There were plenty of trees and streetlights, but no footpaths. However, the walk down was virtually turn right a couple of hundred metres up from Price’s house, turn left, then right again; except the last turn right went down a hill that would challenge a mountain goat. It was shorter than the other road that went past the North Avoca turn-off and Les had zoomed up it earlier in the Berlina. But coming back later with a further gutful of booze wouldn’t be a great deal of fun if there were no taxis around. Ahh, who gives a stuff? thought Les. The exercise’ll work some of the piss out of me and how good’s this fresh air, and what about the view from up here? Ambling down the hill, Les could see the lights of the hotel and parts of Terrigal village, lights from the houses all along Wamberal Beach, the vast, inky expanse of the ocean, the forested darkness of the surrounding hills and the steep, rugged headlands around Forrester’s Beach further along the coast. The sky was still full of stars, there was hardly any traffic and the breeze coming in from the ocean was sweet and clean. A dog gave a couple of barks from some house as Norton proceeded down the hill. He passed a grove of trees on his left, the church, some shops and a hardware store that was closing down on his right and next thing Terrigal Pines Resort loomed up in front of him. Will I have a look in the beer garden? mused Les. No, bugger it. Straight up to this Baron Riley Bar for a cocktail. Like he still had the momentum of the hill behind him, Les angled right at the hardware store, zoomed directly across the road from the post office, past the flowerbeds and pine trees around the driveway, straight through the revolving door into the foyer.
Inside was all bright and roomy with a high ceiling, plush leather lounges, Chinese motifs on the wall and various other prints and paintings. A bank of lifts sat next to the revolving door and across the foyer a wide set of green carpeted stairs half spiralled to the next floor. Les took the stairs and came out near some marble columns and two restaurants. Between them a pair of high, wooden, inlaid-glass doors opened to the Baron Riley Bar; Les walked straight in again. It, too, was bright with high ceilings, polished wooden floors and more thick columns as you entered surrounded by indoor palms. Round tables with wicker chairs separated the bar on your left and a piano on the right with another restaurant glassed off below that. Another lounge squared off with a wood-topped green railing, full of comfortable sofas and small tables with a bookcase and paintings on the walls was set above the piano in front of a passageway with a long, wooden table and prints of old sailing ships on the wall that ran along to another lounge area at the back. The whole place was very elegant and swish and built to take advantage of the beautiful ocean view outside and more than likely boomed on the weekends and the tourist season. Tonight, however, there was about a dozen or so people in there counting Les, the piano player and the three girls in dark green trousers and red paisley vests working the bar. Oh well, thought Norton, it’s only a Wednesday night. And there might be some punters in the disco. Right now, after that back-breaking walk down, I’m in dire need of a cocktail. The bar was in three sections. One faced the piano, another the door and the other the swimming pool outside shining in the moonlight. Les chose a bar stool facing the doorway and picked up the cocktail list. A minute or two later a young girl with neat, dark hair and a pretty, almost pixie kind of face came over.
‘Yes, sir. What can I get you?’ she smiled.
Norton perused the cocktail list again then placed it on the bar. ‘Yeah, I’ll have a Chocolate Surprise, please.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
The girl shuffled around behind the bar, a blender whirled and before he knew it, Norton had what looked like a chocolate milkshake spliced with strawberries sitting in front of him, only with a lot more kick. After paying the girl, Les took another mouthful and checked out the punters. There was a skinny girl in a white shirt and black vest seated round the corner who looked like kd lang, a couple two stools up staring into each other’s eyes while they smoked their heads off, one or two more couples and half-a-dozen mixed shapes and sizes at a table near the piano player who could have been his friends. The piano player had thick brown hair over a salt-and-pepper beard and was crooning old Cole Porter and Ira Gershwin classics in a white tuxedo. He had a good voice and was an excellent pianist, but every now and again he’d slip in his own version of the lyrics. At the moment he was singing ‘Don’t Get Around Much Any More’, only it was coming out:
‘Bonked my girlfriend last night
Shot all over the floor
Cleaned it up with my toothbrush
Don’t clean my teeth much any more.’
It went over kd lang’s and the couple’s heads. But the mixed shapes lapped it up, along with the staff and Norton. That finished, then it was ‘These Foolish Things’.
‘Two shades of lipstick on an old French letter
A case of syphilis that just won’t get better
And when I piss it stings
These foolish things
Remind me of you.’
Norton chortled away and finished his milkshake. It was lovely and tasty, but all the cream and liqueurs made you thirsty. He caught the same girl’s eye and she came over.
Les looked at her for a moment and thought; why not? I’m just a tourist in town. ‘I’ll have a bottle of Corona and a stinger, thanks.’
‘Certainly, sir. Lime in the Corona?’
‘Yes, please.’
Norton hoofed the stinger down in two belts followed by a third of the Corona. Bloody hell, he grimaced, when his eyes stopped spinning and the beer washed away the taste of creme de menthe. No wonder bloody Mitzi date-raped me back in Hawaii. She had about fifty of those rotten things. He took another sip of beer and decided to have a look out the back; there wasn’t much chance of him losing his stool.
It was more comfortable lounges and colonial furniture. There was a large fireplace, a bookcase, more paintings on the walls and long high windows overlooking the beer garden and the ocean. There weren’t many people in the beer garden and only about eight in the lounge counting Les; four young girls and over to his right, two po-faced women about fifty were talking to a dark-haired girl facing them, who was wearing a denim jacket. Les couldn’t see her face, but for some reason the hair looked familiar. He stood there for a minute or two sipping his beer and while he checked out one of the paintings he seemed to get this feeling of eyes watching him from a reflection in a window. Well, this is all very nice, but I want some ak-shun-Iwanna-live. Norton finished his beer, placed the bottle on the nearest table and left down the stairs, the same way he came in.
The disco was round the corner from the revolving door, past a brass railing and some shops. It was a black-and-silver door and windows and a black-andsilver sign saying QUAY WEST NITE CLUB. Standing just inside the door near the counter, a lounge and some potted palms was a tired-looking doorman in black and white who looked more pudding than condition. It was five bucks entry. Les pulled out some money and went to pay the equally tired-looking girl at the counter when the doorman came over.
‘Sorry, mate. I can’t let you in.’
‘Can’t let me in?’ Norton gave the doorman a boozy double blink. ‘Why? What have I done?’
‘You gotta have a collar on your shirt.’
‘A collar on my shirt?’ Les couldn’t believe it. The shirt was a Preswick and Moore Susie had brought back from Melbourne for him as a present for looking after the flat and giving him the arse at the same time. It was pure Toorak Road, South Yarra, and cost $175. Even if Side Valve probably stole it. Norton looked the doorman right in the eye. ‘I’ll bet you’re a good local boy, aren’t you?’ You could hear the wooden cogs inside the doorman’s head go round as he grunted and nodded something at the same time. ‘Yeah, and you’ve lived here all your life. Well, there’s this new style out. Not T-shirts. Just good cotton or linen shirts with no collars. They’re sometimes called grandpa shirts.’
‘That’s what I said, mate,’ droned the doorman. ‘You gotta have a collar on your shirt to get in.’
He was dumb, but polite.
After walking all the way down the hill, Norton wasn’t particularly in the mood for being dicked around for no reason. He was ready to tell the doorman to get stuffed, throw his five dollars on the counter and go in and if the doorman wanted him out he could try; and any of his mates, too. Les was about to make a move when a half dapper-looking bloke in a grey suit with a name tag walked in the door.
‘Hey, mate,’ said Les. ‘Are you the boss here?’
‘Yes, I’m the night manager.’
‘Well, what’s all this “I can’t get in without a collar on my shirt”? Where do you think I got this? Out of the church bin across the road? Besides that, I’ve just spent a fortune in the restaurant upstairs with some people who are guests here. And I happen to be a doctor.’
‘That’s quite all right, sir. Don’t worry about it.’ Grey Suit made a gesture and looked tiredly at the doorman. ‘Brian, next time, try and use some discretion, will you?’
‘Use some what?’
Norton leant over and put his face about two inches away from the doorman’s. ‘What he’s talking is brains, Brian. If you don’t know what that means, look it up in a dictionary. You’ll find it between arsehole and cunt.’ Les smiled thinly, paid his five dollars and walked inside.
There was a passageway, then the gents and ladies on your left near an alcove leading to a fire exit. The dance floor was on your right, a raised area behind that, then the DJ’s stand above another fire exit opposite. Pillars, stools and tables led to the bar at the rear and some steps led to another lounge area against the wall on the right. It was all black and silver with chrome railings. Soft lights, spinning laser balls and TV screens above the dance floor. House music and FUCKIN’ LOUD. Norton walked straight into ‘Kiss Your Lipps’ by Tokyo Ghetto Pussy at warp ten and besides almost making his gums bleed, it nearly blew his head off. Christ almighty! What was that? Like a terrorist who’d just been hit by a stun grenade, Les made it to the bar where, even though it was a little quieter, he had still had to yell to get a Bacardi and orange. He got that and peered around through the cigarette haze. There were about forty or so people in there, including a handful of Asquith Annies and Roseville Rogers flopping around on the dance floor trying to look hip and bored at the same time. Perched behind a perspex barrier was the ponytailed DJ in a black vest and, of all things, a white T-shirt. He had this gaunt, crazed look on his face as if, seeing it was the last Wednesday night and there weren’t many in the place, he’d drive the ones that were there either mad or out the door with this full-on, esoteric, techno-cyberbeat. He slipped into ‘You Belong to Me’ by JX, and Norton felt as if all the fillings in his teeth were going to fall out. Shit! I can’t see myself lasting too long in here, he blinked, when once again he felt like someone was looking at him and this time it wasn’t a reflection.
Les couldn’t quite believe it. It was a detective he knew from Maroubra. A stocky, red-headed bloke something like himself, in a white polo shirt and jeans standing near the cigarette machine in the corner with another solid, dark-haired bloke and two blondes. He was a mate of the cop Les knew in Forensics, a bloke called Mick Les had met when he was out from Hawaii. Actually he walked into the station when Les was getting questioned over his old ute and smoothed things over. The look on the cop’s face was pretty much the same as Norton’s. A half-concealed smile combined with, ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ Only one way to find out, thought Les, and strolled over, quietly and casually, not shoving his hand out, just in case he might have been on a job.
‘Well, Steve, what can I say?’
‘I know exactly what you mean, Les, so I’ll go first. What the fuck are you doing here?’
‘I’m staying at Price’s place for a week.’ Apart from George’s nephew Les told the detective pretty much what he was up to. ‘And so far, apart from nearly getting my ear-drums shattered in here, it’s been pretty good.’
‘Yeah, I know what you mean,’ agreed Steve the detective, as the DJ cranked the volume up another couple of notches.
Norton edged a little closer. ‘So what’s your story, Steve? What are you up to?’ Steve seemed a bit hesitant. ‘I know. You don’t have to tell me. It’s drugs, isn’t it? It’s always drugs. There’s a cripple in a wheelchair with two dope plants in her backyard. Like that one down in Wollongong. Your mates in the TRG and you’re both going round to bust her and punch the shit out of her.’
‘Ohh, get fucked will you, Les.’
Norton shook his head. ‘Tch-tch-tch. Isn’t that terrible language to use on a member of the public? No wonder we all hate you.’
‘You’re a big shit-stirring cunt.’ But there was something in Norton’s cheeky banter that got Steve. It could have been pride. It could have been being half drunk. ‘As a matter of fact it’s not drugs for a change, thank Christ! We’re after a box of machine guns.’
‘Machine guns?’
‘Yeah, about half-a-dozen CAM-STAT X-911s from America. And a thousand spaghetti bullets.’
‘What?’
‘Teflon-coated things. They burst inside and shred up all your stomach. Like spaghetti.’
‘Sounds nice.’
‘Yeah, just great. We got to get them before this bikie gang does. The bloke I’m with’s in the Feds. We’re off to Newcastle tomorrow.’
Norton thought it might be good manners to change the subject. He’d had a bit of a dig and only proved that good cops do have a prick of a job at times. And Steve was one of the good ones. ‘And is that how you met the two lovelies?’
Steve winked. ‘Reckon. And in course of duty, too, I might add.’
‘Of course, Steve. And half your luck, mate. They’re not bad sorts.’
‘Yeah. We just had dinner with them. They live at Green Point or something.’
Norton was about to say something when Steve’s mate tapped him on the shoulder. They had a quick conversation with the two girls then Steve turned back to Norton.
‘We got to get going, Les. I’ll probably bump you back in Sydney.’
‘Okay, mate. Look after yourself.’ They exchanged a quick, firm handshake. ‘And Steve, just remember the old saying.’
‘What’s that?’
‘If you’re gonna pull a scam, watch the video-cam.’
‘Thanks, Les, I will. You cunt.’
Steve gave a bit of a wave and they were gone, leaving Norton on his own again. He strolled absently towards the dance floor straight into ‘Right Kind of Mood’ by Herbie. He finished his drink as the music battered him back to the bar. He ordered another drink then turned around and got battered by ‘Forever Young’ by Interactive. What the fuck’s going on? grimaced Norton. This is diabolical. Norton felt concussed. It was as if someone was belting him over the head with a piece of downpipe and if the music had gone any faster they would have started going back in time. It’s me. It has to be me. I’m turning into an old fart, a square. But looking around it wasn’t only Les. Everybody in the place looked like they’d had enough too; including a couple of Asquith Annies shuffling listlessly around on the dance floor with their bottles of mineral water. The DJ had won the night. He’d beaten them all into the ground. Or the floor.
I don’t know what it is, cursed Norton, but this ain’t fuckin’ me. He gulped down the last of his Bacardi and fled out the door into the foyer where two teeny boppers were lying on the lounge, exhausted, in front of the same doorman. Norton walked up and put his face about two inches away from the doorman’s again.
‘Why didn’t you kick me out earlier when I told you to, you fuckin’ imbecile,’ he screamed. ‘Thanks heaps, you hillbilly.’
With his head still reeling and his hearing half shot, Norton left the doorman blinking and spun out the front towards the main door. He didn’t know where he was going. Anywhere into the night to try and clear his head. There were two couples waiting for taxis in front of the revolving door as well as a girl standing on her own. Les stopped suddenly, almost bumping into h
er, his face still a mask of shock, horror and bewilderment.
‘Christ almighty, that music. Sorry.’
The girl half smiled. ‘You’ve been in the disco.’
‘Yeah, I think that’s what it was. Bloody hell! The Ukrainians wouldn’t have shoved the Jews in there.’
Still half numbed from the neck up, Les stepped over in front of the shops and tried to clear his head. After a few moments his brain started to settle when he noticed another reflection in a window, turned around and pointed.
‘You’re not the—?’
‘That’s right. I live next door. I saw you upstairs earlier.’
Norton nodded. ‘Yeah. I’m … up here for a week,’ he replied absently and then looked at the girl for a moment or two. ‘Anyway, I’m Les.’
The girl looked at Norton for a moment or two also, then took the offer of his outstretched hand. ‘Caroline.’
‘Hello, Caroline. Nice to meet you.’
Caroline ponged a bit of wine, but she wasn’t too bad a sort tucked tightly into a denim top, white Tshirt, jeans and gym-boots. Her face was attractive enough with a small, plump mouth and nice teeth. But she had the strangest eyes; narrow and lidded and an intense violet blue that almost seemed to radiate in the soft, surrounding lights of the hotel.
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