‘Eddie tells me you’ll be coming with us on Saturday night,’ said Les.
Perry nodded. ‘Yeah. I’ll be doing the driving.’ Then his phone rang again.
Further on it was houses and trams and Les noticed a long park on the left. ‘Is that Albert Park?’ he asked.
Perry shook his head. ‘No, Royal Park. That’s where the nuthouse is.’
‘Right,’ nodded Les.
Further on Les saw what looked like a bunch of hippies hanging around the front of a black and silver coffee shop. Perry said the university was just up the road. He pointed out an old cream and brown building as Melbourne Baths, then they were right in the centre of the CBD with its traffic and pedestrians. Perry swung into Collins Street and pulled up on the left outside a small lobby with a blue sign above saying SOUTHVILLE HOTEL.
‘Here you are,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’
Les got out of the car. Perry opened the boot and took out his suitcase.
‘I’ll see you on Saturday night, Les,’ he said.
‘Yeah. See you then, Perry.’
The limo drove off and a porter in a blue vest took Norton’s bag and details. Les perused Melbourne’s hustle and bustle for a moment, then followed the attendant into a small lobby with two lifts. Les took the lift to reception and stepped out facing the windows to a bar and restaurant; reception was down to the left. Les walked up and put his folder on the desk. A polite young lady in blue got him to sign in, gave Les his swipe card and told him his bag would be up shortly. Les walked to another two lifts a little further on the left and noticed the hotel was built around several storeys of shopping arcade. The light pinged, Les took the lift to the twelfth floor and stepped out, almost running into a blonde woman in a yellow skirt and jacket, who seemed to be lost. She looked left then turned right; Les checked the room numbers arrowed on the wall and started following her.
The way to his room seemed to go on forever, and a metre or so in front of him, Les could sense the woman in yellow getting nervous. They went left, then right, left again, took another right then followed a long, quiet, deserted corridor. Norton’s room was at the very end, the woman’s was next door. Les passed her and swiped his lock while the woman fumbled with hers.
‘I didn’t mean to frighten you,’ smiled Les. ‘But this is my room.’
‘Oh … that’s all right,’ said the woman, still trying to swipe her lock. ‘I wasn’t all that worried.’
Les caught her eye. She was around thirty, with a soft face, a thin nose, pouty red lips and green mascaraed eyes. ‘Well, you’re a better woman than I am, Gunga Din,’ said Les. ‘Because if I had a big ugly gorilla like me stalking me down a corridor, and no one around, I’d be absolutely shitting myself.’
The woman returned Norton’s smile then gave him a quick once up and down before he stepped into his room.
Norton’s softly lit room was quite nice. Blue carpet pushed against white walls and on the left a white bathroom faced a wardrobe with full-length mirrors. There was a bench table and TV opposite a queen-size bed with a blue douvet, and at the far end, a set of blue curtains were drawn across a window looking down on the arcade. Les tossed his overnight bag on the bed, got a mineral water from the bar fridge and checked out the in-house dining menu. He was thinking the beef tenderloin with Bernaise sauce didn’t sound too bad, when there was a knock on the door and his suitcase arrived. The porter placed it on a rack next to the wardrobe, Les thanked him, gave him two bucks and he left.
Les decided to have a beer while he unpacked. He took off his bomber jacket, got a can of VB from the bar fridge and was sipping it as he started hanging a few things up when there was another knock on the door. It was the woman he’d followed down the corridor. She still had her yellow skirt on, but she’d taken her jacket off and was wearing a thin, lacy white top, unbuttoned enough to show a nice pair of boobs tucked into a thin, lacy white bra.
‘Hello,’ said Les. ‘Is there something I can do for you?’
‘Yes,’ replied the woman. ‘I can’t seem to get my suitcase open. Could you please help me?’
‘Sure.’
Les took his swipe card and followed the woman into her room. It was identical to Norton’s except for a red carpet and a red douvet. Sitting on her bed was a brown suitcase the same size as his.
‘What’s your name?’ asked the woman.
‘Sonny,’ replied Les.
‘I’m Sonia.’
‘Nice to meet you, Sonia.’ Les ran his hand over the suitcase. ‘Where’s the key?’ he asked.
‘Here you are.’
Sonia handed Les a small key. Les clicked open the locks then ran the zipper around the sides and opened the suitcase. All Sonia’s clothes were packed neatly inside, and sitting on top was a huge pink vibrator shaped like a cock, with two stubby balls at one end under a black plug for the batteries.
‘Hello,’ said Les. ‘What’s this for? Protection? Shit, I’d hate to get hit over the head with it.’
‘No,’ smiled Sonia, turning to Les. ‘It’s for enjoyment. And I know where I like to get hit with it.’
‘Oh? And just where’s that?’ asked Les.
‘Right about here.’
Sonia lifted up her skirt to reveal she was wearing no knickers. Just a neatly trimmed ted like a tiny brown pine cone. Les gave it a double, triple blink and shook his head.
‘I don’t quite know what to say, Sonia,’ he smiled. ‘But from where I’m standing, that looks good enough to eat.’
‘Well what’s stopping you, Sonny?’ Sonia smiled back. ‘You’re not on a Jenny Craig diet, are you?’
‘Are you kidding?’ answered Les. ‘I’d give Henry the Eighth a run for his money.’
Les pushed Sonia’s suitcase off the bed, eased her back down on the douvet then buried his face in her business and went for it like a Rottweiler eating topside mince.
Sonia howled and shook and grabbed Les by the hair, pushing his face in harder. Les licked and sucked and it wasn’t long before Sonia’s gargling had turned Les on and Mr Wobbly wanted in on the action. Sonia spread her legs as wide as she could without dislocating her pelvis while Les undid his belt. Suddenly Sonia gave a squeal of rapture and emptied out into Norton’s face. Les came up for air, and before Sonia knew it Les had his fly undone and Mr Wobbly in her mouth. Sonia didn’t mind one bit and sucked Mr Wobbly hard enough to drain the marrow out of Norton’s bones. Sweat running down his face, Les slipped a pillow under Sonia’s behind then slipped Mr Wobbly in and started going for it. He figured Sonia had got her rocks off quick enough and now it was his turn. He gave a succession of solid thrusts, then stiffened his legs and emptied out in a panting, snorting blaze of glory. Sonia yelled some more, shook a few times then lay back on the douvet in a mess of damp hair and crumpled clothes. Well that was okay, thought Les, getting his breath back. Now, let’s see how this thing works.
Les reached down and got Sonia’s vibrator from her suitcase. A twist of the black plug at the end and it started pulsating smoothly in Norton’s hand. Les slipped it in between Sonia’s legs and started running it over her clit. Sonia closed her eyes and settled back against the pillows. Les zapped away for a while then slid the monster vibrator inside her. Sonia gave a little squeal of joy and Les started pumping away.
Sonia’s eyes began to flutter, her tongue lolled over her lips and her face twisted into a look of excruciating ecstasy. Les pumped the vibrator with great gusto before Sonia finally let go a scream loud enough to wake the dead and got her rocks off again. Les dropped the vibrator back in her suitcase, wiped Mr Wobbly on her skirt before tucking him back into his jeans then stood up, leaving Sonia lying on the bed looking like she’d been washed up on a beach.
‘Well, Sonia,’ he said, zipping up. ‘I might go back to my room and finish unpacking. If that’s all right with you.’
‘Unnhhh, ghhh. Okay.’
‘If you have any more problems with your suitcase, or anything else, you know w
here to find me. Just knock.’
‘All right Sonny,’ muttered Sonia, without opening her eyes.
‘Goodbye Sonia.’ Les bent down and gave her a kiss goodbye.
‘Bye Sonny.’
Les left her and let himself out.
Back in his air-conditioned room, the unfinished can of VB was still reasonably cold. Les downed it in one go and opened another. He had a mouthful, belched, then walked into the bathroom and splashed some water on his face before staring at himself in the mirror. What did Clover say after we read that old letter? She felt a sense of deja vu. The last time I was in Melbourne I wasn’t in my room five minutes and that motel owner — Mrs Bloody Perry — threw me up in the air. And if I remember right, she wasn’t wearing any fuckin knickers either. Les shook his head. Buggered if I know. He finished his beer, stripped off and got under the shower.
After he towelled off, Les put on a pair of blue cargoes, a Blues Festival T-shirt and his trainers. He stuck his Bugs Bunny cap on, dangled his sunglasses from off the neck of his T-shirt, then tossed his camera into his overnight bag and took the lift to reception and the other lift to the lobby. Outside it was still oppressively hot. Les was going to catch a taxi but decided on a tram. He turned to a porter standing just outside the lobby.
‘Hey mate! How do I get a tram to Brunswick Street, Fitzroy?’
The porter pointed to a tram stop in the middle of the road. ‘Over there. Take the 112. I think there’s one coming now.’
‘Thanks mate.’
Les jogged across the road as the tram pulled up and climbed aboard a side door. The tram lurched off as he grabbed for a strap only to land against a ticket machine dotted with coloured numbers and directions. After he regained his balance, Les looked blankly at the machine before pushing two dollars in a slot and pressing a button marked Section Two. He took his ticket and while he was strap hanging, watched the people fanning themselves with newspapers. That’s another bloody thing, thought Les, the last time I was in Melbourne, it was bloody hot like this too. The tram swayed up Collins Street, angled around further on, then swung left into a wide thoroughfare flanked with side streets.
The busy road was full of brightly coloured clothing shops, record stores, coffee lounges, restaurants, bars and whatever. On one corner stood a drab-looking hotel and Les noticed a bar with flames on the window called The Bar With No Name. The street had an old-world charm about it and reminded Les of King Street, Newtown and Oxford Street, Paddington. He watched the numbers on the shop fronts, then alighted near a record store. The Obelisk Bookshop was back a little from a side street on the left, between a clothes store and a bottle shop. It had a blue-tiled front, purple doors and a white awning, and on either side of the front door were two large windows piled with books. A sign in one window said THE OBELISK BOOKSHOP. In the other, SECOND-HAND, OLD & RARE BOOKS. Les had a quick look at some of the titles and stepped inside.
The bookshop was deceptively big, with blue carpet, wood-panelled walls and high ceilings. Around the walls were rows and rows of ancient hardbacks and in the middle were tables full of books, surrounded by glass cabinets crammed with more old hardbacks. A doorway down to the left opened into another room and there was another room behind that. Just inside the door on the left was the counter and on the wall behind hung a framed print by Rosa-Marie Norton. Seated at a computer in a corner was a portly man with a young face and untidy dark hair. He was wearing a maroon shirt over a red T-shirt and as Les approached the counter, he looked up and smiled.
‘Yes. Can I help you?’
‘Are you Kenneth Raymond?’ asked Les.
‘That’s me,’ replied the owner.
‘My name’s Les Norton. I rang you from Sydney.’
‘Oh yes. About the book on Rosa-Marie Norton. I have it right here.’
‘Good on you,’ said Les.
As the owner rummaged under the counter for the book, Les noticed a rack of Rosa-Marie Norton postcards. He picked out four and placed them on the counter.
‘There you are,’ said the owner, placing Norton’s book on the counter.
‘Unreal,’ said Les, having a quick look. ‘I’ll take these postcards too.’
‘No worries.’
‘I’m Les anyway,’ said Les, offering his hand.
The owner shook Norton’s hand. ‘Ken.’
‘Nice to meet you, Ken.’ Les watched as the owner put the postcards and book in a plastic bag. ‘So you’re an expert on Rosa-Marie, Ken.’
‘Not really an expert,’ replied the owner. ‘But I’ve always admired her art. And I’ve almost finished a longer, more detailed biography on her.’
‘Fair dinkum?’ said Les. ‘I enjoyed the book you’ve already done. Actually I borrowed it from a library. And I had to get one for myself.’
‘Thanks. Though it really doesn’t do her justice,’ said Ken.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Les lightly. ‘But she certainly was something else.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Ken. ‘She certainly was. So how did you find yourself interested in Rosa-Marie?’
‘Through the name at first,’ smiled Les. ‘Plus I work in Kings Cross and I’ve read a few articles about her. I’ve never seen any of her paintings though.’
‘No. Most of them are in private collections,’ said Ken.
Les handed the owner his Visa card. ‘Ken. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’
‘No. Not at all.’
‘Rosa-Marie sold some paintings to a bishop. Is that right?’
‘Yes. Bishop Thomas Elsworthy of Prahran. He bought them to show his parishioners exactly what the devil’s work was all about. Then he threw them in the Yarra.’
‘Was there ever any mention of a priest? Father Bernard Shipley? From Lorne?’
Ken shook his head. ‘Not that I know of.’
‘Okay,’ said Les. ‘Ken. You know when they were going to burn her paintings that time?’
‘Yes. I certainly do.’
‘I read where three of them went missing.’
Ken looked surprised. ‘If they did, it’s news to me. Where did you read that, Les?’
‘Oh, just an article in a little paper up the Cross,’ replied Les.
Ken shook his head. ‘I doubt it. But if it is true, you’d never know. The police and the authorities at the time would never admit it.’
‘Yeah, right,’ nodded Les. ‘Shit! She had some dramas with the police, didn’t she? Especially a Detective McBride. Why was that?’
‘Mainly because Rosa was considered a threat to the conservative establishment at the time,’ said Ken. ‘But McBride was high up in the vice squad and just hated Rosa and all her friends. He came to her house one morning with a warrant and Rosa was upstairs in the bathroom. She looked out to see who it was, and emptied a chamber pot over him.’
‘She what?’ said Les. ‘Emptied a piss pot over him?’
‘That’s right. And when they charged her with assault police, she beat it. She said she was about to flush the contents. And when she looked out the window to see who it was downstairs, the po accidentally slipped on the sill.’
‘She sounds like my kind of woman,’ chuckled Les.
‘She was something else all right,’ said Ken. ‘There was an American artist called Jacques San,’ he continued.
‘Yeah. Who was he?’ asked Les.
‘No one knew for sure,’ said Ken. ‘He wasn’t in Australia long and claimed he was from New York. But he was an awful drunk and totally in love with Rosa-Marie. He grabbed a carving knife at one of her wild parties one night and threatened Rosa with it, yelling he was Jacques the Ripper.’
‘Jacques the Ripper?’ said Les.
‘Rosa hit him over the head with a bottle,’ laughed Ken. ‘Took the knife off him and said, “No you’re not. You’re Jacques the Dribbler. Now fuck off.” And he did. Back to America with all his paintings. Broken-hearted.’
‘Fair dinkum? You said in your book, though, she had a way with men,’ said
Les.
‘They absolutely fell at her feet, Les,’ replied Ken.
‘Would you know who two artists were, Ken, called Normo and Dobbo?’ asked Les.
Ken thought for a moment. ‘Can’t say I do,’ he replied. ‘There was a coffee shop in Kings Cross called The Dobruja, that hung some of Rosa’s paintings. Rosa and her friends used to call it “Dob’s” for short. But I don’t know of any artists by that name. Though Rosa would have known scores of artists that just came and went.’
‘And she never mentioned a Father Shipley?’
‘No. Not to my knowledge.’
‘She had an exhibition in Melbourne, too,’ said Les.
‘Yes,’ said Ken. ‘It was an absolute disaster. Christ! She thought she had troubles in Sydney. They almost burnt her at the stake down here. She had the absolute audacity to show a woman’s pubic hair in her paintings.’
‘How disgraceful,’ chided Les. ‘And what happened when it folded?’
‘Rosa just disappeared. Till she was arrested in Apollo Bay.’
‘Yeah. For pissing in the street.’
‘Actually, she collapsed and wet herself,’ said Ken. ‘But being who she was, they charged her with drunk and disorderly. There was a lot of rubbish written about her.’
‘What was she doing in Apollo Bay?’ asked Les.
‘Probably staying with some old school friends and getting away from everything after what happened in Melbourne. She went to school in Apollo Bay where her father worked for a company laying telegraph cables. He was an engineer.’
‘Right,’ Les nodded slowly. ‘And not long after that she fell out of a tram in Sydney and broke her neck.’
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