft, black leather James Dean jacket with brown snake skins sewn into the front, shoulders and back and piped round the sleeves.

‘Don't tell me the rat made that,' said Les.

Jimmy nodded. ‘Hard to believe, isn't it?'

Norton was going to say something when there was a polite knock on the door.

The Mail Drop was in a side street that ran towards the ocean just behind the resort. Jimmy told the limo driver he'd ring when they were ready and they walked up the front steps to the foyer. Apart from a lick of paint here and there, the owners hadn't tried to hide that the restaurant was an old government building and the red bricks, high columns and metal railing out the front only seemed to enhance the building's charm from yesteryear. Les pushed the glass door open and they went inside. Hanging lights shone down from the high ceiling. The kitchen, wine racks and counter were on your right as you entered, and the place was full. The walls were painted in earthy browns and limewashed white; green carpet ran beneath the cedar chairs and tables with matching cedar Venetian blinds. In one corner sat a fireplace with a mirror above and a clock and other bric-a-brac on the mantelpiece. The old, govemment-style building and the earthy colours gave the restaurant a natural warmth and charm, but
not having to peer round the tables through a haze of blue cigarette smoke gave it something else—a brightness and freshness you could almost feel.

Two waiters in black trousers and black Mail Drop T-shirts hovered round the tables, then an attractive girl with neat dark hair, wearing black slacks and a brown top, appeared behind the counter.

‘Good evening,' she said with a pleasant smile.

‘Hello,' replied Jimmy. ‘I made a booking for two. Rosewater.'

The girl checked the reservation list. ‘Right on time, Mr Rosewater. This way please.'

She ushered them to a table in the corner, sat them down and left them with the wine list. Les ordered a bottle of Grolsch. Jimmy thought he'd try the Diamond Valley Pinot Noir. Both arrived promptly.

‘Well, here's looking up your old address, Mr Rosewater,' said Les, taking it all in. ‘And you've done it again. I'm impressed.'

‘To tell you the truth,' said Jimmy, ‘it's the first time I've been here, but I thought you might like it, Mr Norton.'

There were enough scrumptious-sounding things on the menu to choose from. But seeing as Les ate most of the prawns earlier he wasn't all that screaming hungry, so he just went for Oysters Natural with lime, cracked pepper and flat bread for starters. Then Grilled Barramundi with lemon, thyme butter and potato fennel wedges. Jimmy was a bit keener on the tooth. He went for the Deep Fried Tiger Prawns with Red Curry Sauce on Asian Greens and Muscovy Duck in Cointreau Orange Sauce with a Compote of Autumn
Mustard Fruits. Coffee and sweets were even a distinct possibility.