Guns 'n' Rose (19 page)

If Norton liked the restaurant, he liked the food even better. His oysters were plump and fresh, the fish delish and everything that came with it delightful. Jimmy's was the same. He wouldn't release any prawns, but Les got a taste of the duck and half wished he'd ordered that as well. Washed down with one more beer then ‘sparkling eau de maison' another top meal. They were sitting back, sipping flat whites while the waiter cleared the dishes and Les looked directly at George's nephew.

‘Jimmy, how come all the restaurants in Terrigal are so good? The last time I was here I had an absolute prick of a time. Now I'm in hog heaven. I'll end up looking like one the way I'm going.'

Jimmy shrugged. ‘Everything's fresh and there's plenty of competition. But just do me one favour, Les.'

‘Sure. What's that?'

‘Don't tell anyone in Sydney about the place. I don't particularly like having to dine with revhead westies, northside trendoids and all your arty, farty, would-be film-star friends from the eastern suburbs.'

Norton was about to say, ‘How about I bring Uncle George back up?', but decided not to mention what Gloves had told him. ‘All right if I come back now and again?'

‘Sure,' replied Jimmy, rubbing his stomach. ‘Come back any time you like.'

‘Thanks, Jimmy. You want to pay the bill?'

Jimmy shook his head. ‘No, you may as well. You're better at it than me.'

Les paid the bill, got a nice smile and a big thanks from the girl in the brown top and they started walking the short distance to the resort. On the way Les suggested they have one at the Baron Riley before they hit the disco.

‘Before we go in,' said Jimmy, ‘I have to tell you, Les, I'm not real keen.'

‘Mate, if you don't want to go—sweet. Ring the limo, I can get home all right.'

‘No. I'll have a couple with you. But…' Jimmy seemed to let it go at that.

‘Just tell me when you want to leave,' said Les.

There were a few people standing around the driveway, waiting for taxis or whatever. Les was just about to head for the revolving door when a white, stretch limousine pulled up that looked about twice as long as the one they'd been in. The driver got out and opened the back door. Two skinny blondes in red and blue micro-minis and low-cut tops got out followed by a big, beefy bloke with a happy, craggy face wearing a white suit and a panama hat, which he removed to bow in front of the girls revealing an almost bald pate. Next thing a three-piece mariachi band climbed out and immediately started serenading the bloke in the white suit. They looked just like ‘The Three Amigos' in their black sombreros, velvet suits and fluffy shirts as they wailed away in Spanish, playing licks on a big fat guitar, a smaller one and a trumpet. The two blondes cuddled up to the bloke in the white suit who was absolutely loving it, when he spotted Jimmy.

‘James, my friend,' he boomed, ‘what's happening, old son?'

‘Not much, Captain,' replied Jimmy. ‘What's doing with you?'

‘Ahh, just taking the ladies back to my suite for cool ones,' he replied, grabbing the blonde in the red mini on the backside. ‘Show them exactly what a swivelised kind of guy I am.'

‘That's you, Captain.'

‘I will see you, James my young friend,' he said, ‘unless you wish to join us.'

Jimmy shook his head. ‘Maybe some other time. You have a good one, Joe.'

‘Adios, amigo.' He waved to the band. ‘This way, muchachos.'

The blondes, the bloke in the white suit and the mariachi band swept through the revolving door into the foyer, then into one of the lifts. Les and Jimmy followed, then headed for the stairs.

‘Who the fuck was that?' said Les. ‘Don't tell me he makes clothes, too.'

‘No. That's the Captain. Joe Mahoney. He's a bricklayer. Every now and again he has these massive wins at the punt. So he rents a suite in here, gets a couple of hookers and gives himself a giant spoil.'

‘Does he what? I like the mariachi band. Now that is style, as my old mate Charles Bukowski would say.'

‘That's what you should have had waiting for me when I got out of the nick.'

‘If I'd have known what a swivelised kind of guy you were, Jimmy, I would have. Sorry, mate.'

The Baron Riley Bar was a bit quiet. A few people were seated around the bar, mainly couples, with a few foursomes or whatever sitting at various tables. The
entertainment this time was a pianist with a beard and a hat crooning out ballads very much like Harry Connick Jnr. Les got the same drinks as last time and they propped up the corner of the bar closest to the dance floor. While he was checking out the punters Les realised why Jimmy seemed a little reluctant to go out. Every sheila in the place was onto him. Even three girls on the dance floor would stop in mid-step and peer around their boyfriends or whatever to ogle him. Which was nice enough. The trouble was, all their boyfriends were doing the same, only they were looking at Jimmy as if they wanted to choke him. He made an ideal running partner all right, but Norton also realised Jimmy would get a lot of shit put on him by mugs for nothing more than being drop-dead goodlooking with a ton of style. And being ten lengths in front of the average goose with a comeback, plenty of heroes would want to fight him as well.

‘Well, there's not much happening here,' said Jimmy. ‘You want to have a look in Club Algiers? Get it out of the road.'

‘Yeah, righto. Let's split.'

The piano player finished the song he was singing, they finished their drinks and left the way they came.

There was a small knot of people outside the disco, including three bouncers in black suits and white shirts and a lean, sandy-haired bloke behind them in a white tuxedo. Through the window Les could see another plumper, dark-haired bloke in a tuxedo standing under a poster of Humphrey Bogart next to four women paying admission at the counter. Les stepped back and let Jimmy go first.

‘Sorry, mate,' grunted some tall bouncer with a black ponytail. ‘You can't get in with a T-shirt.'

Ohh no, winced Norton. Not this again. What's the matter with these fuckin' hillbillies?

‘No, he's all right,' said the bloke in the tuxedo. ‘Let him in.'

The bouncer stepped back to let Jimmy in, giving him a dirty look at the same time. Jimmy gave the bouncer a dirty look in return. The bloke in the tuxedo gave Les and Jimmy a smile. Les gave the bouncer a look as if he'd like to have buried his forehead right across the bridge of his nose, then stepped inside, paid the admission and got a stamp across his wrist.

Inside it was packed. How many, Les couldn't tell—hundreds. The music wasn't quite as loud as last time but, even though the air-conditioner was working double overtime, it was hot and smoky. The dance floor was jammed and across the bobbing heads and bodies Les could see another DJ; a beefier one with thinner black hair swept back in a tight ponytail spinning old sixties and seventies pop favourites. At the moment he was belting out ‘Old Time Rock 'n' Roll' by Bob Seger.

Norton pointed to the far end of the bar. ‘Why don't we try and get a drink in that corner, then prop in front of the DJ?'

‘Yeah, righto,' said Jimmy, sounding a little reluctant. ‘I'll follow you.'

Somehow Les managed to weave his way through the seething throng, elbow his way to the bar and get four Jack Daniels and soda. Jimmy took two and they wound their way to the alcove next to the fire exit
under the DJ. There was a small, empty table amongst the people seated on stools or standing beneath the chrome railing. They put their extra drinks down and Les checked out the punters.

They were mostly between thirty and forty-five with a scattering of younger ones. The women were done up mainly in skirts or dresses with low-cut fronts or lacy see-through tops and no shortage of dark stockings. Most of them were in good shape with a few windjammers waddling around and here and there a complete dog the average bloke wouldn't leave a burning house to get at. The blokes were wearing mainly slacks, some jeans, and long- or short-sleeved shirts of all colours and styles. Most of them were also in reasonable shape and could have been clubbies, surfies or ex-footballers. Others had guts on them like seals and were starting to part their hair in a circle. There was also the odd drunken wombat shuffling around who wouldn't find a root in a warehouse full of ginseng. Keeping an eye on everyone were another half dozen or so bouncers in the same black suits and white shirts. But everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, dancing, talking or singing along with the old pop songs while they had a few drinks. As far as Les was concerned, it looked like a pretty good night, and at least you didn't have to put up with punishing house music and eighteen year olds pissed off their heads on two bourbons and Coke.

They'd cleared part of the section above the dance floor and two girls in short floral dresses were dancing a routine to ‘Bar Room Blitz' by The Pulse for the mob's entertainment. Les and Jimmy settled back with
their drinks next to a group of fit-looking women who, along with being gay divorcees, were probably aerobics junkies. One had blonde hair cut in a fringe, others had blonde or dark hair combed up, another had her hair cropped to a point on her forehead like a Romulan on ‘Star Trek'. They gave Norton a few once-up-anddowns. But they were looking at Jimmy like they were all hyenas and he was a baby wildebeest lost from his mother. As usual the blokes were giving him daggers.

‘Well, what do you reckon, Jimmy?' said Les. ‘This is all right.'

‘Yeah, terrific,' replied Jimmy. ‘I've always wanted to visit the elephants' graveyard.'

‘There's a few jumbo-sized arses on those stools behind us,' said Norton. ‘I will admit that.'

The two girls got off the stage, the DJ threw on ‘How Bizarre' by OMC and the place erupted into one giant stampede for the dance floor. Norton couldn't help himself. He caught the Romulan's eye, she nodded a big yes, Les put his drink down and they headed for the dance floor. You could forget trying to dance. Everybody just stood there and hoped for the best in time to the music. Les simply jigged up and down and turned round and round in tiny circles till he felt like he was disappearing down a sink. The Romulan's style was much the same, only she kept pumping her legs and bending her knees like she was riding an invisible exercise bike. It was good fun, though, and with a quick hit of ‘Jackies' surging through him Les was starting to enjoy himself. ‘How Bizarre' finished and the DJ jumped on the microphone.

‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, it's
time for our Club Algiers dirty dancing competition. First prize—two bottles of champagne and a Club Algiers T-shirt.'

The Romulan looked hopefully at Les. Norton didn't quite feel like playing Patrick Swayze at the time. He thanked her for the dance; and she rejoined her girlfriends, while Les went back to Jimmy.

‘I was watching you out there, killer,' said Jimmy. ‘You've done this before. You're a full-on disco duck.'

Norton took a sip of Jack Daniels. ‘I could have knocked that dirty dancing thing off if I'd wanted to,' he replied, ‘but it'd be like bashing up drunks.'

Jimmy finished his first Jack Daniels. ‘Quack quack.'

The DJ slipped on the song from the movie and the dance floor filled with dirty dancers, getting down and dirty trying to win first prize. The plump bloke in the white tuxedo was now standing near the DJ watching things and the thinner one was leaning against the chrome railing above the dance floor with a roving microphone. Swanning around next to him was a solid brunette, about thirty, with big boobs and a backside to match, wearing a black bikie jacket. She'd crushed herself into a pair of jeans and a low-cut top that flashed her ample cleavage to the mob below and looked like some sort of local celebrity, spotlight junkie.

‘Who's the sheila in the Brando jacket with the big tits?' enquired Les.

‘Blaze Montez,' replied Jimmy indifferently. ‘She runs a modelling agency up here. She's a pain in the arse.'

‘She's got plenty to go round,' said Norton.

The song finished and the thin bloke in the white tuxedo looked around the dance floor, then turned to
the woman with the big boobs in the leather jacket. ‘Well, Blaze, I can't pick it. Who do you think tonight's winner is?' he said.

There was silence in the disco as all the punters waited to see who won the dirty dancing competition, when Jimmy cupped his hands round his mouth and yelled out at the top of his voice, ‘Blaze Montez sucks dogs' cocks!'

You could have heard it in Newcastle. Norton couldn't believe it, as nearly everyone in the disco looked at Jimmy.

The Romulan turned around and nodded over her drink. ‘I wouldn't be surprised,' she giggled.

A hoo-ha and hub-hub ran through the place. Next thing, some bloke dressed in denim, with long blond hair, came charging down the stairs. He didn't look like a bouncer and Les tipped he was big tits' boyfriend.

‘Who fuckin' said that?' he howled, then glared at Jimmy. ‘You did, didn't you?'

‘All right, mate,' said Les, getting between the infuriated boyfriend and Jimmy. ‘He's sorry. He's drunk. He's leaving anyway.'

‘I'm not talking to you,' howled the bloke. ‘I'm fuckin' talking to him.'

‘Fair enough,' said Les. He couldn't really blame the boyfriend for having the shits, even if the local star did momentarily stop posing and her jaw dropped about two metres. ‘We're both leaving. Come on … Eric.'

‘What?' said Jimmy. ‘Tell him to get fucked. I'm not leaving. This is the grouse.'

Ohh no, thought Les.

The boyfriend made a lunge at Jimmy. Les pushed him
in the solar plexus and he went back into the Romulan and her girlfriends. A couple of the girls gave a startled scream as their drinks were spilled. The next thing they were surrounded by bouncers of all shapes and sizes; half keen for a bit of action seeing there was about eight of them and only one and a half of Les and Jimmy.