It was delightful down by the cabana with the afternoon sun still streaming down while the birds sang to each other in the surrounding trees. As Les was breaststroking a few laps he found himself smiling and thinking about George’s nephew. You couldn’t help but like him. He had a ton of style, didn’t mind a joke and if you wanted to get clever with him he gave as good as he got; plus, for his size he was pretty willing. The little prick was up to something, there was no two ways about that. But if Jimmy was trying to hustle up a few dollars while he was out good luck to him; and if there wasn’t too much heavy shit involved he might even give him a hand. All the things Les wanted to ask him he’d leave till the weekend was over and they were sitting around the house with nothing to do. And there was plenty he wanted to know. George’s nephew was an intriguing little bloke. It’s funny though, thought Les, as he pushed himself off the end of the pool and started backstroking for a while. If I had a nephew as sharp as him I’d bring him down to Sydney, kick a few dollars in and start him up in some kind of business. Still, maybe he just likes it up here on the Central Coast. Norton spurted a mouthful of water up towards the clouds, the sky and the trees. Can’t say I blame him.
Les finished his swim, then sat around and read his book till the sun started to go down and the first of the mosquitoes arrived. He had a shower and a shave, changed into his blue tracksuit pants and a plain grey sweatshirt, then walked into the kitchen and got a glass of water. Jimmy walked in about five minutes later wearing a triple-tone green Sergio Tranchetti tracksuit and white Fila trainers.
‘So how are you feeling now, Sticks?’ asked Norton.
‘Pretty good, big Les.’ Jimmy opened the fridge and poured himself a glass of milk. ‘What about you?’
‘Good.’ Les gave Jimmy a quizzical smile over his glass of water. ‘So, where is it you’re taking me, James?’
Jimmy smiled back over his glass of milk. ‘You reckon you like country music. We’re going linedancing.’
‘Linedancing?’
‘Yeah. You ever been?’
Norton shook his head. ‘No, can’t say I have.’
‘Well, now’s your big chance, cowboy.’
‘Shouldn’t we be wearing R. M. Williams boots and ten-gallon hats? We look more like we’re going to do a Claudia Schiffer workout.’
‘These are only lessons. And I want to catch up with a few old friends.’
Old friends, mused Norton? I thought he said he didn’t have any? ‘Okay, fair enough.’
Jimmy finished his glass of milk. ‘Well, come on, Gina Jeffreys. Let’s get cracking.’
‘Righto. Bootscootin’ it is.’
They rinsed their glasses in the sink and walked out to the car.
The drive didn’t take long. Brooks and Dunn belting out ‘Momma Don’t Get Dressed Up For Nothing’ had barely faded into Long John Hunter doing ‘Evil Ways’ when Jimmy told Les to turn left at the Avoca Beach roundabout. A few hundred metres or so on the right they cruised past a long, low building with gardens out the front round a flagpole and a sign above saying AVOCA BEACH MEMORIAL CLUB. A TOW of windows faced the roadway and in the light behind Les could see people playing the pokies or sitting around while they sucked on their middies, schooners or whatever. Jimmy told Les to turn right at a street running along the side of the club where he found an empty spot amongst a row of cars angle-parked to the kerb. After Les zapped the car doors they walked down to a pathway leading to the main entrance and straight in through a pair of double glass doors. A corridor on the right angled off to the bar and main lounge. There was an office on the left and ahead was a large room with a dark-haired woman about forty wearing jeans and a loose white shirt seated at a table by the entrance collecting the money. As soon as she saw Jimmy, a big, happy smile spread over her face.
‘Hello, Jimmy,’ she beamed. ‘How are you, love? Haven’t seen you for a while.’
‘Yeah, I’ve been on holidays. How are you, Edna?’
‘Good.’ Edna’s voice dropped an octave or two. ‘Especially when I see you, Jimmy.’
Jimmy blew her a kiss. Les paid her and followed Jimmy through the door.
Inside, about fifty or so people, mainly women, were seated at chairs and tables round the walls hung with honour rolls, a portrait of the Queen and other RSL bric-a-brac. In a corner at the far end was a closed-up bar and at the opposite end near the door was a stage with the toilets in the corner next to it. Most of the women ranged from forty to sixty with a few younger ones and a handful of blokes in their late thirties or early forties and a few teenagers, but not many. Nearly everyone wore jeans and T-shirts and elastic-sided boots, with the odd vest and a few hangout shirts. Les and Jimmy were definitely the only ones wearing tracksuits. A lot of the women reminded Les of ‘The Golden Girls’ on TV and the way they were all sitting around nattering happily he figured that as well as getting in a bit of bootscooting, they caught up with the local gossip over a few drinks with their friends and neighbours. Whatever and whoever they were, it seemed to be a friendly little scene and they all smiled and waved when Jimmy walked in.
‘Well, what do you reckon?’ said Jimmy, as they sat down at an empty table not far from the corner near the gents.
‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Les. ‘It looks all right so far. Wish I’d worn a pair of jeans, though.’
Just as Norton said that the instructor got up on stage and took hold of a microphone with a long lead behind him. He was tall with thick, dark hair wearing black jeans, R. M. Williams boots and a black Lee Kemaghan T-shirt.
‘Righto,’ said the instructor, ‘s’pose we may as well get started.’
He’d no sooner spoken when there was a stampede onto the dance floor and everybody, including Jimmy, formed up lines and picked out their favourite spots on the floor. Les found himself in a line four back from the stage, between two golden girls wearing jeans and white T-shirts with ‘Memorial Club Bootscooters’ on the back.
‘All right,’ said the instructor, untangling himself from the lead, ‘we’ll start off with the Honky Tonk Stomp, which is two right fans, two right heels forward and two right toes behind.’
Les watched the bloke as best he could from where he was and watched the people around him while they went through it a couple of times to the sounds of people stomping and shuffling their feet on the floor. The instructor went on with something about frieze left, right, left with a 180-degree turn left and hitch right to more shuffling and stomping. Then something about hitch left, frieze right, two right stomps or whatever and they started again.
‘Okay, youse all got that?’ said the instructor.
There was an avid chorus of ‘yes’ before Norton had a chance to say no and the instructor said, ‘Righto, let’s try it to some music.’ He flicked to a track on the CD player—‘Honky Tonk Man’ by Dwight Yoakam burst out of some overhead speakers and away they all went.
There was only one word to describe Norton’s first attempt at linedancing. Horrible. No matter what he did, or how hard he concentrated, Les just couldn’t get it together. There were only about two dozen steps to the song, then stomp your foot and start again. But Les couldn’t figure out when. It was like there were a hundred steps to remember and he was trying to divide it by four left feet; and to make matters worse, the golden girls around him with their blue rinse hairstyles and sensible boots glided around the floor like they were the queens of Memphis. Jimmy was there, too. Les stole a quick glance over at him and Jimmy was bootin’ and scootin’ around the floor with his thumbs hooked in the front of his tracksuit pants as if he’d grown up in Texas. He even bent his knees and dipped his shoulders and did it with attitude. Naturally there were a few on the floor that weren’t too crash hot, but no one was down at Norton’s level. The track finished, the instructor pressed the repeat button and before Les had a chance to work out which way he was facing they were all off for the second round. The only saving grace for Les was that nobody gave a shit how good or bad you were. Everyone was ha
ving too much serious fun enjoying themselves and the music to worry.
‘Righto,’ said the instructor, when the track finished for the second time. ‘Youse’ve got that together. Now let’s do the Bartender Stomp. And that starts with a frieze right and scuff your left foot. Then frieze left and tap your right foot next to your left. You got that?’
‘Yeaaahhh,’ chorused everybody on the floor.
Everybody except Norton. His mind screamed, ‘No!’ But it made no difference. They went through the steps twice, then the instructor hit the CD player and ‘Baby Likes to Rock It’ by The Tractors started pumping out of the speakers and away they all went again.
‘Jeez, youse are getting good,’ said the instructor when they finished. ‘You must be practising somewhere else.’
Yeah, bloody terrific, thought Les. Now to add to his woe he could feel rivulets of sweat running down his face, around his neck, then down his chest and back.
‘Okay,’ came the voice on stage. ‘Now let’s do the Chattahoochie. And that starts with a swivel heels left, centre, left, centre. Step right back forty-five degrees, left together and clap.’
Christ! This bloke’s kidding, thought Les, after they went through the routine twice. There must be two hundred steps. Who does he think I am? James fuckin’ Brown? Les was still trying to work out how he was going to jump out and jump his right foot in front of his left then swivel on the balls of his feet when the instructor hit the CD button and ‘Chattahoochie’ by Alan Jackson started twanging out from the speakers. Les bloomphed, clumsied and perspired around till mercifully the instructor called a halt.
‘Righto, let’s have a drink of water or whatever.’
Les went back to their table, sat down and wiped the sweat from his eyes, leaving Jimmy on the dance floor chatting to some women before he came over.
‘So, how’s it going, Gina?’
Les smiled up at him through sweat-filled eyes. ‘I think I’m getting it. I’m not buggered or nothing. But Christ! Talk about sweat—it must be trying to concentrate on all those steps.’
‘I can dig that, Les. Concentrating wouldn’t be your go at the best of times.’ Jimmy gave Les a slap on the shoulder. ‘But don’t sweat it, baby. If anyone asks, just tell ’em Diamond Les was in town.’
‘What do you mean?’
Jimmy pointed to the dance floor. Where Les had been standing in the line was a trail of sweat drops in the rough shape of a diamond. ‘Ohh shit!’
‘Like I said, Les, don’t sweat it.’ Jimmy took a glance at the Hermes Captain Nemo on his wrist. ‘I’m going to talk to some friends, then we’ll give it another hour and split, okay?’
‘You’re the boss, James.’
Jimmy walked over, sat down and started talking to a table full of women as some other women drew chairs up around him. Les went into the gents, had a long drink of water and wiped as much sweat off as he could with paper towels. He came out just in time to get his backside down then straight up again for another stampede onto the floor to find his place in line.
‘Righto,’ said the instructor. ‘Youse are all looking pretty good from up here. This time we’ll do the Linda Lu.’
The instructor ran everyone through the steps twice and away they went again. Les flopped around the dance floor leaving another diamond-shaped trail of sweat in his wake plus a couple of right-angled triangles too. A few people dropped out. But Les persevered and despite sweating like a pig and clumping around like a dinosaur with a club foot was actually starting to get the hang of it by the end of the second session; at least he could tell the difference between two buttermilks, a slap right behind and a forty-five twist step. The instructor called time off for a drink. Les gulped down some more water, wiped away more sweat and sat down again just as Jimmy came over.
‘I was watching you during the last one, dude. You’re almost getting the knack of it.’
‘That’s me, baby,’ replied Norton. ‘I’m a regular redneck daddy.’
‘Yep. You’ve got your wheels spinnin’ and the pussy grinnin’. Anyway, it’s time to go.’
‘Suits me. Back to the house first?’
‘Yep.’
‘Then where?’
‘I’ll tell you when we get there.’
‘Okay, let’s vanish.’
Les stood up and headed for the door, Jimmy waved goodbye and blew kisses to the golden girls like Liberace walking off stage at The Sands in Las Vegas, then they walked out to the car. As he opened the doors, Les noticed the lights alongside the club had picked up a few wisps of steam coming from his arms and neck whereas Jimmy hadn’t even raised a sweat. So he thought it might be an idea if he kept his big mouth shut or Jimmy would bury him. Except for the stereo in the car they drove back to Price’s house pretty much in silence. When they got there, Les headed straight for the kitchen and the fresh chilled orange juice. So did Jimmy. Les poured two tall glasses, handed one to Jimmy, then gulped down half of his.
‘Well, here’s to bootscootin’, Jimmy. That was fun.’
‘I thought you’d like it once you got the idea.’
‘In fact, I might even back up again next week.’
‘Good on you, Gina. Who was it said white men can’t dance? Or is it jump?’
Les looked at Jimmy for a moment then put his orange juice on the sink. ‘Hey, before I forget—I got something for you.’ Norton went to his room and came back with a wad of notes which he handed to Jimmy. ‘Price gave me a stack of money to look after you with before I left. I can’t see me spending it all, so there’s five hundred there—more if you want it.’
Jimmy looked at the money and slipped it in his pocket. ‘Thanks, Les.’ Then he looked at Norton for a moment also. ‘And I just might have something for you too.’ He went downstairs and came back with a vest on a coathanger.
It was the most unusual and original vest Norton had ever seen. Beautiful, soft brown leather cut in a ‘V’ pattern down the front and sides, the rest was all cut from faded blue jeans. But whoever made it had cut the pockets from the fronts of the jeans to form pockets in the front of the vest and the back pockets of the jeans with the monograms on them to somehow form the back of the vest. Four shiny brass studs ran down the front, the lining was blue silk with more pockets inside. Les had never seen anything like it in Sydney and if he had it would have cost an arm and a leg.
‘Shit! Where did you get that, Jimmy?’
‘Off a bloke up here who makes them.’
‘Christ! He must be a genius.’
Jimmy started to laugh. ‘Actually they call him Crazy. I got it off him for another bloke. But the bloke copped a faceful of SG pellets, so he won’t be needing it.’
‘Was he a bikie?’
Jimmy nodded. ‘So if you want it, it’s yours.’
‘If I want it! Are you fair dinkum? Fuckin’ oath.’
Jimmy shrugged. ‘Okay, it’s yours.’
Les took it off the hanger and tried it on. It fitted perfectly. ‘Jesus, Jimmy,’ said Norton, patting the pockets. ‘This is the grouse. Thanks heaps. I don’t know what to bloody say.’
‘Don’t worry about it. And I might have another surprise for you. You hungry?’
‘Funny you should say that, Jimmy, but I am. Must be this country air. And all that bootscootin’.’
‘Good, ’cause I’m going to take you to the grouse.’
‘What? Even better than that last place?’
‘Maybe. We’ll see. And you can get on the piss if you want to. I’ve got us a lift.’
Norton’s eyes flashed to the fridge and the Bacardi. ‘Fair dinkum. I don’t have to drive?’
‘Nope.’
Norton shook his head in disbelief. ‘Jimmy. You’re my God Heart. You are my fuckin’ Elvis.’
‘A bop-bop-a-lula. A lo-bam-boom. I’ll see you back here in an hour.’ Jimmy headed for the stairs, then stopped. ‘Hey, why don’t you wear that vest tonight?’
A sheepish grin formed on Norton’s face. ‘Funny you shou
ld say that, Jimmy.’
Back in his bedroom Les couldn’t believe his luck. He looked at himself in the mirror and patted the front of the vest. Well I’ll be buggered. What a good bloke that Jimmy is. And the fuckin’ thing fits like a glove. He turned around a couple of times to have a look at the back, then took it off and hung it in front of the wardrobe ready to wear that night. Anyway, time for a tub. He got out of his sweat-soaked clothes and climbed under the shower. Yep, nothing wrong with young James, he thought, as he soaped away all the sweat and BO. Funny, though, how he always refers to Uncle George as plain George and Price as Uncle Price. Still, he’s probably known him since he was a kid and it’s just a sign of respect. Better than calling him Mr Galese all the time. And I call nearly all my uncles by their first name. He turned off the hot water tap and stood under the cold. Call me what you like, just don’t call me late for dinner.
After he dried off, Les changed into a pair of jeans, a blue denim shirt and his Road Mocs, then slipped a tape into the stereo, not too loud, and attacked the Bacardi, vodka and OJ. Before long, each one started to taste better than the first and each track started to sound better as well. Psycho Zydeco were rattling into ‘Feet Don’t Fail Now’ and Les was in the kitchen about to make another drink when Jimmy walked in wearing a pair of Collezione Di Carlo jeans, a plain, white Polo Ralph Lauren T-shirt that made his skin look like it was glowing, the same trainers and the same tracksuit top with a mobile phone in the pocket.
‘So how are you feeling now? You look like you’re having a good time.’
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