The Godson (10 page)

It took Les five minutes of indifferent looking to narrow the field down to three cars: a red Holden sedan, a hottedup green Torana or a white T-bar automatic Ford station wagon. He was checking to make sure the Ford had a stereo when Kileen appeared.

‘That was my missus on the phone,' he said. ‘She'd talk the leg off an iron-pot.' Norton tried to ignore him as he checked out the Ford station wagon. ‘You picked one out yet?'

‘Yeah,' nodded Les. ‘I'll take the station wagon.'

‘Good idea,' smiled Kileen, running a hand along the roof. ‘Top car this. Eight months rego. New tyres. Motor's just
been done up. A woman traded it. Had to sell it because she was pregnant. Her husband was a doctor. The car's never …'

Kileen was about to go into his full on, car dealer's spiel when Norton cut him off. ‘Hey mate. I'm only borrowing it, remember. I don't want to buy it.'

‘Yeah, right. Sure.' Kileen smiled and made a gesture with his hands. ‘You know I am only lending this to Price for a couple of weeks 'cause I owe him a favour. So you won't… you know, flog the guts out of it will you, Les? I mean, I got to sell it when you bring it back. So look after it a bit, will you, mate?'

‘Sure,' replied Les, in all honesty. ‘I'll look after it. It's only to get me and another bloke up to this property and it'll be sitting there doing nothing. Apart from the drive up and back, I'll hardly be using it at all.'

‘Sweet. Terrific. Good on you, Les. Just hold on a sec and I'll get you the keys and rego papers.'

Norton removed a sign from the windscreen saying
T-Bar Automatic
as Kileen came back and handed him the keys and rego papers. Kileen shook hands with him and wished him a good trip; Les thanked him and backed out into the yard. Kileen motioned him to a driveway at the side of the yard, Norton drove down it, gave the horn a toot then drove through the lights to make a U-turn and head back in the direction of Bondi.

By the time Les had passed Centennial Park, he'd put the two-year-old station wagon through its paces, without flogging it too much, and was pleased to see it went well. He was also pleased to see the stereo-radio worked okay and guessed the cassette did as well. Yeah, not a bad car at all, he thought happily. The trip up north is going to be a breeze. In fact when Norton had almost reached Bondi he liked the car that much he made a mental note to make Kileen an offer when he got back and update his old Ford sedan. Cruising along, he decided to go down the back of Bronte past Tamarama and have a look at the sea, which was always clear and blue and smooth during the offshore winds in winter.

He was rounding the bend at Tamarama slowly heading towards the surf club, when a familiar figure standing against the railing checking out the ocean caught his eye. The figure turned just as Les drew near and waved. It was Tony Nathan, the surf photographer. What the hell thought Norton, being in an extra good mood, I'll stop and have a mag. See what he's got to say for himself.

Tony was a medium-built fellow in his thirties with a mop of bushy black hair and a face that seemed to register a permanent, impassive patience. He was always broke and always had a story about some bastard who had just ripped him off. So to make ends meet, and to compensate for everyone dudding him with his photographs, he worked part time as a disc jockey in a bar at Randwick, where, because of his hair, someone nicknamed him ‘Steelo' as in steel wool. Because of the music this got mishmashed into Steely Dan and somehow his nickname alternated between the two. Les got to know him when he occasionally left North Bondi for Tamarama where Tony lived, and often borrowed Tony's boogie board and flippers at the beach. But Tony was a popular, likeable bloke and was arguably, probably because of his endless patience, the best surfing photographer in Australia. Steelo's only fault, if there was one, was that nobody in Australia swore as much as him, not even Norton.

Les stopped the car, got out and crossed the road. ‘Hello there, the Dan,' he said, leaning against the railing next to him. ‘What are you up to, mate?'

‘Not much,' answered Tony tightly. ‘Just standing here freezing my fuckin' nuts off.'

Norton shifted his gaze to what Tony was looking at; about half a dozen surfers were getting stuck into a red-hot left breaking near the reef down from the surf club. A squat figure in a red and white steamer with corn blonde hair caught his eye. ‘Hey, isn't that Cheyne Horan out there?'

‘Yeah,' nodded Tony. ‘I was thinking of getting a few photos of him, but it's starting to fill up.' They both watched as Cheyne took off and tore apart another left. ‘No, fuck it,' said Tony. ‘I'll save my film for Newcastle tomorrow.'

‘Newcastle?' Norton registered his surprise. ‘You going to Newcastle tomorrow?'

‘Yeah,' grunted Tony. ‘Got to take some photos of Mark Richards.' Then he went into one of his tirades. ‘But I gotta catch the fuckin' train. I got no fuckin' car. Got no fuckin' money. And I hate catching fuckin' trains, the cunts of fuckin' things never run on time. Fuck it. It'd give you the fuckin' shits.'

‘Hey, hang on a sec, Steelo,' smiled Les, remembering he owed Tony a few favours. ‘I'm going up the North Coast first thing tomorrow. I can drop you off at Newcastle. What time you got to be there?'

‘About nine-thirty.'

‘Well, come up with us. We're leaving at six-thirty.'

‘Fair dinkum?' Tony's eyes lit up. ‘Unfuckin'real.'

‘I got to pick a bloke up at the Cross at six-thirty, so I'll pick you up at six-fifteen. Where do you live?'

Tony pointed to a block of units just up the hill from the beach. ‘Those units there. Flat four.'

‘Okay. Be out the front at six-fifteen tomorrow.'

They stood there for a few more minutes watching the surfers but it started to get too cold for Les. Tony said he'd stay a while longer and he'd see Les in the morning. Norton said goodbye and emphasised to Tony not to be late.

Well, that's all right thought Les, as he cruised towards Bondi. At least I'll have someone to talk to for a while on the way up besides Lord Shitbags the Third. He'll probably be hungover and whingeing all the way up. Norton hadn't been given enough notice about the trip to get some tapes made up, but he called in to see his mate at Peach Music and bought a few new ones to listen to anyway. After perusing what was available, Les settled for some Divynls, Hunters and Collectors, Best of Richard Clapton, James Reyne and a few others. The cassette player in the car worked like a charm, and it was loud. Richard Clapton was thumping the daylights out of ‘Getting To The Heart Of It' and the speakers were almost breaking loose from the interior when Norton pulled up outside his Bondi semi, groceries in the back and tank full of petrol, at around four-thirty.

By seven he had everything he needed packed for the trip and had found time to make a big feed of steak and kidney for dinner. Warren was home from the advertising agency eating it with him while Les told him his plans for the next two weeks.

‘So, Woz, old buddy, old pal,' said Norton as they attacked the stew. ‘I'd get into this while you got the chance if I were you. 'Cause it's the only decent meal you'll be getting till I get back. For the next two weeks it's back to McDonalds and the Pizza Hut for you, old son.'

Warren smiled as he ate. Loath as he was to admit it, Les was right. Warren hated cooking and the big Queenslander could certainly cook up a good home style feed when it came to it. ‘Ohh, I dunno,' he said, forking up some more stew. ‘That Tom Piper stuff in the tins tastes pretty much the same as this.'

‘Good,' replied Les. ‘Well, get yourself a couple of dozen cans first thing tomorrow. It's on special this week at Flemings. Right next to the dog food.'

Warren smiled and conceded the point. ‘So, where are you going again?'

‘Just the other side of Coffs Harbour — some bloke's property. But if anybody asks you where I've gone, you don't know. Okay?'

‘Suit yourself,' shrugged Warren, adding a little more pepper and salt. ‘But why all the secrecy with this bloke anyway? I mean, what's the point? He's just had his dial splattered all over the
Telegraph
. Unless you haven't noticed, wally.'

‘I noticed it all right, you little shit. And don't think your cynical remarks and innuendoes at the breakfast table this morning didn't go unnoticed either.' Warren grinned straight at Les. ‘No,' continued Norton, ‘the poor bastard just had a nervous breakdown in England and I'm taking him up the bush for a bit of peace and quiet for a couple of weeks. Away from reporters and the rest of that shit.'

Warren's grin turned into a raucous laugh. ‘Nervous bloody breakdown,' he guffawed, ‘he looked all right in the paper this morning. I think the only nervous breakdown he had was when you showed him the spare room. I noticed you gave it a bit of a tidy up and took down my poster of Rodney Rude too.'

‘Yes. I certainly did my best,' sighed Norton. ‘I guess there's just no pleasing some cunts, is there?'

They finished dinner, then had a couple of cherry danishes Warren had brought home from one of his yuppie cake shops in Paddington. While Warren washed up, Les rang Eddie at the Sebel Town House and was surprised to hear that Peregrine had changed his mind about going out that night. Eddie would stay with him all night, Les needn't worry and he'd see him in the foyer at six-thirty sharp. What Norton didn't see, when he hung up, was Eddie sitting back on the turquoise lounge in the Sir Robert Helpmann suite, one eye on the TV down low, the other on the door with a chair propped under the handle and a third eye on Peregrine laying back on the bed eating a lobster, staring daggers at him and wanting desperately to go out somewhere, get drunk on champagne and do a bit of womanising. But Peregrine knew the only way he was going to get out that door was to go through Eddie, and he had more chance of getting through Turkish Customs with five kilos of hashish strapped to his head. Monday night in Sydney looked like being a very quiet one for Sir Peregrine Normanhurst III.

After the washing up, Les and Warren turned up the heater and watched a Clint Eastwood movie on Channel 10 in which
Dirty Harry once more swept the streets of San Francisco clean of machine gun-toting low life, armed only with a .357 Magnum and without wasting a single bullet. It was a freezing cold night, Les had to be up early, Warren was tired and they were both in bed before eleven. The last thing Norton did before he hit the sack was take the spark-plug leads out of his car, just in case there might be someone in Bondi desperate enough to want a '68 Ford sedan, the duco of which had never seen a chamois nor the interior a whisk-broom in the best part of a year.

T
UESDAY MORNING WAS
teeth-chatteringly cold when Norton got up at five-thirty and made some coffee and toasted sandwiches. There was no rain and not many clouds, but a bitter sou'wester was blowing — the kind that cracks your lips, freezes the back of your neck and makes your eyes and nose run. Thank Christ I'm getting out of this for a couple of weeks, he thought, as he tossed his gear in the back of the station wagon. He was out the front of Tony's flats at six-fifteen sharp, but no Tony. Then Norton remembered something. When it came to getting his arse into gear Tony Nathan moved about as fast as a tortoise towing a speedboat. He gave him a couple of minutes then started bipping the horn, little ones at first, then he just left his hand on it. Before long, windows were being flung open and a torrent of curses and abuse in about twenty different languages and accents was being directed at Norton. After a minute or two of this Steelo, wearing some sort of coloured Balinese jacket with his camera bag slung over his shoulder, came strolling nonchalantly down the side passage eating an apple. Acting as if he had all the time in the world, he ambled towards the car, quite oblivious to the avalanche of vituperation raining down from above and completely oblivious to Norton fuming in the station wagon.

‘Come on, fuck you,' cursed Norton as he reached the door.

‘Don't panic,' replied Tony casually. ‘We'll get there.'

‘Don't panic. Fair dinkum — you're like a fuckin' old moll. Get in the back too.'

Still taking his time, Steelo climbed in the back seat. He barely had time to find the seat belt, let alone put it on, before Norton spun the station wagon up Delview Street like he was doing a Le Mans start, sending Steelo, his camera gear and his apple sprawling all over the back seat.

‘Jesus fuckin' Christ,' sputtered Steelo. ‘What have you done? Just robbed a bank?'

‘In your arse Steelo, you prick.'

Steelo managed to retrieve his Johnathon. He was still chewing on it when they rocked to a halt outside the Sebel.

‘I
TRUST YOUR
brief stay with us was enjoyable, Sir Peregrine?' smiled the desk clerk as Peregrine settled his account.

‘Yes, quite — thank you,' he answered with a thin smile, trying to ignore Eddie's stare and the smirk planted across the little hit man's face.

‘And will there be a forwarding address, sir?'

‘There'll be no forwarding address,' cut in Eddie quickly. ‘After that unseemly incident in the bar, Sir Peregrine wants his privacy.'

‘I understand perfectly, sir,' smiled the desk clerk. ‘Well, enjoy your stay in Australia, Sir Peregrine.'

‘He will,' answered Eddie, winking at Peregrine's scowl. ‘I'll make sure of that.'

Eddie glanced at his watch: it was exactly six-thirty. At sixthirty and two seconds he was pleased to see Norton pull up out the front. He picked up the larger of Peregrine's bags and walked out of the foyer, motioning with his hand for Peregrine to stay where he was. After checking out the street like a fox sniffing the wind he nodded to Peregrine to join him.

‘How's things, Les?' he said, tossing Peregrine's bag in the back of the station wagon.